Life Deluxe

by Jens Lapidus

  Shades on. All the boys were bronzed. You could hardly make out Mahmud’s tattoos. The ALBY FOREVER text on his forearm was starting to fade. He ought to touch it up.

  Javier’d even gotten a sunburn. Whined that the girls he was getting weren’t as fine. Amigo: out of control. Hermano: a sex addict or something. Going on nonstop about the best strip joints, the best hooker bars, the best go-go dancers. Bragged about the Kama Sutra, double-deckers, six-packs, shockers. Even babbled about the lady boys—the Thai version of trannies, they were everywhere. The other guys messed with him—called Javier ibne, banana-banger, Vietcong-cock-connoisseur.

  Javier didn’t seem to give a shit about the names they called him. “I’ll do anything and anyone over fourteen. I don’t give a shit if they’re real chicks or not. They just gotta look good.”

  Jorge’s juice arrived.

  “Jorge,” Jimmy said. “Listen to this shit.”

  Jorge put his shades on too. Closed his eyes. Pretended to listen.

  Mahmud continued telling the story he was in the middle of: “So I was boozing like a suedi. Happy hour on top of happy hour, you know. Then that Russian chick showed up, the one I was hanging with the first few weeks we were here. Remember her?”

  The others apparently knew whom he was talking about.

  “I was sitting with some German blattes, good guys,” Mahmud went on, “and she just, like, steps right up to me and goes, ‘There you are.’ And I’m like, ‘Who are you?’ And she’s like, ‘You can’t sell like you’re doing. This ain’t your territory. You’ve gotta pay.’ And I laughed. Like, who the fuck does she think she is, right?”

  Jimmy grinned. “Maybe you hadn’t been hard enough on her, Big Papa?”

  “Shut it, man,” Mahmud shot back. “What the fuck should I do? I hardly sold nothing. Just some weed to a few Germans and Brits. And five grams of coke to a guy from Gothenburg I met on the beach. The coke here comes like pieces of chalk—you break ’em up and hack ’em on your own. There can’t be a monopoly on that.”

  Jorge leaned over. “What’ve I said?”

  “I know, I know,” Mahmud said. “But it was so little. I didn’t think it would bother anyone, honest.”

  “How much she say you gotta pay?”

  “I’m not gonna fucking pay.”

  Jorge interrupted him. “You’re gonna pay. We don’t wanna attract unnecessary attention.”

  “But Babak thought I should just fuck it.”

  Jorge raised his voice. “Okay, so Babak thought you should just fuck it, ignore whatever the bitch was saying? Smart. Wanksta’s real fucking smart. I’m so damn tired of Babak, man. He thinks he’s some hotshot just ’cause we used his ride. But he’s not the one calling the shots. What else has he fucking done? Huh? If I say you pay, you pay. How much they want?”

  “Ten thousand dollars.”

  “What?” Jorge spilled pineapple juice onto the wicker table’s glass top. “They want ten thousand dollars?”

  “Yes.” Mahmud’s voice: worried.

  “How much’ve you been peddling, really?”

  “Not much, honest.”

  Jimmy got involved. “That’s not the thing. The thing is they’ve realized we’re not regular tourists. They think we’re trying to establish ourselves here since we’ve stayed so long.”

  The worry was washing over Jorge in waves. Ten thousand dollars—that was alotta bank. They were probably all thinking the same thing right now: the way the situation could’ve been.

  Jorge saw images projected on the inside of his sunglasses. All the guys together in the living room of the apartment in Hagalund. Dressed in protective gear, plastic gloves, boots, and new ski masks. Dressed to handle a virus attack from hell.

  One security bag in the middle of the floor.

  Important to get the money out quick. The Finn’s advice: get rid of the cash, fast. Stash it in a few safe places: ’cause no matter what happens—they can arrest you, convict you, shut you up for muchos años behind bars—but if you’ve kept the cheese somewhere safe, you’ve always gained something.

