The Lion of Justice (13 page)

“Are you sure you’re not into women after all?” Mrs. Voutilainen asked nonchalantly. Occasionally Mrs. Voutilainen showed her true colors by making snide remarks about conservatives who were afraid of anything that deviated from their values. I heard she’d caused plenty of fights on the trips she took with other retirees.

“Maybe I just haven’t found the woman of my dreams.” I kept my tone light. “I’ve tried that approach, too, but I loved David.” I watched the tattooed girl swimming in the pool with confident strokes. “Right now I don’t want anyone, and I’m not unhappy,” I lied and took a bite of apple pie.

I barely made it to the post office before it closed. I’d asked the Hakkarainens to send my mom’s funeral photo album, but the package was so large there had to be more. When I opened it I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Maija had baked a ton of potato pasties and bread rolls. The Hakkarainens had also sent small bags of dried porcini, black trumpets, black currant leaf tea, and dried dill. Maija had written me a card, reminding me how the currant leaves were from the bushes in front of our cabin in Hevonpersiinsaari. I’d planted them with Uncle Jari. I boiled some water and let the tea seep while I took out the album. The cover had an image of a sunset over an ocean, and the colors looked unnaturally bright. The photos within had lost their color after thirty years. There was a photo on the first page, and it showed my mom’s cheap, plain coffin, with a floral arrangement of pink carnations. My head began to hum. I wasn’t sure if I could go through with this. The next page had a photo of the priest. He looked sad. He’d patted me on the head and told me my mommy was now happy in heaven and one day I’d join her, if I behaved like a good girl. I’d asked him when that would be, and he told me at least seventy years and that I shouldn’t hurry.

In the next picture I was walking down the church aisle between my grandmother and Uncle Jari toward the coffin. Grandmother’s mourning veil covered her face entirely. Uncle wore a black suit with wide pant legs. He’d worn a more modern suit to my high school graduation, something in light gray. My short hair had been tied into pointy, stiff pigtails with black ribbons. I walked on my tiptoes in my patent leather shoes. Uncle Jari’s hand was in mine, and his other hand held on to an arrangement of flowers made out of pink and white roses. He’d given me a single rose to set on the coffin. I remembered hearing a strange whimper from behind me as I lowered the flower onto the coffin and waved good-bye to my mother.

What was I doing? I was supposed to be locating my mother’s friends, not reminiscing. I flipped onward. The Hakkarainen couple had also been at the funeral, and their teenaged children looked miserable. There was a young man, standing alone, and I didn’t recall seeing him before. I took the photo out and flipped it. “Kari Suurluoto, Keijo’s cousin” was written on the back. His face was scarred with acne, and his blond hair was permed. The suit hung off him awkwardly, obviously a loaner. Based on his name, he had to be my father’s relative from his father’s side. He looked a few years younger than my father, but they might have been close. Or what if Kari Suurluoto had fallen in love with his cousin’s pretty wife?

All of my mother’s friends were on the next page. Tarja Kinnunen, Päivi Väänänen, and Tiina Turpeinen. Their faces were red from crying. Tiina’s hairdo was straight out of the TV show
Dallas
. Did my mom know these women from middle school? They appeared together in all of the pictures. If I found one of them, I might track them all down. With my crummy luck they’d probably changed their last names at least once since the pictures were taken.

I thought about setting up a Facebook page in my mother’s memory. Although she’d been dead for decades, the page might bring about some good contacts. There was of course the risk that Keijo Kurkimäki would decide to get in touch with me. He was locked up in the prison’s psychiatric ward, and his contacts to the outside world were very limited. He’d tried to call me a couple of times, but I hadn’t heard from him since I made all my numbers unlisted.

A Facebook page would also attract true-crime aficionados—there were plenty of those freaks. I wouldn’t publish my contact information there. Once again, I could hear Mike Virtue’s sermon about being careful with the information we put on the web, and back in those days social media wasn’t as big as it is now. There was no Facebook or Twitter, and only the most technologically advanced people had websites. The security academy in Queens had a website, but there was no information about its students or the staff, and it was no use trying to track down Mike through Facebook.

