Lucifer's Tears (9 page)

I nod agreement. I’m certain that she’s thrilled to see her brother and sister, but John is drunk, and Mary seems a touch strange and dour. The family dynamic and vibe are weird. I’m sure Kate is hoping a change in venue will improve them. I signal Mike for the check and ask him to order a taxi for us.

Our taxi stops in front of kamp, alongside an XJ12 Jaguar and a McLaren F1. When the hotel opened in 1887, it was palatial. Over the years, it suffered structural damage, more from wars than anything else, and finally the ballroom dance floor started caving in. In 1966, the original facade had to be torn down and rebuilt. In deference to the part the hotel played-and continues to play-in our cultural heritage, great efforts were made to conserve as much as possible of the original architecture, and it retains its Old World splendor. During the prewar years, our great composer Jean Sibelius threw parties here that sometimes raged for days. In recent years, among other notables, Vladimir Putin and Jacques Chirac have been guests.

We exit the taxi. On the sidewalk, in front of the grayish-green marble entrance, the frigid wind is strong and drives snow into our faces. The doorman wears a traditional top hat and red jacket. He offers a slight bow and deferential greeting, in keeping with Kate’s status as general manager.

“Good evening, Sami,” she says. The hotel has a huge staff, but Kate has learned each and every one of their names. I’m terrible with names and can’t imagine how she did it.

Inside, we pass down a long run of carpet, through a second set of doors and into a large lobby. Its rotunda, supported by massive marble pillars, is dominated by a magnificent chandelier. John turns in a circle. “Damn, Kate,” he says. “Quite a place you’re running here.”

The hotel screams wealth. The mosaic floors-also marble-art and elegant furnishings seem more to John’s taste than our local bar. “Thank you,” Kate says. “I’m proud of it.”

The receptionists, concierge and bellhops also offer Kate smiles and quiet greetings. Again, she calls them all by name, a distinctly un-Finnish habit, and asks how their evenings are going. It’s evident that they like her, and equally so that she’s comfortable here. This pleases me to no end. The hotel is international and the staff speaks fluent English. At least when she’s at work, the cultural isolation Kate suffered living in Kittila, in large part caused by the language barrier, is gone. Kate is in her element.

We stroll through a lounge, past the bar-which is dark wood and brass, much like the one in dreary Hilpea Hauki, which John fails to note-into the dining room, and a gracious maitre d’ seats us. On the other side of the room sit Ivan Filippov, the audacious prick, and his so-called assistant, Bettie Page Linda. Maybe I should be surprised, but I’m not. He catches my eye and nods acknowledgment.

A waiter in a white jacket comes to take our drink orders. “We’re celebrating something special,” Kate says. “A bottle of Tattinger please.”

“And one of those Finnish vodkas for me,” John says.

“He’d like a Koskenkorva,” I say.

The waiter leaves a wine list on the table. John asks where the restroom is and excuses himself. He weaves a bit as he walks away. When he comes back, he weaves no longer. His eyes are sharp and darting. He’s had a little pick-me-up in the men’s room. I wonder if Kate notices.

The waiter arrives with the champagne and pours. Mary places a hand over her glass.

“I didn’t know until today that you’re a teetotaler,” Kate says.

“My husband and I are religious people. Alcohol doesn’t fit in with our beliefs. And after you saw what it did to our father, I’m surprised you touch it either. Especially in your condition.”

Kate reddens. “Mary, I don’t intend to drink the whole glass. I just thought a toast to celebrate us being together, for the first time in more than five years, would be nice.”

Mary checks the wine list. “The bottle cost a hundred and five euros. Can you afford it?”

“I think my family is worth it on this special occasion. And besides, as general manager, I’m expected to eat and drink here occasionally, so that I know our guests are enjoying their dining experiences. The hotel will pay for it.”

Mary concedes defeat, allows Kate to pour a glass for her. Kate raises her champagne flute and we follow suit. “To our family,” Kate says.

We clink glasses and drink to the family. John gulps. Kate sips. Mary allows the champagne to brush her lips, but no more. The waiter brings menus and John’s kossu. I glance at Filippov. He and Linda hold hands and exchange intimate looks.

“John, how do you like being a teacher?” Kate asks.

His pick-me-up has animated him. He gestures with his hands while he talks. “I love academia,” he says. “I specialize in Renaissance history. Teaching about the sins of the Borgias is a bit of a guilty pleasure, like watching pornography.”

