Life Deluxe (37 page)

“But even Mischa Bladman meets people on a regular basis,” Torsfjäll went on. “The scoundrels he meets are of a shadier ilk than Nippe’s contacts. People from the Yugo mafia, the Hells Angels, CIT robbers. They seem to have divided up the customers between them, so to speak.”

“Do they use Nippe’s company?”

“Maybe. Nippe was named CEO of World Change AB four months ago. The company is owned by his family. They have more than fifty currency-exchange offices all over the Nordic region. Since Nippe took office, the number of invoices from companies registered abroad has increased by eight hundred percent. We’ve been able to track more account numbers, invoice numbers, and transactions through the documentation that you smuggled out for JW.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means that Bladman is having straw men, messengers, runners withdraw large sums in cash from the different offices. That pays for,
among other things, illegal workers or laundering stolen money. Then the company covers up the withdrawals on the books by referring to the foreign invoices. But it’s highly likely that they’re fabricated.”

“But I don’t understand. Doesn’t that mean we have solid proof?”

“As I said, we don’t have anything that proves that Nippe or Bladman, specifically, knows anything about this or are directly involved. And we have simply been unable to decrypt a lot of the information that you helped JW smuggle out. There’s no point in striking if we’re only going to be able to arrest a bunch of half-pissed straw men.”

Hägerström was sitting in silence.

“It’s all on you,” Torsfjäll said. “We have to get access to names of their clients. And we have to get access to their material. They must keep real accounts somewhere. That’s the most important thing—without material we can’t tie them to this stuff. You barely saw anything in the Hansén home. There might be some at Bladman’s place, but I suspect they keep all their documentation somewhere else. The question is if you can get JW to reveal where.”

“I’ll try. So far he hasn’t been too open with me.”

“You’ll have to keep luring him. Make him feel privileged.”

“How do you mean?”

“Bring him along to something he’d like. A party with Princess Madeleine? A moose hunt? What the fuck do I know?”

They ended the conversation.

Hägerström thought for a few seconds. He was wondering what was happening to him. Was he losing his grip on things? As though it wasn’t just that he was infiltrating JW’s world, but it was infiltrating him as well. Should he bring JW along to a moose hunt? Bring him into his family, into his world for real?

He remembered a scene from
Donnie Brasco
. They were at a Japanese restaurant. Brasco freaked out at the waiter. His mafia friends beat the poor man, Brasco beat him even worse.

Hägerström picked at his scab-covered knuckles.

He closed his eyes. Felt as though it was rumbling outside.

Natalie was sitting in the Stockholm University library, trying to study. They’d had their first lectures this week. Legal methodology and theory. She knew that it would all be kind of bullshit in the beginning.

In front of her on the table: the thirtieth edition of Åke Blom’s
Foundations of Law
. The lecturer was Mr. Blom himself—he’d referred to his own book as a classic. The old guy made a fortune on the fact that the students were forced to cough up the cash to buy new editions of his book year after year. That was the way the world worked.

Tove was sitting at the table behind Natalie. She was studying economics. Louise was sitting three rows farther up—notebook, law books, Post-it notes, page markers, rulers, calculator, and eighteen million different highlighters in front of her. Natalie’s taste was more particular. She used a pencil to underline in her book, that was enough.

They’d found their corner of the library and agreed: this is where we sit; this is where we go to find each other. They were surrounded by similar-looking girls: well dressed, primped. Spiffy like Olivia Palermo, the lot of them. The Stockholm University library was far from dull. Natalie didn’t have to read the fashion blogs—all the freshest styles were here. People cared about the way they looked—and the law girls looked the best.

Girls dominated the law school these days. The most dedicated, the most structured, the most grade-oriented. Law school was reading intensive, Louise said. Natalie was expecting to spend a lot of time sitting here over the next few years.

If only she could concentrate.

Her thoughts were churning like an espresso mill. This summer’s discoveries—hers, Goran’s, and Thomas’s investigations. Thoughts about Dad.

After the threatening letter her lawyer’d sent, Natalie’d contacted one of the cops on her own. She hadn’t sent a letter or e-mailed—just
called. She pressed him like a pro. If he didn’t grant her access to the investigative materials, she would submit the recordings. The notice to the parliamentary ombudsman would follow. Internal investigations, the rat squad—gross professional misconduct, sexual harassment. It was easy enough to predict the outcome. To put it simply: either the cop fucker messengered over the investigative material, or else he was finished as a police officer.

It’d been Goran’s idea. And it’d worked—two days later, a messenger arrived with the paperwork from the investigation. A new situation: Natalie had five hundred pages of clues to go through.

Stefanovic’d called her four days ago. She didn’t know how he knew, but he knew.

“You’ve gained access to something very important. Something you really shouldn’t have. I’m assuming you know that?”

Natalie wasn’t planning on playing the blushing little girl. “I believe I should have it. What they’re investigating is my father’s murder.”

“Yes, and we’re all mourning him. But this is about other things as well. Business, business contacts. Valuable, unfinished relationships. It wouldn’t be good for that kind of thing to get out. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Absolutely. And nothing I have will get out.”

“Your father was a successful man. He built something in this city. And the state wants to take it from him. They’re going through things that they shouldn’t be going through. They’re digging for stories that should remain buried. As I’m sure you’ve seen, I did everything I could, in my interrogation with the cops, to keep from giving them unnecessary information. I hope that’s the way everyone is acting. It’s not easy for you to know what information is important and what is just the pigs’ attempt to ruin your father’s business. Right?”

Natalie didn’t respond.

Stefanovic lowered his voice.

