On Friday, I had asked Koivu to retrieve Harri’s old computer from Mikke Sjöberg’s ship and Puustjärvi to arrange a meeting with Anne Merivaara for Monday. Then I had turned off my cell phone, left it on my desk, and gone home. The department didn’t have my in-laws’ phone number. Koivu was the only one who knew it, and he also had the weekend off.
It had stormed all Saturday, but that hadn’t stopped us from pulling on our rain gear and putting the cover on Iida’s stroller. We took a walk in the surrounding forest, and although the moss looked empty at first, we eventually found some chanterelles. When I went deeper into the forest to grab a plastic bag some idiot had left, I happened upon a veritable treasure trove. And now a mushroom quiche was in the oven.
I had managed to avoid thinking about work almost all day. That was mostly thanks to Iida, who had an amazing case of verbal diarrhea. After only saying one word at a time up until now, except for that once, all of a sudden she was saying three-word sentences. “Iida want ood.” “Mommy give milk.” Antti and I listened more enraptured than by any master poet’s lines. Iida had delighted us with her first smile, first crawl, first standing, and first steps so much that we just stared at her for hours with stupid expressions of joy on our faces. We didn’t have videos or even very many pictures of these moments, but I still believed we would remember them always.
After our sauna, we turned on the television, but all four channels were showing murder mysteries and they reminded me too much of work, so I shut it off. Antti fell asleep quickly, and I listened to his steady breathing and Iida’s quiet snuffling. The sandman seemed to have forgotten me, because I tossed and turned in bed, listening to the sea storming outside. The digital display of the alarm clock showed 12:30 when I decided to get up and go for a short walk. With the thermometer reading thirty-three degrees, I pulled on three layers of clothing and a poncho.
The wind beat me awake instantly as I climbed the trail along the shore. A few hundred yards past Antti’s parents’ property line, a steep cliff rose out of the sea, providing a view far out on the open water. The twin towers of the Inkoo power plant were lit up to the west, and to the east wound the occasional lights of the Porkkala Peninsula. The sea didn’t care about anything but itself, quarreling with the wind and slamming waves against the rocks. It had conquered the algae blooms, but now it faced its yearly struggle with winter. Last December we had been in Inkoo on the night the water froze. The sea had howled in pain as it was tamed beneath that shell, but the ice had crackled and popped with joy as if the winter had been opening champagne bottles to celebrate its victory.
I thought of Juha Merivaara, who two weeks earlier had died on the cliffs of Rödskär Island. That night had been wet and stormy just like now. Had Juha gone out looking for the sandman too and met his murderer instead? I thought of Mikke Sjöberg, sleeping on the Leanda in the Espoo marina when he should have already been on the west coast of Denmark. The south wind whipped the whitecaps higher and tried to sweep me along too. Raising my arms I let the poncho flap like wings around me. The storm blew through me like electricity, and as I had earlier that evening in the water, I felt alive again: hard muscles, soft curves, and warm, thick blood. I walked back to the cabin and fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.
In the morning paper, I found Juha Merivaara’s obituary. The scrap of hymn Anne had chosen as a remembrance was impersonal, as if she hadn’t had the time or desire to pay the task much mind. The funeral would be on the following Saturday. Would Ström’s funeral be on the same weekend? Although I understood his abhorrence of funerals, sharing grief helped alleviate it. We had all learned this two years earlier at our colleague Juhani Palo’s funeral. Ström and I had traded smirks in the corner at our bosses’ stiff speeches and then later tried to resurrect the real Palo. The memory brought tears to my eyes. Then I remembered more. I remembered how Ström had sat next to me in the church and tried not to let anyone see his swallowing during the eulogy. I cried for Ström, even though in his letter he had doubted anyone in the department would mourn for him. I had seen Lähde’s face when Ström’s belongings were moved out of their office, and thinking of that hurt too.