I flipped to the last page in the album and saw two photos. One had been taken at the memorial service: pink roses and a burning candle surrounded a framed photo on a table. The picture below was the photo from that frame. Uncle Jari had taken it on my third birthday. The blond, smiling woman’s bangs were teased into waves, and her skin was smooth like a porcelain doll. She wore a necklace with three charms: a heart, a cross, and an anchor. She was wearing an engagement ring: a thin band with three red stones, most likely rubies. It took me a moment to recognize it.

I stormed back into my room. I’d hidden David’s USB stick, the ring, and the kaleidoscope in my gun safe. I fumbled with the lock, forgetting how to breathe. David had never been to Hevonpersiinsaari, so he’d never seen this picture—he couldn’t have!

I pulled out the ring, and it was the same as the one my mother wore in the picture. How was this possible?

13

I’d never thought about what had happened to my mother’s jewels. Dad had cut her left ring finger off with a knife, removing her engagement and wedding rings. But the ring with three rubies was neither of those. I had a memory of a ring with a rock in it shining in the pool of blood. I did my best to wipe the memory and that other ring from my mind and focus on the ring in the picture. Where had Mom gotten it, and was I now holding the very same ring? It didn’t have any engravings, but a jeweler would be able to tell whether an engraving had been sanded off, maybe even where the ring had come from. It couldn’t be just a coincidence that David had this ring. Who’d know more about my mom’s jewels? The only person I could think of was Maija Hakkarainen. I looked at the clock. Nine thirty may have been too late to call. She and her husband were farmers, so they went to bed early to get up at five and milk the cows. I would wait until tomorrow.

I called a service to find information on my mother’s friends. The names Päivi Väänänen and Tiina Turpeinen came up in the Helsinki area, but I didn’t want to call them this late—with common names like that, they might not even be the people I was looking for. And what would I say? “Hello, did you go to high school in Tuusniemi at the end of the seventies? Do you remember Anneli Karttunen? I’m her daughter. We met at her funeral when I was four.”

Lying had never been hard for me, and being honest was difficult. The service gave me both home and cell phone numbers for Kari Suurluoto and an address in Espoo’s Tuomarila. So at least he wasn’t a cop or so secretive that he needed to hide his address. I turned my computer on and searched for him on the web. The only results were for the Finlandia skiing competition. He was in good shape and had skied the thirty-one-mile route in three and a half hours. He was in his late forties by now.

I heard the door slam. Monika was back. There were only a few dinner reservations, and everything seemed to be going smoothly at Sans Nom, so the two of us weren’t needed there all the time. I hid the ring in my pocket and took the photo album to my room. Maybe I would show it to Monika later, when I was less upset about the images.

“Want some black currant leaf tea and potato pasties? Maija Hakkarainen sent me a care package,” I said to Monika. We’d invited the Hakkarainens to the grand opening, but they couldn’t leave their cattle behind that easily. Maija had promised they’d come and visit the next time they secured someone to look after their farm. Uncle Jari and I had occasionally milked their cows when the Hakkarainens had funerals or graduations to attend. However, dealing with modern milking equipment wasn’t learned overnight.

“Ah, great!” Monika said and quickly bit into a pasty. A restaurateur who didn’t have time to eat was such a cliché. I drank three cups of tea, listened to Monika talk about her evening, and did my best to calm down. Still, as soon as I’d fallen asleep, I had dreams of being stuck inside a coffin that was shot into space. I knew I’d suffocate if the coffin left the atmosphere. I woke up in pitch-black to see a faint glow from my cell phone. A text message. From an unknown number. There was no message, just a question mark. Maybe it was an accident. Still, I couldn’t forget it, and it took me a while to get to sleep.

On Saturday I planned on working the night shift, so I slept until noon. Sans Nom would be packed by six. I called the Hakkarainens’ landline, but nobody answered.

I finally got a hold of them on Sunday after they’d returned from milking the cows. Matti answered and asked how I was before handing Maija the phone. I praised her tea and baked goods and marveled at the mushroom loot she’d secured this fall. With the niceties out of the way, I asked about the jewels.

“Your mother’s jewels? I’m sorry to say I don’t have a clue. Your parents lived in Lappeenranta then. I have no idea where her belongings went,” said Maija.

“But you were at the funeral. I saw the pictures.”

