morning at about eight thirty, before I came to work.’
Milo smiles and raises his eyebrows. ‘Iisa wasn’t home when you got back from the party?’
‘No.’
‘And you found nothing unusual about that?’
‘I repeat. Iisa liked to have fun. And I might add that, unlike myself, she was somewhat given toward excess. So no, I found nothing unusual about it.’
Milo and Filippov stare at each other, adversaries, for a long moment.
‘I’ve heard about both of you,’ Filippov says, ‘and I’m honored to have two such distinguished detectives investigating my wife’s death. Your reputations precede you.’ He looks at me. ‘You for your tenacity and bravery,’ and then at Milo, ‘and you for your intellectual investigative achievements.’
He looks at me again. ‘In fact, your name was mentioned at the dinner party last night.’
And then Arto hands me the high-profile murder of Filippov’s wife, which I thought he would be reticent to do, only hours later. This strikes me as less than coincidental.
‘No doubt my wife’s murder will be swiftly solved,’ Filippov says. ‘I assume you want me to identify Iisa’s body. Isn’t that the procedure? I can do it this afternoon.’
‘That’s not necessary,’ I say. ‘Your wife’s identity has been established. However, I would like to come to your house and examine her belongings. Something among them might provide evidence of who killed Iisa and why.’
‘Absolutely not,’ he says. ‘I won’t dishonor her memory by having her intimate possessions pawed at.’
‘I can get a subpoena if necessary.’
‘You can try. I’ll have it quashed. That’s within my power. Let’s compromise. I’ll go through Iisa’s belongings. If I find something I believe helpful to you, I’ll deliver it to you myself.’
What an arrogant prick. ‘You’re not a detective. You might overlook something crucial.’
‘You’ll find that thoroughness is among my better attributes.’
He smiles at me. Given the circumstances, it’s disconcerting. ‘I read in the newspaper,’ he says, ‘that your wife is the general manager of Hotel Kämp. Their restaurant is my favorite.’
This bewilders me. I say too much. ‘We just informed you that your wife was murdered, and you’re thinking about food?’
‘I mourn the loss of my wife, but we must all grieve in our own way. Mine is to carry on with life as usual.’
I stand. Milo and the pastor follow my lead. I find Filippov repulsive, can’t bring myself to offer my hand or parting condolences.
When we get outside, I ask Milo, ‘What do you think?’
‘Motherfucker butchered his wife and framed her lover,’ he says, ‘and he’s so goddamned haughty that he doesn’t even try to hide it.’
Pastor Oksanen pretends he hears nothing.
I’m less certain than Milo – being a bastard doesn’t make him a murderer – but I’m inclined to agree. ‘If he framed Rein Saar,’ I say, ‘he did a good job. It’ll be difficult to prove.’
‘I . . .’ – he realizes his fuckup – ‘we will.’
Likable as he is, in his own way, Milo has a fundamental character flaw that he’ll have to pay for eventually. Arrogance.
On the drive back to Helsinki from Vantaa, Jyri Ivalo calls. ‘I understand you’re investigating the murder of Iisa Filippov,’ he says.
‘That’s right.’
‘I further understand that she was found dead beside her lover, some Estonian fuck.’
I haven’t filed a report yet, so Filippov must have called Jyri as soon as we left and filled him in. ‘Also correct.’
‘Ivan Filippov is a good acquaintance of mine, and he’s well connected in the business world. This sounds open-and-shut, but you’re given to leaps of imagination. Close the case fast. And defer to Filippov whenever possible.’
I say nothing.
‘I’ve got a vicious hangover and I’m not in the mood to be nice. Let me make this clear. You solved the Sufia Elmi case, but it dragged on too long and turned into a fiasco. Not this time.’
Fuck Jyri. ‘Filippov cites you as his alibi. Care to confirm it?’
‘Confirmed. He left the party around one. I see no need to relate his whereabouts of last night to the press. I and some others would prefer to be distanced from the investigation. Somehow, the media would invent a conspiracy theory and create a scandal.’
Yes, they would. ‘I don’t intend to handle the media at all. I’ll leave it to Arto and the police PR folks.’
‘Good thinking. Media relations isn’t your strong suit. And the discussion we had last night about Arvid Lahtinen. You on that yet?’
‘I’ve been working for twenty hours straight. Of course I’m not on it yet.’
‘You can sleep when you’re dead. Get on it.’ He rings off.
I’ve always felt that Jyri is excellent at his job but a real fuckwad as a human being. Every interaction I have with him confirms it. I’ll handle both the investigation and Arvid as I see fit.
We drop Pastor Oksanen off at his house and drive back to the police garage. I tell Milo I want him to get some sleep, ask him to look at the tape Filippov gave him, check out evidence from forensics and write the initial report in the morning.
Chapter 7
It’s two thirty p.m. I don’t have much time, but want to check on Kate. We thought her pregnancy was going well, but found out a couple weeks ago that she’s suffering from hypertension and preeclampsia. Placental abruption is a danger, and with it, a risk of maternal mortality. I could lose not only another child but Kate along with her. It scares the shit out of me.
I find a parking space a couple blocks from our apartment on Vaasankatu and walk the rest of the distance home. The snow has stopped, the wind died down. The street is quiet. A white snow-scape, lovely and hushed.
Vaasankatu, here in the district of Kallio, is nicknamed Puukkobulevardi – Hunting Knife Boulevard. Years ago, this was a dangerous place, and it still has a bad reputation, although largely undeserved these days. The area has its bars and drunks, some Thai massage parlors, but many of them were recently shut down. Prostitution in itself isn’t a crime, but various moralistic lobbies raised a stink, so the police cited illegal residency by workers, pimping – which is a crime – whatever they could come up with, to get rid of the parlors and stop the debate. The street is fairly gentrified now, many residents are upscale professionals.
Kate had misgivings about moving to Kallio, but it’s the only area in Helsinki that, to my mind, has a feeling of genuine community. And besides, even in this modest area, our nine-hundred-and-ninety-square-foot apartment, which I have to admit is gorgeous, cost us a cool three hundred and fifty thousand euros. A similar place in another part of town could run a million and a half. As general manager of Kämp, Helsinki’s only five-star hotel, Kate earns good money, and for a cop, I make a fair wage as an inspector, but not enough for a seven-figure apartment. In the north, a million and a half would buy us a palace. Helsinki is one of the most expensive cities on the planet.
I find Kate lying on the couch, reading a book about child-rearing. I give her a kiss hello. She sits up, rubs her back. At this late stage of her pregnancy, she’s having a hard time staying comfortable. ‘I can’t wait to get this child out of me,’ she says.
I sit beside her, put an arm around her. She looks at me, scrutinizing. ‘I