Even though they had despised him, Ström’s death stung for Puupponen and Koivu as well. The hardest thing for all of us was that we could understand why he killed himself but not accept it. Still, the worst burden fell on Lähde. For the rest of his life he would be wondering whether he could have said something on the phone that would have made Ström change his mind. I was thankful Ström hadn’t called me. Even though I knew that it was hard to stop someone who had decided to kill himself, it was everyone’s duty to try. I didn’t trust my ability to talk anyone out of anything anymore. A little before I went on maternity leave, I had tried to talk down a woman with a shotgun from shooting her former lover, whom she suspected of murdering her daughter. I had failed, and the woman executed the man in cold blood. He wasn’t even guilty. The memory of that case still haunted me, even though one of the skills a cop had to have was forgetting past failures. I was afraid that in a similar situation I would screw up again.
Antti noticed my wet cheeks and pulled me close. Thankfully he didn’t say anything. The storm had moved on, and the sun once again ruled the earth, making the trees glow. We spent the day raking leaves and playing in them. It was impossible to be sad watching Iida’s eyes flashing beneath the red maple leaves.
On Monday morning reality hit again. A mountain of faxes had piled up on my desk, and over the weekend there had been a nearly fatal beating, a stabbing, and a shooting. The topmost fax was from the Haapsalu police in Estonia. Thankfully it was good news.
Our missing mushroomer economist and her Toomas had been found in the most expensive nightclub in Pärnu during an unrelated police raid. She had been irritated at the interruption of her amorous adventure, but otherwise she was fine.
This information caused whistles and foot-stomping in our morning meeting, but the boisterousness felt forced. I guess we were trying hopelessly to act as if Ström had never existed. This weekend’s shooting would have automatically gone to him, since he was the best gun-crime investigator in the unit. I wondered if the staff at Merivaara Nautical was operating this mechanically, trying to forget that their CEO had been murdered and that the communications director, his wife, was one of the suspects.
“Koivu, did you get Harri Immonen’s old computer?” I asked when we finally got to the Merivaara murder.
“I did, although Sjöberg claimed all we would find on it were his travel plans. Apparently he deleted all of Immonen’s files from the hard drive and the disks. I checked the floppies, even though it took half the night.”
“Where is the computer now?”
“I took it and the disks to the computer experts in White Collar like you asked. Sjöberg claimed he formatted the hard drive, but we’ll see what the IT guys turn up.” Koivu shrugged.
“How did Sjöberg react when you asked for the computer?”
“He seemed confused. He said it hadn’t even crossed his mind that there might be anything worth saving other than Immonen’s reports about the birds on Rödskär. He asked if confiscating the computer meant that Immonen was murdered after all. I told him to ask you.”
“Thanks. Puustjärvi, is the meeting with Anne Merivaara lined up?”
“Two o’clock at their office.”
At the end of our morning meeting, Puupponen asked whether there was any hope of getting a replacement for Ström.
“I promise I’ll keep riding the brass about it.” The depressing crop of crimes from this weekend would at least be a good argument for rushing a new appointment. I’d been told there wasn’t anyone appropriate in the department and a search was underway for qualified sergeant-level candidates elsewhere.
Out of curiosity I checked the situation on my computer once I got back to my office. A few people had submitted online applications, including one of my friends from law school, Marcus Huttunen, who had also specialized in cri
minal justice and had been working for the past few years as an assistant prosecutor in Vantaa. Why did he want to move over to the police? A couple of the other applicants seemed good too. I’d need to have Personnel arrange interviews with them.
In the stack of faxes, there was also an update from the Lithuanian police. Peders and Ramanauskas had worked for a product-development department in the Soviet navy, and their specialties had included paints. A natural connection to Merivaara Nautical. I faxed back a request for more information about exactly what kinds of paints they had developed. The men’s location was still unclear. Nice reported that they had set sail toward Corsica and Sardinia a couple of weeks earlier. Where were two former Soviet navy officers getting money to live it up on the Riviera?
I called Tapio Holma. No one picked up at his house, but he answered his cell. The connection was fuzzy, and in the background I could hear the screeches of gulls.
