“True, but on the other hand, you two are both famous hero cops at the moment. Discrediting you and making you disappear would be a way of keeping the black-ops unit secret. I believe the term is sheep-dipping. You go away, then quietly reappear, out of the public eye.”
And I’m supposed to trust him with this. Not a fucking chance. I make up my mind. One way or another, the murder of Iisa Filippov-whether it’s Iisa, and not Linda, in a cold drawer in the morgue-will be punished. I just still don’t know how to accomplish it. I lie. “Okay, Jyri, we’ll do it your way. I’ll call you later and let you know what Filippov and I work out.”
“Just buy us some time to find his other mistakes. Make some cockamamie deal, then later, no matter what you agree to, we’ll put the fucks to him.”
As is Jyri’s habit, he hangs up without saying thank you, fuck you or good-bye.
I turn back to December Day, think about calling Milo to get his opinion, but decide I don’t want it. I turn my latest conversations with Filippov and Jyri over in my mind, try to find chinks in their armor I can chisel open, but I can’t. My cell phone rings. It’s Arvid.
“How are you doing?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer straight away, and when he does, his voice cracks. “Son, I’ve been better.”
Arvid keeps his emotions, except anger, tight. I’m worried. “What’s the matter?”
“Can you come here? Right away?”
I look out the window at a blizzard. Snow comes down in a deluge. “I don’t know if I can. The roads might not be passable.”
“I’m asking you, please.”
“What’s the matter?”
Long pause. “It’s Ritva. She’s passed away.”
It almost brings tears to my eyes. “Jesus, I’m so sorry.”
“I need you to do her death investigation.”
“Even if I wanted to, it’s not my jurisdiction.”
His sigh is long and full of sorrow. “It has to be your jurisdiction. Ritva had bone cancer. I helped her to die. I need you to cover it up.”
I don’t know what to say, and say nothing.
“It was her wish,” he says. “I know you can’t just take my word for it. We’ve known this day would come for a long time and planned for it. Ritva wrote you a letter to explain.”
I still don’t know what to say.
“Please help me,” Arvid says.
“Hang tight,” I say. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
43
The drive to Porvoo is treacherous. My Saab slips and slides all over the road, and visibility is nothing. The trip, usually little over half an hour, takes me two hours.
Arvid ushers me in. He’s wearing his usual starched and pressed pants and his hair is perfectly combed. I get the idea that he made himself as presentable as possible before seeing his wife off to the next world, made their last moments together as special as he could.
We take our now customary places at his kitchen table. He brings us coffee and cognac. “Let’s drink to her,” he says, and raises his glass.
I raise mine, too.
“To Ritva, may she rest in peace,” he says.
I repeat it after him, and we drink.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” I ask. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“Boy, are you going to do me this favor and sign off on her death? I’ll get Ritva’s letter for you.”
The pain in his voice makes further proofs unnecessary. “I don’t need to see the letter, unless you want me to read it. And of course I’ll help you.”
“Ritva was eaten up with bone cancer. Her pain got worse and worse, and the days she could even get out of bed were fewer and farther between. In the end, she was in near-constant agony.”
“Like I said, you don’t have to tell me this if you don’t want to.”