Sohlberg and the White Death (24 page)

Hold on!” yelled Laprade as he turned hard to the left and went against incoming one-way traffic on Quai de Serbie.

Frantic and cursing drivers honked horns and flashed headlights at them. Laprade shot to the left again; this time into Rue Godefroy. Fortunately the broad street was only one-way against them for one block. After crossing Rue Mouisset the road broadened. Laprade accelerated down Rue Godefroy towards the enormous park plaza of Place du Maréchal Lyautey.

Laprade tried but he could not make a left wrongway turn against two lanes of solid traffic on Rue Tronchet. The detective sent the SUV hurtling forwards regardless of the honking and screaming drivers. The SUV chewed up the curb. Laprade turned left and almost hit several trees as the SUV raced down the park’s stone paving toward Sohlberg’s building on Rue Malesherbes.

“Oh God.” Sohlberg’s heart sank as soon as he saw five police cars parked in front of his building. “I hope we’re not too late to help Juliette.”

“She’s okay,” replied Laprade. “I’ve been hearing the radio. She never opened the door. My men have two suspects under arrest in the lobby.”

Laprade hit the brakes. The SUV came to a sudden if not merciful stop. The two detectives jumped out of the car and left it on the plaza. They ran to the building’s front doors where two police officers kept guard. Laprade showed his badge and they were admitted to the lobby.

~ ~ ~

Georges Fauré the senior officer in charge approached Laprade and pointed at two handcuffed men sitting cross-legged on the floor at the far end of the lobby. “These two idiots claim they’re with Interpol . . . Internal Affairs. They say that they rang Sohlberg’s apartment and asked to speak with him and his wife about Azra Korbal. . . . They say that the housekeeper refused to buzz them in . . . that she maliciously called the police on them. Of course the two idiots don’t know anything about the surveillance by our plainclothes officer who alerted you and then us.”

“Good. Do they have badges . . . any legal I.D. that panned out?”

“I called Interpol. As usual . . . we’re getting the round-around from them. I’m only getting a lot of voicemail messages telling me that they’re at a meeting or out of town or on vacation.”

Sohlberg moved closer. “I can vouch for them. They are Interpol . . . from Internal Affairs . . . the guy on the left is Rob Agnew . . . a former and very dumb F.B.I. agent that Ron Noble brought in as a go-fer . . . the other man is from Canada. I can’t remember his name. He’s from Quebec.”

“Well . . . well,” said Fauré. “So . . . Laprade . . . what do you want done with these two?”

“Let’s teach them a lesson on jurisdiction.” Laprade walked toward the two men. “You two. Get up.”

“What?” said Rob Agnew. “Wait a minute. I don’t speak French. Don’t you talk English?”

Laprade spoke English but he didn’t feel too accommodating. Actually he felt like kicking the ugly American in the ribs but he decided not to for Sohlberg’s sake. Laprade continued speaking in French. Agnew’s partner provided translation.

“Why are you in this building?” yelled Laprade

“We came to interview Madame Sohlberg.”

“What for? . . . Under what authority? . . . She’s not even in the country.”

Silence.

“Listen you two idiots. The Interior Minister of
this
country turned down Interpol’s request to take over the investigation of the murder of Azra Korbal. That means that Colonel Daudet is one hundred percent in charge of the investigation. You have no jurisdiction. And you’re violating the laws of France by harassing the Sohlbergs and their elderly housekeeper.”

“Wait just a minute,” said Rob Agnew who was spraying everyone with spit now that he could finally vent his rage. The Canadian wisely did not translate the expletives that flew out of Agnew’s mouth. “We damn well know about Paris turning down our request. But we’re here on internal Interpol matters that have nothing to do with your investigation. We’re doing an investigation into an Interpol employee who also happens to be our prime suspect in the murder of our translator Azra Korbal.”

“Madame Sohlberg is not an Interpol employee . . . nor is their housekeeper. So don’t ever let me catch you getting near them or I’ll kick your fat fanny up Fourvière Hill and back down into the Saône River
and
the Rhône River. . . . Understand?”