“Can we talk?”
“Not right now. I’m on the bay, and I’ve never seen this many smews.”
“Smews?” While I’d heard the name before, it had always conjured up a strange combination of disturbing images with no association to ducks or the sea. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a real live smew. I don’t want to ruin it for you, but could we chat while we watch the birds? Where can I find you?”
“Do we have to?” Holma sounded irked. “OK, fine. I’m in the marsh in front of the Villa Elfvik Nature House. You should bring some rubber boots.”
The only pair of boots I had found in the equipment room was a couple of sizes too big, but they were better than nothing. When I arrived, I pulled them on and went tromping across the lawn of the beautiful Art Nouveau house. Just hearing the name “Villa Elfvik” provoked romantic memories, since Antti and I had held our wedding there. That had been in December and the trees had carried a glaze of frost. Now they were still cloaked in leaves, even though some had started to fall. The nature paths appeared as if they had been painted with a mixture of turmeric and tomato sauce.
Tapio Holma wasn’t anywhere close to being the only bird-watcher standing in the marsh. I counted about ten. Holma had an expensive-looking spotting scope. I waded toward him carefully, even though the flock of ducks was about a hundred yards away and didn’t seem to care about the humans watching them. Holma had a handy backpack that could be transformed into a stool. A thermos poked out of one pocket.
“Hi,” I said quietly, but Holma still gave a start.
“Hi. Aren’t they wonderful? It’s even better through the scope.” Holma adjusted the height of the tripod for me. Some of the birds were pure white with a little black on their backs and others were a more modest brown. The handsome white ones were probably the drakes—that’s how it always was in the avian world. Once I’d argued with Harri that men were attracted to ornithology because it satisfied their natural instinct to prance around dressed in feathers.
“What I wanted to talk to you about actually relates to birds,” I said once I’d admired the sea ducks. “You said you didn’t know Harri Immonen, but you were members of the same bird-watching club, Espoo Birding.”
Holma, who had been looking out at the bay, turned to me with surprise in his eyes.
“Were we? But I really didn’t know him. I am a member of Espoo Birding, but I don’t go to events very often. I’ve spent most of my time in Germany the past few years.”
“Yes, but you were both members of the club for more than ten years, and Harri was well-known in ornithology circles. Think harder.”
One of the white drakes suddenly took wing and flew toward the shore. Tapio moved behind the scope, turned it to the bird, and stared.
“The patterning of his bill is fantastic. Do you want to look?”
“Thanks, but no. I met with Jiri Merivaara on Friday. He said your relationship with Riikka is over. Apparently Riikka suspects you of murdering her father.”
Turning, Holma bumped the scope, but he managed to right the tripod at the last second. When he looked at me, his face wasn’t boyish anymore.
“Jiri is talking garbage. No one has left anyone. Our relationship may be on hold, but Juha’s death doesn’t have anything to do with it. Of course Jiri wants me to be guilty of Juha’s murder instead of his mother or Mikke.”
Tapio Holma bent down to adjust the scope and then looked through it again. A male smew was racing with a dark-gray crow in the bright-blue autumn sky. When the white and dark gray met the brilliant yellow trees onshore, the hue of their feathers was even more pure than against the blue.
“In the fall, bird sightings become even more important. In the summer their calls almost get lost in each other. But in October even the cawing of a crow can sound like a serenade,” Holma said quietly. “The spring migration is a wonderful time too, of course, when the world bursts into song, but for some reason I’ve always been more interested in the fall migration.”
“So Riikka ended your relationship. Why?”
Holma turned the scope on me, the gesture seeming at once childish and threatening. I pushed the scope aside because I wanted to see Tapio Holma’s face when he answered.
“Isn’t it easy to guess? Riikka said I’m too old for her. And she said I’d leave her anyway after I get my voice back. The doctors are sure the surgery is going to work and that by next spring my vocal chords will be back to normal. I’m just not sure I want to go back to the hell of competing over every job and the stress of squeezing myself into each role. Seija Saarela claims my voice gave out because the rest of me was tired of singing. Maybe she’s right.”