  The Finn’s guy was holding the ax. An LED was blinking its red light on each bag. Two holes on either side of the LED: you needed two different keys to open these bags.

  Or else you did what the Finn’s guy was about to do. Jorge was standing beside him. These days he knew more than most about CITs. But there was one thing he didn’t know: he had no idea how all this “smart DNA” shit worked. The Finn didn’t know too good either. They just knew that the bags might have ampuls in them, filled with something that could spread all over whoever opened them. Something the five-oh could use to find them, impossible to wash off. These particular bags were sprayed with CIT semen that would identify them like a rape kit. That’s why the teams looked like HIV researchers right now.

  The dude raised the ax.

  Everyone stared.

  Jorge already felt like he was coming down, even though it was just an hour or so since he’d taken the roofies.

  The dude sliced the blade through the air.

  A clicking sound. Jorge leaned down. Looked closely. The bag’d cracked near the opening on the short end. Just as they’d calculated. All they had to do was lift the lid.

  The other guys leaned in as well. Jorge opened the bag.

  Straightened his goggles. Looked down. Four plastic bags. Nothing that sprayed out. No sound. No powder, as far as he could tell. Maybe all the talk about smart DNA was just that, talk.

  He opened the bags one by one. Set the booty on the table.

  The guy the Finn’d sent was doing the same thing, counting bill by bill.

  Mahmud was playing the announcer, using a loud voice. Eighty-one thousand Swedish kronor, cash. Thirty thousand euros. Ten thousand kronor in state-issued coupons. Seventeen thousand worth of scratch-and-wins.

  Bad.

  It was like some shitty comedy. A nasty cunt-parody.

  But maybe there was more in the other bags and sacks.

  They repeated the procedure, bag by bag. The Finn’s man divided them up. Jorge checked for smart DNA. Jorge and Mahmud counted. The Finn’s man recounted.

  Three hours later, they’d gone through all the bags plus the sacks.

  Less than two and a half million kronor, total.

  Them: stunned.

  Them: tricked by the Postal Service. Maybe by the insider too.

  Them: losers without borders.

  Them: porked like passed-out virgins.

  The only hope for J-boy right now: lottery luck—that there was an unexpected amount of cash in the three bags that he’d hidden away.

  The bags that he, Mahmud, and now also Babak had stashed away from the Finn and the others.

  32

  Hägerström woke up the next morning to his cell phone ringing.

  Unlisted number.

  He picked up.

  “Are you still sleeping?”

  It was Inspector Torsfjäll. His voice sounded raspy and hoarse. Almost as if he too had been out partying the night before.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m good,” Hägerström said.

  That was a lie in more ways than one. His entire body ached.

  “I’m calling to see what’s going on. We haven’t spoken in a while.”

  Actually, they had an agreement stating that Torsfjäll would never be the one to call Hägerström first.

  “I’ve tried to get hold of you,” Hägerström said. “We’ve got to make up our minds. My assignment was formally supposed to end when JW gated out. And he gated out one day ago. So, what do I do now?”

  Torsfjäll was silent for a few seconds. Then he said, “What do you think?” Hägerström thought about it. He had gathered good material over the past few months. He had copied the information every time JW asked him to be his errand boy. They had hundreds of bank account numbers, company names, banks, and names of lawyer front men in at least ten different countries. An enormous puzzle for Torsfjäll’s economic crimes guy to p
iece together.

  But this was the first time Hägerström was really starting to get close. The gate-out party last night, Nippe, the nighttime walk, what he had done to the guy on Storgatan.

  Oh my God.

  What had he done?

  Hägerström pushed the thought out of his mind, said, “Things have been moving forward recently.”

  “I do believe you’re thinking what I’m thinking. We don’t have anything that would hold, so far. But you’re well on your way. It’s obvious that this little jewel is dealing with some really ugly business.”

  “But he won’t let me in on the details.”