 “Listen Frenchie. You don’t understand. Her husband . . . your pal here . . . the Norwegian . . . he’s an Interpol employee.”

“So what?”

“He’s our prime suspect in the murder of Azra Korbal . . . we want to look at his apartment and interview him.”

Anxiety’s icy needle shot a dose of terror into Sohlberg’s veins. He certainly was not used to being accused of murder.

~ ~ ~

“What?” said Laprade sharply.

“You heard me. The Norwegian and his wife were the last ones to entertain Azra Korbal and her boyfriend. . . . Your pal . . . Chief Inspector Harald Sohlberg . . . was the very last person to meet with her at work before she got killed that weekend.”

Laprade grunted and turned to Sohlberg. Both men had spoken about the fact that Sohlberg would inevitably be called in for questioning by Internal Affairs. But neither men expected an official Interpol accusation that fingered Sohlberg as the
prime suspect
in the murder of Azra Korbal.

Sohlberg stepped up. He spoke in English since his awful French was subject to mistranslation. “Gentlemen . . . you need to talk with my lawyer . . . Günther Nenning.” He pushed Nenning’s business card into Agnew’s hand.

“A lawyer?”

“You heard right. A lawyer.”

“That’s a sign of guilt in my book.”

Laprade sneered. “What book would that be? . . .
The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Detective Work
? . . . Or is it . . . perhaps . . .
Police Investigations for Dummies
?”

Laprade’s French colleagues burst out in laughter. Sohlberg chuckled.

“Let them loose,” ordered Laprade.

Agnew yelled at Laprade:

“Listen you . . . I’m going to file an official complaint and make sure that—”

Laprade quick-punched the American twice on the forehead.

“Ow!”

The chilly darkness of Laprade’s blue eyes promised grievous physical injury accompanied by intense agony.

The two Interpol investigators scurried away in silence.

The foreboding mood passed. Fauré and his team left. Sohlberg took a deep breath.

“The clock is ticking,” said Laprade. “I hope your lawyer can delay Interpol until we catch Azra’s killer. . . .”

“Let’s hope so.”

“Well . . . you know what an optimist I am . . . I can actually see a silver lining if things go badly for you.”

“What’s that?”

“At least France doesn’t use the guillotine anymore. No more death penalty.”

“Lucky me.”

Chapter 16/Seksten

TROMSØ, NORWAY: JULY 28,

OR THREE MONTHS AND 16

DAYS AFTER THE DAY

Six days. Six days of visiting dozens of bars. They ranged from expensive theme-based watering holes to pubs with excellent food to the proverbial hole-in-the-wall neighborhood bar. To his everlasting embarrassment Inspector Giske had to patronize gay and lesbian bars where he attracted not one but several invitations to participate in the annual Tromsø Drag Queen contest. Leads and tips sent him to unlicensed dives in basements and abandoned buildings where he felt like throwing up just from looking at the filthy glasses that he was forced to drink from.

Haakon Giske dreaded his scheduled meeting in a few hours with Skrautvol. All he had to show for his troubles were colossal headaches and hangovers and asthma attacks. He wondered if he should have traded places with Constable Rasch. Spending time outdoors in Hansnes now looked a whole lot better.

At ten past midnight he entered
The Octopus
—his last bar for the night.

“What will you have?”

“I’ll take a Mack,” said Giske. He preferred the only beer brewed in Tromsø. He sat on a shaky stool at the rear of the nearly empty bar and looked around. A man with one drink too many spoke randomly and without conviction to a prostitute who had seen better days and customers. Giske put his kroner on the battered wood bar. He added a few bills as an extra large tip.

The owner served him and peered at Giske in the smoky dusk. “Is that you Inspector Giske?”

The weary detective looked up but he could not recognize the flimsy shape of Ola Brundtland in the darkness. “Yeah . . . that’s me.”

