‘I thought you don’t smoke,’ I say.
‘I quit. I guess I just un-quit.’ He takes a couple drags, and I see him hit by the rush of satisfaction that only un-quitting smoking can give.
‘They had a “welcome to the new guy” party for me a couple days ago. Bowling and then drinking. They think I’m an oddball geek brainiac, not a detective.’
I was on duty, couldn’t attend the party. I know a little about Milo from the newspapers. He was promoted over others with long-standing careers marked by accomplishment, so it’s easy to understand resentment toward him. Milo is smart, a member of Mensa. He got his job on the homicide unit because as a patrol officer, he solved one case of serial arson and two cases of serial rape. They weren’t his investigations. He did it for fun, as a hobby, by triangulating the likely areas of residence of the criminals. Once within a third of a mile, once within two hundred yards, once to the exact building.
‘What makes you say that?’ I ask.
The dark circles under his eyes look like charcoal smudges. He smirks. ‘Because I’m a people person, and my extreme powers of empathy allow me to look into the hearts and minds of others.’ This makes me laugh, and he laughs a little, too. ‘Believe me,’ he says, ‘I could tell they don’t like me.’
‘How did you solve those cases that got you promoted?’ I ask.
‘A couple psychologists-slash-criminal-profilers developed a computer triangulation program. Police departments are reticent to use it because it’s expensive, and because a lot of cops are convinced that their brilliant crime-solving techniques, also known as hunches, are superior to scientific method.’
‘If it’s so expensive, how did you get it, and how come I didn’t hear how you did it?’
‘I pirated the software, and since I stole it, I lied about it.’
I laugh again. He’s odd, but I have to admit, he’s an entertaining little fucker. ‘You’re one up on me,’ I say. ‘I didn’t even get a “welcome to the new guy” party.’
‘They don’t like you either,’ he says.
‘Is this more of your people-person intuition?’
‘After they got drunk, they bitched about you. The team doesn’t trust you because you got a job in an elite unit for political reasons. That’s not supposed to happen. You shot one man and have been shot twice yourself. That speaks of carelessness. You got medals for both those fuckups. That pisses them off. As an inspector, your pay grade is higher than the rest of us detective-sergeants. You make more money than we do. That pisses them off even more. They don’t want to work with you. I remember hearing the phrase “dangerous Lapland redneck reindeer-fucker.” ’
I thought they were just standoffish because I’m new and haven’t proven myself yet, that it will pass when I do prove myself. Maybe I was wrong.
‘Actually,’ Milo says, ‘Saska Lindgren said some good things about you. He told the others he thought they should give you a chance.’
Saska is half Gypsy. An outsider by race. It stands to reason he would be more receptive to someone like me. According to many, including my boss, he’s one of Finland’s best homicide cops. He’s served as a UN peacekeeper in Palestine, worked for the ICTY – the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia – investigating war crimes, executions and mass graves in Bosnia, and identified bodies in Thailand after the tsunami of 2004 that devastated the region. The numerous certificates of achievement lining the walls of his office attest to the many educational police conferences he’s attended worldwide. He’s also one of Finland’s leading experts in bloodstain-pattern analysis. Additionally, he’s involved in many works that benefit the community. He’s such a do-gooder that, up to now, I found him annoying. Maybe I’ll try to readjust my opinion.
‘Since we’re the black sheep,’ Milo says, ‘by default, we may find ourselves working together a lot.’
The guys from Mononen show up for Rauha Anttila’s body. We watch them scrape up her corpse – then we move on.
Chapter 3
We drive back to the Pasila station through a torrent of snow, get there at eleven thirty p.m.
Milo and I walk down the long corridor. I open the door to my office. The national chief of police, Jyri Ivalo, is sitting at my desk, in my chair. Milo gives me a look of quizzical respect and meanders down the hall toward his own office.
Jyri and I have spoken on the phone several times, but I haven’t seen him in person since 1996, when he decorated and promoted me for bravery after I was shot in the line of duty.
I was a beat cop in Helsinki and answered an armed robbery call at Tillander, the most expensive jewelry store in the city, on Aleksanterinkatu, in the heart of the downtown shopping district, in the middle of June. My partner and I arrived as two thieves exited the store carrying backpacks weighted down with jewelry. They pulled guns. One of them fired a shot at us, then they separated and ran. I chased the shooter down a street crowded with shoppers and tourists. The thief stopped, turned and fired. My pistol was in my hand, but he surprised me. I was running when the bullet hit me and blew out my left knee, which I had already wrecked playing hockey in high school. I fell hard to the pavement. The thief decided to kill me, but I got a shot off first and the bullet hit him in the side. He went down, but raised his pistol to fire again. I told him to lower his arm. He didn’t. I blew his head off.
Jyri looks snazzy in a tuxedo, holds an open flask in his hand. He’s mid-fiftyish and handsome, maybe a bit drunk. Judging by the scent, he’s sipping cognac. ‘Inspector Vaara,’ he says. ‘Please come in.’
‘How kind of you,’ I say and enter.
‘How’s your lovely American wife?’ he asks. ‘I understand she’s pregnant.’
I know Jyri well enough to doubt he gives a damn, and I don’t want his false pleasantries. ‘Kate is fine. What brings you here?’
‘We have business.’ He looks around. ‘Your office furnishings are nonstandard. I’m not sure they comply with regulations. What did Arto say about it?’
He means my boss, Arto Tikkanen. The atmosphere of standard-issue office junk suffocates me. I decorated with my own stuff, most of it from my office in Kittilä, up in Lapland, from when I headed the police department there. A polished oak desk. A Persian rug. A reproduction of the painting December Day, by the nineteenth-century Finnish artist Albert Edelfelt. A photo I took myself, of an ahma, an Arctic wolverine facing extinction, on the back of a reindeer, trying to get at its throat.
‘I didn’t ask Arto,’ I say, ‘so he didn’t have a chance to say no.’
Jyri doesn’t give a damn about office furniture. He’s just playing big dog/little dog, establishing his authority. He lets it go. ‘Go easy on Arto,’ he says. ‘You and he share the same rank. Technically, that’s not supposed to happen. He may find it disconcerting.’
‘Arto is a good guy. I don’t think my position here is a problem for him.’ I’m less than certain about that.
He takes a sip from his flask. ‘I promised you this job in homicide. How’s it treating you?’
His