  “No, but the details we’ve already got will entertain the economic crimes auditor for a while. And according to my sources, Hansén is moving to Dubai this fall. That goes along with our theory that, as different countries get rid of bank secrecy, JW and Co. are forced to move their assets. And this Nippe guy, I’ve put a tail on him several times since we saw him have lunch with JW. By the way, did you get anything out of him last night?”

  Hägerström wondered how Torsfjäll could know that he had talked to Nippe at the party. Actually, Hägerström hadn’t even told Torsfjäll that he was going to JW’s gate-out bash. Torsfjäll must have other sources.

  “Yes and no,” he said. “He was very intoxicated. But he confirmed that he knows JW well, and as he said, he wants to help JW. He didn’t say what that so-called help might entail. But he sounded interested when I mentioned potential clients.”

  “Good.”

  Hägerström considered telling him about last night’s assault. He looked down at his knuckles. Coagulated blood. Scabs in the process of forming. Maybe Torsfjäll already knew about all that.

  The inspector said, “Either way, we’ve been able to deduce that Nippe is JW’s Lord Moyne, so to speak. He comes from a good background, he’s got safe money backing him up, and tons of connections. He’s a good face for any operation. Possibly his dad’s bank and currency exchange offices are involved somehow as well. It would be highly interesting, if that were the case. My guys’ve seen him at different bars and restaurants with at least seven different people, instead of meeting at his regular office. Of those seven people, we’ve seen five meet up a little later with guys working for Mischa Bladman. It’s all connected.”

  “Yes, evidently.”

  “But unfortunately, we haven’t seen any actual money exchanged. So in terms of hard evidence, this is all still pretty weak. You know, the National Economic Crimes Bureau doesn’t exactly have a stellar record when it comes to getting people convicted.”

  “But it’s still a start, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. And I’ve been able to get hold of the registration number for a company with the help of the information that you helped JW smuggle out. It’s a Swedish company that we believe is controlled by Nippe Creutz. It sold a property in central Stockholm for four million euros two weeks ago. The buyer was a company that’s registered in Andorra. That is also included in JW’s documentation.”

  Torsfjäll paused for dramatic effect. Hägerström wondered what was coming next.

  “So, my econ-investigator says the property was appraised at double that value two years ago, at over eight million euros. That means that Nippe’s company sold an asset at a price seriously under market value. The buyers are probably paying the difference under the table. Nippe’s company doesn’t have to pay capital gains tax, and the buyers get an asset—paid for in half with dirty money—that they can sell and thereby get clean money in profit. And there you go: JW and Nippe helped someone launder four million euros.”

  “Aha. Well, that sounds like pretty robust evidence.”

  “Maybe. But real estate appraisal is not an exact science.”

  “But you said it’s evident that JW planned the deal.”

  “Yes, but it could be claimed that he helped only with the numbers for the deal. That’s not illegal.”

  Hägerström didn’t say anything. He understood that this matter was a very complex crime.

  “But even Mischa Bladman meets people on a regular basis,” Torsfjäll went on. “The scoundrels he meets are of a shadier ilk than Nippe’s contacts. People from the Yugo mafia, the Hells Angels, CIT robbers. They seem to have divided up the customers between them, so to speak.”

  “Do they use Nippe’s company?”

  “Maybe. Nippe was named CEO of World Change AB four months ago. The company is owned by his family. They have more than fifty currency-exchange offices all over the Nordic region. Since Nippe took office, the number of invoices from companies registered abroad has increased by eight hundred percent. We’ve been able to track more account numbers, invoice numbers, and transactions through the documentation that you smuggled out for JW.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It means that Bladman is having straw men, messengers, runners withdraw large sums in cash from the different offices. That pays for, among other things, illegal workers or laundering stolen money. Then the company covers up the withdrawals on the books by referring to the foreign invoices. But it’s highly likely that they’re fabricated.”

  “But I don’t understand. Doesn’t that mean we have solid proof?”

  “As I said, we don’t have anything that proves that Nippe or Bladman, specifically, knows anything about this or are directly involved. And we have simply been unable to decrypt a lot of the information that you helped JW smuggle out. There’s no point in striking if we’re only going to be able to arrest a bunch of half-pissed straw men.”