Holma ran his hand through his hair, seeming frustrated.
“Although I’ve always known this wouldn’t last forever. A twenty-one-year age difference is a lot, even though I think we could’ve overcome it. But Riikka is so unexperienced. She hasn’t even really dated before. I don’t mean I took Riikka’s virginity, but almost . . .” Holma blushed. “Maybe after Suzanne Riikka felt fresh and different, and I was acting like a schoolboy too . . .”
“I guess we all become young again when we fall in love. So you’re going for the operation?”
“Yes. I’m leaving for California as soon as you say I can.”
I couldn’t picture Holma as the Machiavellian avenger infiltrating the Merivaara family because of Harri, but I also couldn’t clear him of suspicion. Maybe he had continued the fight about Riikka during the night.
“Apparently you suffered an injury to your arm on the night of the murder. Can I see it?”
Holma glanced at me in irritation and then pulled up his sleeve. The bruise on his ulna was barely visible now.
“So you talked to Riikka. Don’t believe her. I got this bruise when Juha whacked me with a ladle in the sauna.”
“Riikka claims you didn’t have it when you had sex later that night.”
“Riikka didn’t notice. I don’t feel like going into details, but it was dark then.”
“So it’s your word against hers.”
“Is that where we are now?” Holma asked sadly and then looked through the scope again. I didn’t answer; instead I walked deeper out into the reeds and stared at the bay. It would have been nice to stay and spend the rest of that sunny October day in the Elfvik marsh, but my cell phone reminded me of reality. Koivu needed an arrest warrant. I had to get back to the station.
I bumped into Taskinen in the parking garage.
“Did you have a good weekend?” he asked solicitously, presumably remembering my outburst at the graffiti meeting on Friday.
“I was able to get my mind off of work, if that’s what you mean.”
We walked through the doorway into the stairwell at the same time, knocking against each other. I smelled the restrained scent of Taskinen’s aftershave and felt the toned muscles of his arms through our coats. I had always enjoyed his touch, and at first this had made me feel guilty, especially when I realized that the attraction went both ways. Gradually I had learned to treat the feeling as a gift: it was nice th
at there was someone at work I could count on for a proper hug if I needed some extra strength.
“Ström’s brother called yesterday. He tried to get hold of you too but couldn’t.”
“I didn’t have my cell.”
“They decided to have a quiet funeral like Pertti wanted, but they still hoped his closest colleagues could attend. The brother has a bad heart and their father is very sick, so they asked if we could supply the pallbearers. Pertti didn’t really have friends. The written invitations will be coming later this week.”
“We’ll have to look at our shifts. I’ll ask the guys who can make it. Lähde for sure, and Hirvonen from Forensics, since Ström used to drink with them. Will the funeral be this weekend?”
“No, next week. I can be one of the pallbearers. How are things going with a replacement?”
The elevator stopped at my floor, and Taskinen lingered, holding the door open. We chatted for a minute about how best to handle the vacant position.
When I reached my office, I noticed a fax from Corsica on my desk. Peders and Ramanauskas had been found at the Calvi guest marina, and the local police wanted to know what to ask them once they found an interpreter who knew German. For a moment I indulged a daydream of flying to Corsica. It was probably still summer there. Then I typed up a list of questions in English, all the while wondering how their content would change when they were translated into French and then German. I simply wanted to find out why Mare Nostrum had been set up and what its line of business was. I also sent a copy of the label from the paint can Jiri had found and requested that they ask what Peders and Ramanauskas knew about it.
I didn’t have time to eat lunch before I left to meet with Anne Merivaara. I fervently hoped that she would offer me tea and more of those carrot scones. My blood sugar was so low that I felt dangerous in traffic, so I stopped at a convenience store for a candy bar even at the risk of being late. I arrived at four minutes past two, and Paula Saarnio was waiting in the lobby to bring me upstairs.
Fatal Headwind Page 27