“I want you to give me the investigation material and not try to play around on your own. I want you to leave this investigation alone. You should let the police do their job and let me do mine. Do you understand? I want you to drop your own little attempts to dig around in what happened to Kum.”

Natalie refused to take it. She said she didn’t have time to talk any longer—ended the call.

Called Goran immediately.

“Stefanovic is fucking crazy.”

“He is not your friend.”

“No, I knew that. But now he’s calling me and asking me totally fucking openly to hand over the investigation material. And he’s the one who didn’t say shit to the cops in order to help. What should I do?”

Goran growled—he sounded like one of Viktor’s cars. “Natalie, you have to choose your own path.”

Natalie thought:
He is right
. She had to choose. She had to choose a life for herself.

And now: two more headaches to deal with. Her finances. And the situation at home.

The last few weeks. Stefanovic’s predictions’d come true. Opened envelopes. Letters that were spread out over the entire kitchen table—the blue and black logos on the letterheads were ingrained in every Swedish person’s consciousness: SEB, Handelsbanken, the tax authorities, the Enforcement Administration. And there was something from American Express and Beogradska Banka too.

Shit.

At first she thought:
Jebi ga
—fuck it. She hadn’t had the energy to sit down with the stuff. But now she gathered the letters. Went through them, one by one.

SEB: overdrawn accounts. She thought: that was to be expected, she didn’t give a shit about SEB. The Enforcement Administration’d already issued a seizure order for the estate’s SEB account anyway.

Handelsbanken: endowment closed, the last securities, sold—nothing left in the account. She knew about that—she’d been the one who’d sold off the final assets in order to get cash.

The tax agency: memos about tax evasion in two different companies that’d belonged to Dad. Either way Natalie didn’t give a shit—they’d hired a lawyer for that. He’d have to do his job. Anyway, it would take several years for the tax authorities to reach a decision.

The Enforcement Administration: new attempts at repossessing Dad’s cars and his boat. Luckily, they were registered in other people’s names. But the lawyer had to fight so the state didn’t win.

The situation was unchanged—there was nothing for her to collect in Sweden anymore.

But there was worse news. American Express was informing them
that both Natalie and Mom’s cards were being revoked. The credit hadn’t been paid in over three months.

And the worst was saved for last. A shit-storm. A lethal blow. A serious threat to everything they had and owned. Beogradska Banka: suggested that the property Dad owned in Serbia be sold off in order to cover the debt. It was mortgaged. And the accounts were empty, overdrawn, finito.

Natalie felt the worry in her gut: the house down there was nearly the last thing they had. Except for the cash that Dad’d left behind in the safe at home and in the safe deposit box in Switzerland. Natalie was happy that she and Mom’d emptied the safe before the economic crimes investigators’d paid a visit to their house.

And then she grew irritated: How could the accounts be empty? The last time she’d checked her balance, there’d been good coverage. No wonder American Express was complaining—the credit line was connected to Beogradska Banka. Everything depended on the assets down there—the stuff the Enforcement Administration in Sweden didn’t know about.

Again: Who had access to the accounts in Serbia? Why had all the problems arisen after Dad was murdered? Either it was a pure coincidence, or else Dad’s finances’d been rocky all along and he’d concealed that fact. Or someone was making this happen right now. And this other person must be someone who was able to control the accounts. Someone who’d had insight into Dad’s finances, his tax solutions, his setup.

There weren’t too many people to choose from.

There really weren’t many.

After going through the letters, Natalie went in to see Mom. She was sitting in the den, as usual. She seemed to need TV more than sleeping pills ever since what’d happened to Dad.
Desperate Houswives, Cougar Town
, and movies featuring Hugh Grant played around the clock.

Natalie wanted to talk about their financial situation.

She put her hand on Mom’s knee. “Hey, Mom. How are you?”

Mom didn’t move a muscle. Her gaze was hazy, unfocused.

“Are you thinking about Dad?”

“No, don’t worry about me.”

“I think about him all the time.”

“I understand.”

They sat in silence for a little while. Watching Eva Longoria’s fake smile.

Mom turned toward her. Her eyes weren’t glazed over anymore. “You have to try to let him go.”

“Maybe. But thinking about him gives me strength too.”

“I think you’re naïve. You only see what you want to see.”

Natalie didn’t understand what Mom was talking about. “Stop it,” she said.

“No. You listen to me now.”

Natalie rose, backed out of the den. She really didn’t want to deal with Mom’s nagging right now.

But it was too late. Mom exploded.

“You don’t understand much, do you? You worshipped your father like a god. But do you really think he was a god?”

Natalie stopped in her tracks.

Mom raised her voice. “How do you think it’s been for me, huh? Being treated like a damn trophy. Like a baby maker. And then like a nanny. I always had to guess what your dad was really up to. That I wasn’t his only woman. Do you know what he did? What kind of a person he was? Huh? Answer me!”

Natalie stared at her. They’d fought many times. When she’d come home four hours past her curfew at night ’cause she’d gone with Louise to some afterparty, when Mom’d found Rizla papers and a Red Line Baggie in her jacket pocket, when she’d smelled vomit in the bathroom. When she’d discovered that she’d spent over ten thousand euros on Dad’s card after a weekend in Paris when she was a senior in high school. But all those battles belonged to a far-gone past. During the past few years, she and Mom’d been like girlfriends. Like buddies who spent time together, went for coffee, watched movies, talked about the three Gs: guys, girls, garments. And not even back then, back when they’d been arguing, had Natalie heard anything like this. This was insane. This was scary.

Mom was screaming. A bunch of crap about Dad—what a sleaze he’d been, how he’d laughed at her straight in the face, ignored her. She didn’t cry, but it was as though desperation were shooting from her eyes. She was beyond control. She was hysterical.