He chugs whiskey, frightened. “Obviously, he wanted to frame me. If I go to jail for the murder, he gets off scot-free.”
A member of the forensics team comes in. “We turned the body over. Want to take a look?”
I thank Saar for his cooperation and tell the uniforms to take him first to the Pasila station for processing, then to the hospital for examination.
Milo and I go back to the bedroom. A digital Nikon D200 and a Sony video camera are on tripods. Fingerprint dust covers surfaces. Scales and tape measures are scattered about. I check Iisa’s phone and find a text message Saar sent her yesterday morning, asking her to meet him here at seven thirty a.m. this morning. Her sent messages confirm the tryst. I’ll reserve judgment about Saar’s guilt or innocence. So far, I’ve found no evidence that he’s been less than forthright.
The victim is on her stomach. Her reverse shows no signs of violence. I ask Milo, “See anything noteworthy?”
He shakes his head. “No. We’re done here.”
“Then let’s go talk to Ivan Filippov,” I say.
6
A lutheran pastor, Henri Oksanen, often accompanies police to give the bad news to family members of the departed. I give him a call, he agrees to join us. Milo and I pick him up. We start out at just after noon and drive through heavy snow to Filippov Construction, in an industrial park in the Helsinki suburb of Vantaa.
The business is in a large, corrugated-metal building. We walk in. Construction tools and materials line shelves and lie on the floor: everything from jackhammers to face masks and other protective clothing necessary for asbestos removal and industrial waste disposal. A gorgeous secretary greets us from behind a battered metal desk. She’s a dead ringer for the 1950s soft-porn and pinup star Bettie Page. Tanned. Longish black hair cut in bangs. Black eyes. Curvy figure. Girl-next-door smile. A dark angel. She reminds me of someone else, too, but I can’t put my finger on who it is. Sleep deprivation is screwing with my memory.
We ask to speak to Ivan Filippov. She buzzes an intercom and announces our arrival. He tells her to send us in.
The office is nothing fancy. Concrete floors. Basic white walls and filing cabinets. A computer sits on a worktable. Filippov sits behind it. He stands to greet us. He’s maybe six-three, age fiftysomething, high-cheekboned and clean-shaven. His suit, shoes and haircut are expensive. His attire doesn’t mesh with the practical atmosphere of his business and speaks of vanity. “How can I help you?” he asks.
We introduce ourselves. Pastor Oksanen takes the lead. He practices this on a regular basis and is better at it than we are. “Mr. Filippov, perhaps you should sit down. We have sad news.”
Filippov’s expression turns quizzical and concerned. He regains his seat behind the desk, motions for us to sit. There are only two chairs on the other side of his desk. Pastor Oksanen gestures for Milo and me to take them.
“It’s about Iisa, your wife,” Oksanen says.
Two detectives and a pastor have come to bring bad news. Filippov must suspect the worst, but his voice is controlled. “What about Iisa?”
“I regret to inform you that she is no longer with us.”
He cocks his head to the side. “Then, pray tell, who is she with? I’m not a child, spell it out.”
“She has passed on. Her body was discovered earlier today.”
Filippov makes eye contact with Oksanen. His face registers nothing. “How did she die?”
The pastor goes around the desk and places a comforting hand on his shoulder. “She was murdered. She’s with God now.”
Filippov ignores the hand. “I’m an atheist.”
Odd first words to utter upon being informed that his wife was slain. He looks at Milo and me. “Who killed my wife?”