The Tempest by James Lilliefors

have fallen from the bluff.”
    The code 10–79, Hunter knew, was “notify coroner.” The fact that Homicide hadn’t been called directly probably meant that the first responders thought the woman’s death was accidental. But with a fall, it was often hard to tell. Three possibilities: fell, jumped, pushed.
    â€œSee you there,” she said.
    It wasn’t until she’d parked along the access road, where cop cars had lined up with their light bars flashing, and was walking out onto the hard sand that Hunter realized who it was.
    The beach had already been secured with police barricades and crime tape—­two layers, one to isolate the death scene, the other to keep away spectators; a dozen or so had gathered by then behind the police tape.
    The dead woman’s fall had left her in a contorted position, her head jammed sideways into the sand, her torso jutting at 45 degrees, rump in the air, her left arm trapped beneath her.
    â€œThe girl’s name is Suzanne Champagne,” sheriff’s deputy Barry Stilfork told Hunter, as she stood looking on. “Summer resident. Too much to drink, apparently.”
    Hunter felt a rush of disbelief. She’d assumed for some reason that it was a teenager, a summer guest who’d been partying too hard with friends.
    â€œYou know her?”
    She shook her head and moved to the police sawhorses, for a better look at the body and to get away from Stilfork, who gave her the creeps. In fact, she’d been thinking about Susan Champlain much of the afternoon, processing what Luke had told her and expecting him to call. She’d run DMV and data searches on both Champlains. She’d also driven by the house they were renting, about a mile and a half down the coast road.
    The investigating officer on the scene was Captain John Dunn of the state police, a burly man in his mid-­forties with pocked skin and small, jaded-­looking eyes. He was always friendly with Hunter in a distant sort of way. Five ­people had been allowed past the single entry to the death scene, she saw; the others were the coroner, two evidence techs and a police artist. The artist was doing a triangulation sketch.
    Dunn shrugged when Hunter finally caught his eye. “Go on,” he said, nodding her in. There was an official protocol in Tidewater County, and there was also a working protocol. State police did the photos and the initial investigation, but the sheriff and municipal police liked to be involved. Hunter expected the usual jurisdictional conflicts.
    She nodded thanks and stepped closer, keeping a respectful distance from the state tech who was taking pictures. She crouched in the sand and studied Susan Champlain, who was barefoot, dressed in white cotton shorts and a matching blouse. Despite the body’s contorted position, she wore a disturbingly innocent expression—­eyes open, mouth closed; the ashen face of a child, it seemed, something that had fallen from the sky. Rigor hadn’t set in yet. Hunter looked closely at the hands: one broken fingernail, something under several of the other nails.
    Dunn lowered his voice conspiratorially as Hunter walked back over: “Coroner said ninety-­six point five degrees.”
    â€œSo, the last hour or so.”
    â€œMmm.”
    She looked up at the bluff, where Susan had fallen, or been pushed over, fifty or sixty feet up. The uneven edge of the land was backlit with police floodlights, creating an eerie wedge against the pine trees and the night sky. Hunter gazed at the shadows down the beach, where a state police tech was halfheartedly combing the sand with a metal detector.
    â€œWhat are the markers?” Hunter indicated the yellow vinyl evidence markers that had been placed on the beach.
    â€œSandal,” Dunn said, pointing to Number 1. “Some footprints that’ve probably been there awhile,” pointing to Numbers 2 through 8. “The others are debris that