Kate reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I’m dizzy,” I say. “Could you please get the bag with the medicine Jari prescribed for me, and a glass of water?”
She brings them and sits beside me. I drop a painkiller into the water and watch it dissolve, then decide what the hell, I’ll try shotgunning dope. I break a tranquilizer and a sleeping pill into chunks and put them in the glass. I have a little kossu left and dump it in, too. I drink the cocktail.
“Let me take you to bed,” Kate says.
We undress and get under the covers. Kate lays her head on me. I feel silent tears drip onto my shoulder. “I never would have dreamed my brother and sister would become who they are,” she says.
The dope kicks in fast. It’s hard to keep my eyes open. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“I’ve never doubted how much you love me,” she says, “but still, sometimes the lengths you go to prove it surprise me.”
I realize she sees through John and knows what he’s become and, further, senses that somehow I’ve been protecting her from it. I wonder what else she knows, if she understands that I’ve been hiding other things about myself from her, and if so, if she knows what they are. I wrap her in my arms and sleep.
35
I wake up at eight thirty a.m. I slept well, feel rested for the first time in I don’t know how long. Kate isn’t in the bed beside me. I go to the kitchen for coffee. Kate has left a note signed with a lipstick kiss print. She and Mary got up early to do some sightseeing and shopping. I take it they’re making an effort at reconciliation. John is nowhere to be seen. His boots aren’t in the foyer. I assume his date went well.
I smoke, drink coffee and process my conversation with Bettie Page Linda. This investigation reeks of cover- up, and the national chief of police, if not behind it, is aware of it. I think I know why, and it’s time for him to come clean. I call him. He takes the offensive.
“Vaara, your actions go beyond contradicting my instructions. Not only has Rein Saar not been charged with murder, but the press knows that Iisa Filippov and Rein Saar were tased. Why do I think you’re the leak?”
I ease in. “I’ll get to that, but first, let’s talk about Arvid Lahtinen.”
“Another case of insubordination on your part. Why hasn’t the matter been put to bed yet?”
“Because he’s guilty. He and my grandpa and other Valpo detectives committed war crimes. They took part in the Holocaust. Arvid admitted it.”
Silence.
“Further, Arvid demands that you make the Germans fuck off. He’s blackmailing you. If what he views as harassment continues, he says he’ll write a book detailing the government’s persecution of Jews. He claims that Marshal Mannerheim was prepared to deliver Finnish Jews to the Germans for extermination. He says Valpo handed over a hundred and thirty suspected Communists to the Gestapo, but that the military turned over three thousand. That we starved prisoners of war and murdered them by exploiting them for slave labor, and that we shared the Nazi ideology and expansionist dreams.”
I listen to Jyri breathe for a minute. “Publication of such a book would be unacceptable,” he says.
“Arvid says he has more to tell me. I’m going to meet with him again today. I wanted to apprise you of the situation because issuing a simple denial won’t make it go away. The truth is going to come out.”
“Okay,” Jyri says, “I’ll bring the interior minister up to speed. We’ll make some kind of decision after you meet with Arvid today and we have more information to work with.”
Now I lift the ax. “Other truths are going to come out. About the Filippov murder. I think we should discuss it.”
Another pause. “What truths?”
I drop the ax on his neck. “Like your rather unusual sexual encounter with Linda Pohjola only hours before the murder.”
I hear Jyri gulp.
“I recall that when I investigated the Sufia Elmi murder, your number, as well as the numbers of other politicos, were in her phone. You told me not to release that information.”
“So?”
“So you fucked her and used me to cover it up, to save you and others embarrassment.”
He recovers his aplomb, tries to regain the offensive. “Everyone-except maybe you, which annoys me-has peccadilloes. I like cooze. That’s not a crime. Sufia Elmi was fine quiff. Exceptional. I would have recommended fucking her to anyone, and I don’t appreciate your superior tone.”
“I don’t care if you fucked Sufia Elmi, but the realization that you did and suppressed it told me you have a habit of being disingenuous, and that habit is impeding my investigation. Iisa Filippov had a history of being, shall we say, generous with her favors. I think you fucked her, too, before Linda Pohjola. You fucked both of Ivan Filippov’s women, and I doubt he appreciated it. You know something about this murder. It’s time to tell me about it.”
An angry suck of air. “Fuck you, Kari. I don’t know anything about it.”
“You’re implicated. You’re now a suspect.”
He swears under his breath, goes silent and waits.
“Where did you and Linda have your encounter?” I ask.
I can almost hear him considering the ramifications of truth versus further duplicity. Seconds tick by. “I had never been there before. Some apartment in Toolo. I was drunk. She took me there and sucked my dick. Then she wanted me to leave. I wandered around, found a taxi stand, went home and passed out.”
Jyri is normally so arrogant that I find myself enjoying his humiliation. “Did your sexual encounter include the employment of a green vibrating double-donged dildo?”
I think she stuck it in his ass, and after he knows that I know it, he’ll tell me anything I want. He doesn’t answer. I picture him on the other end of the phone, wanting to cry.
“I think I know where you were, and I want you to verify it.” I give him Rein Saar’s address. He gives no indication that he recognizes it. I tell him to meet me there at eleven, and hang up without waiting for him to accept or decline.
36
My theratist, Torsten Holmqvist, has on his outdoorsy look this morning, like L.L. Bean laid out his clothes for him. Brown brushed-twill pants, a houndstooth shirt with a lamb’s-wool cardigan, moccasins on his feet. The rugged Torsten, a man of contrasts. His various facades still amuse me, but the enmity I felt toward him is gone.
He’s in a good humor, and mine is better today. We sit in his big leather chairs. He offers me coffee. His morning tea of choice is chamomile. We smoke, relax. He looks out the window toward the sea. I follow his gaze. Snow is thick on the ground. The ice in the harbor is solid. The sun is rising, the sky is clear. “It’s a beautiful day,” he says.
I agree.
“I saw you on the news,” he says, “stopping a school shooter at Ebeneser School. It’s quite a coincidence that you assaulted a man and saved a child at the same location only days apart.”
“It was no coincidence. They were the same man.”
He raises his eyebrows, sucks his pipe. “Do you think those incidents are related?”
I wish he wouldn’t treat me like an idiot. “Of course they’re related. My beating him sparked his attack.” I haven’t said this aloud before, haven’t wanted to think about it.
“Do you believe you caused his death?”
“Yes.”
He crosses his legs and tugs at the perfect crease in his trousers, strokes his chin-psychiatrist cliche-style- with his fingers. “It’s reasonable to think that your bad judgment played a part in his actions, but in my professional