“Haven’t seen you in some time . . . what’s it been . . . five years?”

Giske looked carefully at the bar owner. He recognized the former bank robber when the ex-con moved under a dim light. “It’s been five years? . . . Maybe. . . . I decided to dry up a bit. . . .” Giske didn’t need to explain the reasons. Almost everyone in town knew that he had wasted his youth and a good part of his adulthood under the influence. In addition to the emotional and physical toll he had paid dearly with a stalled career and two ex-wives and three grown children who wanted nothing to do with him.

“Well . . . I’m glad to see you.” Brundtland shoved the money back. “It’s on the house.”

“No. No . . . really.”

“But—”

“Really. It’s okay. Take the money.”

“It’s far too much. No need to tip me. You helped me a lot. . . .”

Giske appreciated the gesture. He gave people a break from time to time. That’s the coin of the realm. Tickets that aren’t written. Arrests not made. Stuff left out when writing a report. It’s part and parcel of detective work to stumble on lots of
extra-curricular activities
—shady, immoral, embarrassing, and illegal activities that are extraneous to the actual crime or crimes under investigation. A blind eye on these activities allow a good detective to build up a certain level of trust and good will with bartenders, waiters, taxicab drivers, doormen, prostitutes, accountants, bookkeepers, and others in the service industries. These are the people who are in daily contact with suspects and the criminal element. People with leads and tips. People who know the first rule of business in the real world: backs get scratched—tit for tat.

“Inspector Giske . . . what can I do for you?”

“I need a small favor.”

“Of course. Whatever you want.”

Giske smiled. Ten years ago Brundtland had applied to renew his liquor license with the city. A young and overeager city worker had showed up to interview Brundtland late one winter afternoon. A drunk prostitute mistook the city inspector for an old boyfriend and she bashed her beer mug into his head. The enraged inspector promised to shut down the bar. Brundtland called Giske in a panic and asked for his help. The detective gladly complied because Brundtland had supplied him over the years with truthful information and useful tips about criminal suspects and all sorts of suspicious activities and people.

The detective sipped the Mac and said:

“I appreciate your help. You’ve always helped me.”

“No problem . . . none at all,” said Brundtland.

The two men looked at each other in the hazy gloom. Both men remembered how the license revocation process was immediately halted after Giske paid a personal visit to the city worker’s boss. The married father of four quickly accommodated Giske’s request because he didn’t want anyone in the police talking to his wife about his loud and indiscreet liaisons with other men in the public bathrooms of the Prosnesset bus terminal and the Hurtigruten terminal where the giant inter-coastal ferries docked in the port.

Giske leaned towards Brundtland and said in the softest of whispers:

“I’m looking for someone who hires out his or her boat or airplane for illegal ventures.”

“What kind of ventures?”

“Maybe it’s to transport illegal immigrants into Norway . . . maybe it’s drugs . . . maybe both. Do you know anyone who fits the bill? . . . Or where I could meet such people?”

“I don’t know anyone like that right now . . . but one place comes to mind . . . Anniken Lønseth owns a place that attracts that type. She used to pilot small planes until her diabetes left her blind. Supposedly her boyfriend was a player in a meth and pot ring . . . she flew lots of speed and weed up here until the boyfriend was chopped up into little pieces by someone who caught him skimming product. She should know a lot of shady owners and pilots of boats and airplanes. They come to her place . . . it’s a dive . . . just go further down Strandgata . . . it’s between Fiskergata and Strandskillet.”

“Do you mean
The Bastard Bar
? . . . I’ve already been there. I thought my eardrums had burst . . . I really thought I was permanently deaf after hearing one of the bands playing there yesterday.”

“No. No. It’s not
The Bastard
. Lønseth’s place has no name . . . no sign. It’s further down from
The Bastard
. . . look for an unmarked brown door in an old blue building . . . the door will take you straight down to a basement. Be careful with her psycho nephew . . . he’s the bouncer . . . very fast with the knife if you know what I mean.”