“You said you were on a one-year renewable doctoral fellowship. I was afraid that it might not be continued because of the world financial crisis and funding cutbacks.”

He grins. “No. I may be just a Ph. D. candidate, but I’m such a popular teacher that the students would go on strike if the university let me go.”

The waiter takes our appetizer orders. Mary takes crayfish soup. Kate carpaccio a la Paris Ritz. I order a Stolichnaya and a halfdozen raw oysters.

Mary raises her eyebrows. “More vodka?”

I’m getting tired of this. “It complements raw oysters.”

Kate is getting tired of it, too, and comes to my defense. “Finnish standards concerning drinking are somewhat different than in the States, but Kari doesn’t drink excessively. He’s a good husband.”

“I’m sure he is,” Mary says.

She doesn’t look sure.

John orders osetra caviar, menu price two hundred and eighty euros. Kate stiffens but says nothing. True, she’s free to entertain here, but good relations with her employers dictate a modicum of restraint.

Mary notices Kate’s reaction. “John, don’t you think you’re being a touch extravagant?”

He shrugs, giggles, looks at Kate. “It’s all on the house, right, Sis?”

Kate forces a smile. “Yes, John. Enjoy yourself.”

He orders vodka, too. “Also traditional with caviar. Isn’t that right, Kari?”

He’s correct. “Yep.”

I check out Filippov. Bettie Page Linda nuzzles his neck. He sees me see him, gets up and comes toward our table. Just what I fucking need. He introduces himself. I don’t want to, but in the interest of politeness in front of Kate’s family, I make introductions all around.

“Inspector Vaara heads the investigation of my wife’s murder,” Filippov says in English, “and he has all of my confidence. May I assume Rein Saar is in custody and that his prosecution is imminent?”

“He’s in custody,” I say. “Make no assumptions about his guilt or innocence.”

“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.

“Moderately. My husband’s medical practice is quite successful.”

The migraine hums. My patience with Mary is wearing thin. “In this regard, a vast cultural gulf separates us. Your capitalist country exists in a constant state of flux, and throughout its history has been in an almost constant state of war. We in Europe have learned over the centuries that change and transformation bring war, hardship and chaos. We fear it. By and large, we prefer a middle-class existence-with the knowledge that when we’re sick, we can go to the doctor, that we won’t go hungry or be homeless, that we can receive educations-to the excitement of the remote possibility that we might make a billion dollars, which we don’t need anyway. So no, I feel no need to emigrate to your land of opportunity.”

John snickers, then laughs. “Damn,” he says, “that was great. You should be a politician. Or a television preacher.”

Mary’s young eyes age twenty years in an instant, and they aren’t dancing anymore. She folds her hands in front of her face and looks at Kate over her fingertips. “And how do you feel about the way your husband just denigrated our homeland?”

Kate takes a second before answering. “Mary, it wasn’t a denigration, it was an explanation of differing political philosophies. Kari has spent time in the States, but you haven’t been to Finland before, so if either of you has more right to an opinion, it’s him. I’ve lived in both places, and Kari’s viewpoint has some justification.” She looks at me. “But that was a little harsh,” she says.

“Well, Kari,” Mary says. “I must say, you’re quite well-spoken in English, considering that it’s not your language.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Your English is good, too.”

Under the table, Kate kicks my shin to get my attention. Her look asks me to stop.

My earlier feelings of goodwill toward John and Mary are gone. My fears about John and Mary being here for so long, during such a special time for Kate and me, are renewed. It’s too late now, though, and I resolve to try and make the best of it.

“Anybody up for dessert, coffee and cognac?” John asks.

We manage to make it through the rest of the evening without further incident.

The four of us go home. Both John and Mary remove their shoes in the foyer without being asked. That they know we don’t wear shoes in our houses speaks well of them. They made it a point to learn something about Finnish culture before coming here.

We make up the spare bed for Mary and the couch for John. His pick-me-up has worn off, and he and Mary are both exhausted from the long journey across the Atlantic. I’m dead in my tracks, too. I brush my teeth. John is waiting for me outside the bathroom.

“Hey, Kari,” he says. “Got a joint?”

“Excuse me?”

“A little pot would help me sleep.”

John just doesn’t know when to quit. “No, I don’t have a joint.”

“Oh, come on, everybody knows cops have the best dope.”

“Good night, John,” I say, and push past him.

Kate is waiting for me in bed. I turn out the lights. She lays her head on my shoulder. “I don’t know what to think about John and Mary,” she says.