Milo’s theory begins to intrigue me. “It’s possible.”
“It’s more than possible,” Milo says, “it’s what happened.”
I think it through. “How about if we wait to find out about the blood on Saar’s shirt? If we don’t find blood spatter to match the crime, we take a closer look at Filippov.”
Milo nods.
“Did you look at Filippov Construction’s security tape?” I ask.
“Yeah, they arrived at the times they stated.”
“I expected that. Do you know when Iisa’s autopsy is scheduled?”
“Eleven thirty this morning.”
“I have another investigation going on,” I say. “It’s going to take up a big part of my day. Let’s do it like this. Skip the autopsy. You go back to Saar’s apartment. Now that forensics is done, you can really give it a thorough search.”
“This other investigation of yours must have something to do with your late-night visit from the chief. Want to tell me about it?”
“No.”
Now he’s both impressed and slavering for details. “It’s that top-secret?”
“I didn’t say it was secret. I’m choosing not to discuss it with you.”
He purses his lips. “You’re a real prick today.”
“Yep. When you search Saar’s apartment, I mean search it. You look between the pages of every book, go through pockets of all his clothing. No stone goes unturned. Tear the place apart. Meet me back here at four thirty and we’ll reinterview Saar. Can you work that fast?”
He scowls and salutes. “Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
I leave him alone with his ego.
14
I stop at a fast-food place and intend to wolf down some lunch, think better of it and grab a coffee instead. While I sit and drink it, I get a text message from Jyri Ivalo: “I read the Filippov murder initial report. Charge Saar. Open and shut. Interview Arvid Lahtinen and report.”
I ignore the text and call Jari.
“Hello, little brother,” he says. “How are things?” I’m forty-one. Jari is four years older than me.
“They’ve been better. Can I see you?”
“You’ve been in Helsinki for the better part of a year. I wondered when you’d want to get together.”
“Actually, I’ve got a headache problem, and I need to see a neurologist.”
“Oh.” I hear disappointment in his voice.
I don’t know why I haven’t seen him. I guess being around him makes me think about our childhoods, something I try to avoid. “I’ve been meaning to call, it’s just… you know how things are. The new job. And I guess you heard Kate is pregnant. She’s expecting soon, and I’ve been spending every free moment with her.”
“I understand,” he says.
He doesn’t understand. “Tell me about your headaches,” he says.
“It’s not headaches. It’s one long headache. I’ve had problems for about a year, but this particular migraine has lasted about three weeks now.”
“Constantly?”
“Yeah, no breaks.”
“Your nerves must be shot.”
“They’ve been better.”
“You shouldn’t have waited so long to see me. Come to the polyclinic at Meilahti at nine a.m. tomorrow morning.”
“Okay, I’ll see you then.”
He rings off without further chat. I guess I really hurt his feelings.
I’ve debated how to approach Winter War hero Arvid Lahtinen. The polite and respectful way would be to call, introduce myself and arrange an interview. This strikes me as a possible mistake. Whether he’s a war criminal or not, I want Arvid to tell me the truth about Ukki, and I don’t want to give him time to prepare fabrications. He lives in Porvoo, a town on the Porvoo River that dates from the fourteenth century. In this weather, it’s about an hour’s drive from Helsinki.
It’s still minus ten degrees, but snowing a little harder now. The trip is pleasant, much of it through wooded areas. But my migraine gets worse. It’s like a wolverine thrashing around in my head. I try to ignore it.
The old section of Porvoo is mostly made up of wooden houses. In the late eighteenth century, when Finland was a province of Sweden, the houses of the lower classes were painted red, and those of higher classes yellow, to impress the visiting Swedish king. Many of those houses still stand, and by tradition remain painted those colors.
I find Arvid’s house. It’s red and sits on the river among a group of similar buildings that were once warehouses. He has an old-fashioned door knocker. I bang it against its metal plate. He opens the door. He’s ninety years old. I expected someone decrepit, but he’s far from it. He’s short and thin, his white hair thick. If I didn’t know his age, I would think him a vigorous man in his seventies. I’ve broken a personal rule of police work. Never anticipate, it clouds judgment.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
I introduce myself, show my police card and ask for a few minutes of his time. He ushers me in. I look around while I take off my boots. The downstairs is one large room. A settee and three armchairs surround a coffee table. Against the wall to the left of it, an antique bookcase with deep shelves and glass doors serves as a well-stocked liquor cabinet. To the right is a fireplace with a crackling blaze. Deeper into the room, a dark oak dining-room table seats eight. Behind it, a soapstone stove stands floor-to-ceiling. It breaks my view of the kitchen, but the part I see, a big stove and hanging pots and pans, tells me that the people who live here like to cook, and the smell wafting out confirms it.
Four cats lounge at various points around the room. The house carries the faint scent of cat piss. Somehow, it makes the place even more homey. I once had a cat, named Katt. He felt compelled to mark his territory on occasion, and my house smelled the same.
“Forgive me for coming unannounced,” I say.
He folds his arms and looks up at me. “I’ll consider forgiving you once you explain why you did it.”
His presence is commanding. It’s clear that he considers himself a man not to be fucked with. I start to make up a lie, but the headache roars, and I can’t speak for a moment.
“Well?” Arvid says.
I pull it together and half lie. “I was asked to speak to you about something and had other business in Porvoo. If I’m imposing, we can talk another time.”
“Asked by whom?”
I walk over to the fireplace and warm my hands. “Indirectly, by the interior minister.”
On the mantel above the fireplace, among mementos, war medals and photos, sits one of Ukki’s guns. I blink, think the headache has induced some kind of weird deja vu. It’s a little Sauer Model 1913, 7.65mm automatic pocket pistol. A low-power peashooter sometimes called a suicide gun.
I pick it up, turn it over in my hand. “Where did you get this?” I ask.
“Why? You want to see my license? I haven’t got one.”
“No, it’s not that.”
He cuts me off. “Put it back where you got it, or I’m going to take it away and shoot you with it.”
Our conversation is off to a bad start. My fault for touching his things. The headaches make me lose my manners and common sense. I lay it back on the mantel. “My grandpa had one just like it.”
“Boy,” he says, “you don’t look well.”
