Noora Kultti deceased February 3, 1980. Complications during childbirth. Jonne Kultti deceased September 16, 1998. Suicide death.
Milo isn’t speaking much today. He’s still hurt about last night. He killed a man less than twenty-four hours ago and is still an emotional wreck, still looks like shit. I bring him up to speed on Iisa’s and Linda’s backgrounds, as per my chat with Jaakko.
He grimaces. “Where did you get all that from?”
I guess he spent a lot of time getting basic info, and my having learned so much so quick has injured his self-esteem. I grin and joke. “You’re not the only detective in the room.”
The joke fails to lighten the situation. Milo can’t stand to be bested in anything. He grips the arms of the chair and his knuckles turn white. He doesn’t speak. His ego is on the ropes.
“Filippov will be here soon,” I say. “I got the impression he wanted to talk to me alone. I think you should get some sleep. You’ve been through a lot. Take a day or two for yourself.”
He glares at me. “You’re saying I’m not competent to do my job because I did some street-cleaning?”
More put-on tough talk. “I’ve experienced what you’re going through and I sympathize. Some time will help.”
He’s near to throwing a fit from rage. “If you think I’m going to step aside, let you break this case and take all the credit, when I’m the one who figured it out, you’re out of your fucking mind.”
Filippov knocks on the frame of my open door. Milo storms out.
“Are you two having a lovers’ quarrel?” Filippov asks. “I sense trouble in paradise.”
I don’t stand or offer to shake hands, gesture for Filippov to take a seat. He doesn’t sit or speak, just hands me a memory stick and stands waiting with his arms folded.
I plug the stick into my computer. It has one file on it, called “Breaking and Entering.” It’s a video file shot with a zoom lens, and Milo passes in and out of view in an apartment window.
“Your partner’s prowess with computers got him a position as a detective,” Filippov says, “and apparently he’s able to shoot mental defectives, but his stealth skills need serious improvement.”
“It appears so,” I say.
“I saw him watching my home, then he followed me and my secretary to her apartment. He climbed into her dumpster and rooted around in it, then he watched her building all night. We pretended to leave for work in the morning, but circled around and came back to watch our watcher. He stayed inside her apartment for a considerable length of time. His search must have been quite thorough.”
I won’t apologize for Milo. “Why bring this to me? I’m not responsible for his actions.”
“Perhaps not, but I assumed you would find them interesting. Failure to report his actions would constitute collaboration in them. Did you know about his illegal search of Linda’s premises?”
I debate how much to reveal and how much to hold back. Whether to try to humiliate him with knowledge about his sexual fetish. Whether to let him know that Milo’s illegally obtained evidence goes a long way toward placing Filippov at the crime scene. He’s playing a game with me. I decide to give him nothing. He wouldn’t be intimidated. Knowing what I know would only give him ammunition, better cards to play. Linda, however, might make a better target for interrogation.
I hand his memory stick back to him. “You’re entitled to press charges against Milo if you like. It might be good for him, teach him a lesson. Give this to the national chief of police. It seems you and he are well acquainted.”
He lays the stick on my desk. “You may decide you want to give it to him yourself.”
As he did in the restaurant, he’s sending me a message. I still don’t have a clue what it is. “You tortured and murdered your wife,” I say, “and you don’t even pretend otherwise. You make no attempt to hide your affair with Linda. You’re a sadistic cunt.”