“I get the idea,” Filippov says, “that you entertain some wild notion that I’m implicated in my wife’s death. It’s most hurtful.”
He’s fucking with me, playing games just to gauge my reaction. What’s more, I’m sure he knows that I know he’s having a good time at it. I say, “Your business associate, Linda, seems to be doing a good job of helping you through your time of grief.”
Filippov switches to Finnish. “She and I are close, and yes, she is most sympathetic. Inspector, you might be more sympathetic yourself. You have a lovely wife. I see that you have a child soon to arrive. Can you imagine how it feels to have your wife beaten to death in the bed of another man? Perhaps if you could, you would be less judgmental.”
I bristle. I’m not sure if he called up the image of my wife and child murdered as a taunt or a threat. Alcohol knocked my headache back to a dull roar, but now it thrums, almost seems to sing to me, Kill this bastard.
“I like you, Inspector,” he says. “Do you know why?”
“Please enlighten.”
“I sense something about you. There’s a Russian saying. Comrade Wolf knows who to eat and isn’t about to listen to anyone. In this world, there are sheep and wolves. Only a very few people are wolves. Wolves are predators and don’t bow to pressure. They see situations through to the end of the line, no matter the cost. You and I are wolves, and so you remind me of me. Because of it, I have no choice but to like you.”
I get the impression that, with his flagrant disregard for his dead wife and cryptic talk, he’s sending me a message, but I have no idea what it is or why he’s doing it. He goes back to his table.
The tension between us was evident. The others look at me, waiting for an explanation. “Just some police business,” I say.
Filippov makes a pretense of amends, sends a round of four vodkas to our table. I won’t drink that bastard’s booze and dump them in the champagne bucket. John’s expression of longing says he mourns their loss. Our appetizers arrive. I eat oysters and listen as Kate, John and Mary retell family anecdotes, relive some humorous childhood memories. The mood lightens. They decide they’re hungry enough for entrees, and we look at the menus again.
“Why does this first-class restaurant sell liver and onions?” John asks. “It strikes me as a bit low-rent.”
“Because it’s a Finnish classic,” I say. “It’s also one of my favorite foods.”
His tone patronizes. “Oh.”
We order dinner. Entrecote for me. Duck confit for Kate. Seasalted whitefish with leaf spinach and beurre blanc sauce for Mary. For John, roasted fillet of roe deer, of course the most expensive main course on the menu. And to go with it, a Chateau Gruaud-Larose 1966, Saint-Julien 2eme Grand Cru, Bordeaux, France. Price tag: three hundred and thirty euros.
I see Kate grimace. She’s angry now and starts to object. I don’t want her evening ruined. To exclude the others, I tell her in Finnish that I’ll pay for it myself, and ask John if I can share it, so he won’t drink the whole thing by himself. Kate accepts my gesture and lets it go. I see Filippov and Linda walk out, arm in arm.
Dinner arrives. We dig in.
Mary says, “Kari, since you’re married to Kate, why do you want to live in Finland?”
“What do you mean?”
“America is the greatest country on earth. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to live anywhere else.”
The woman mystifies me. “By what standard do you measure countries to determine which is the greatest on earth?”
“In America, you can be anything you want. Have anything you want. Why live under socialism?”
I can’t bring myself to engage in such an uninformed conversation. I turn to Kate. The look on my face says, Help me. She grins and shrugs.
“Finland isn’t a socialist country,” I say. “It’s a social democracy, like most European countries.”
“Wouldn’t you like to live in a capitalist country, where you can become wealthy?”
“Are you wealthy?” I ask.