  Hägerström was sitting in silence.

  “It’s all on you,” Torsfjäll said. “We have to get access to names of their clients. And we have to get access to their material. They must keep real accounts somewhere. That’s the most important thing—without material we can’t tie them to this stuff. You barely saw anything in the Hansén home. There might be some at Bladman’s place, but I suspect they keep all their documentation somewhere else. The question is if you can get JW to reveal where.”

  “I’ll try. So far he hasn’t been too open with me.”

  “You’ll have to keep luring him. Make him feel privileged.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Bring him along to something he’d like. A party with Princess Madeleine? A moose hunt? What the fuck do I know?”

  They ended the conversation.

  Hägerström thought for a few seconds. He was wondering what was happening to him. Was he losing his grip on things? As though it wasn’t just that he was infiltrating JW’s world, but it was infiltrating him as well. Should he bring JW along to a moose hunt? Bring him into his family, into his world for real?

  He remembered a scene from Donnie Brasco. They were at a Japanese restaurant. Brasco freaked out at the waiter. His mafia friends beat the poor man, Brasco beat him even worse.

  Hägerström picked at his scab-covered knuckles.

  He closed his eyes. Felt as though it was rumbling outside.

  33

  Natalie was sitting in the Stockholm University library, trying to study. They’d had their first lectures this week. Legal methodology and theory. She knew that it would all be kind of bullshit in the beginning.

  In front of her on the table: the thirtieth edition of Åke Blom’s Foundations of Law. The lecturer was Mr. Blom himself—he’d referred to his own book as a classic. The old guy made a fortune on the fact that the students were forced to cough up the cash to buy new editions of his book year after year. That was the way the world worked.

  Tove was sitting at the table behind Natalie. She was studying economics. Louise was sitting three rows farther up—notebook, law books, Post-it notes, page markers, rulers, calculator, and eighteen million different highlighters in front of her. Natalie’s taste was more particular. She used a pencil to underline in her book, that was enough.

  They’d found their corner of the library and agreed: this is where we sit; this is where we go to find each other. They were surrounded
by similar-looking girls: well dressed, primped. Spiffy like Olivia Palermo, the lot of them. The Stockholm University library was far from dull. Natalie didn’t have to read the fashion blogs—all the freshest styles were here. People cared about the way they looked—and the law girls looked the best.

  Girls dominated the law school these days. The most dedicated, the most structured, the most grade-oriented. Law school was reading intensive, Louise said. Natalie was expecting to spend a lot of time sitting here over the next few years.

  If only she could concentrate.

  Her thoughts were churning like an espresso mill. This summer’s discoveries—hers, Goran’s, and Thomas’s investigations. Thoughts about Dad.

  After the threatening letter her lawyer’d sent, Natalie’d contacted one of the cops on her own. She hadn’t sent a letter or e-mailed—just called. She pressed him like a pro. If he didn’t grant her access to the investigative materials, she would submit the recordings. The notice to the parliamentary ombudsman would follow. Internal investigations, the rat squad—gross professional misconduct, sexual harassment. It was easy enough to predict the outcome. To put it simply: either the cop fucker messengered over the investigative material, or else he was finished as a police officer.

  It’d been Goran’s idea. And it’d worked—two days later, a messenger arrived with the paperwork from the investigation. A new situation: Natalie had five hundred pages of clues to go through.

  Stefanovic’d called her four days ago. She didn’t know how he knew, but he knew.

  “You’ve gained access to something very important. Something you really shouldn’t have. I’m assuming you know that?”

  Natalie wasn’t planning on playing the blushing little girl. “I believe I should have it. What they’re investigating is my father’s murder.”

  “Yes, and we’re all mourning him. But this is about other things as well. Business, business contacts. Valuable, unfinished relationships. It wouldn’t be good for that kind of thing to get out. You understand that, don’t you?”