“Matti is your dead grandfather’s cousin on your mother’s side. We were there to support your grandmother, and I helped out with baking. I used to be quite a caterer back then. We didn’t really know your mother, and we knew your father even less, but when Jari looked for a house for you two, Matti suggested he buy Hevonpersiinsaari. I suppose such a remote place wasn’t all that fun for a child.”

“It was perfect for me,” I said. I asked about Maija’s animals. She said they’d seen lynx tracks every now and then, but nothing had been bothering the cows.

“Where did you keep the funeral album?” I asked.

“On your uncle’s bookshelf, among the other photo albums. Your childhood pictures are still there—do you want them?”

“I’ll get them when I have a chance.” I knew it would be no use to ask Maija about potential signs of break-ins or odd characters hanging around Hevonpersiinsaari. I’d taken down all the security equipment I’d temporarily set up there, because they’d only be tripped by wild animals and cause unnecessary attention. I’d often told David about Hevonpersiinsaari and my childhood, and I’d shown him the island on the map. It would have been so easy for David to find the cabin and break in. But why would he have done it, and when? There had to be another explanation for the ring.

As I biked toward Sans Nom, I thought of the jewels. They should have gone to my grandmother, but maybe she had sold them. Or maybe Mom’s friends had taken them. I only wore jewelry as a cover, and anything I had I was willing to give away—my will included a clause that my friends could take any item as a memento. I doubted my mom had a will. She was twenty-six when she died. Uncle Jari had made remarks that sounded like my father’s murderous rampage hadn’t been his first act of violence. Uncle Jari had seen black eyes and swollen wrists, but Mom had claimed they were from slipping or bumping into things. Classic. I’d never believe such excuses. Mike Virtue had told us to never turn away from violence: “If we don’t intervene, we become accomplices. You have to be smart and think about what you can actually resolve and what should be left for the police, but ignoring violence is a crime.”

On Sunday afternoon, I decided to try my luck with all the Tarja Kinnunens I had located in and around Helsinki. None of them had lived in Tuusniemi, and most of them hadn’t even heard of it. It was frustrating to have to use a paid service to find locations for the rest of them. One Päivi Väänänen-Huttunen lived in Kuopio, which seemed promising, but she didn’t pick up when I called. My number was unlisted, so a lot of them probably chose not to answer. I didn’t want to send a text explaining who I was. I was more interested in Kari Suurluoto than the women anyway. I thought of the few times I’d heard my father’s low drone, as if he’d been pumped with drugs. Would Kari sound the same? There was only one way to find out, but I hesitated. I looked outside; the theater in the corner of Yrjö and Eerikki Streets must’ve had a matinee, because lots of people were pouring in. Monika had season tickets, and she tried to drag me along a few times. Then I thought about hanging the laundry to dry in the living room before I left for work. I was coming up with things to do instead of calling Kari Suurluoto. Maybe he was some other Kari, or maybe he’d cut my father out of his life the same way I had.

I forced myself to dial, and he answered immediately, as if he had been waiting for the call.

“Hello, this is Suurluoto.”

“Hi, this is Hilja . . . formerly Suurluoto. Keijo’s daughter,” I said.

There was a long pause. I could tell he was in a car and using a hands-free device, which would explain how he’d answered so fast.

“Hilja?” he finally said. “I thought you lived abroad. I was told you were in the US.”

“I’m in Finland now,” I said.

“This is actually a bad time. I’m driving a car full of people. What were you calling about?”

“I wanted to talk about my father. You were his only relative to come to my mother’s funeral.”

There was a long silence. Girls were giggling in the background.

“Like I said, this is a bad time. Can you call me in a half hour?”

But then I’d be on my way to work. We agreed to talk on Monday morning. Suurluoto would be at his office filling out reports, so he was available to chat.

Now that I’d finally gotten a hold of him, I had a hard time letting him go. Even such a short time felt like an excruciating wait. Monika had taken the van to pick up some newly harvested potatoes, and I made it to Sans Nom in time to help her unpack. Veikko and his buddies were hanging around the back door, hoping to get some leftover bread and mashed potatoes from the previous evening.

“Did they catch those burglars?” asked Veikko.

“We haven’t heard back from the police,” I told him.

He looked disappointed. “Want a swig?” he asked, offering me a bottle of table wine. I told him no thanks and offered him some coffee to keep him warm. Nights were already chilly, so I was sure it was getting cold in the recycling bin he slept in.

“This building is a good place for me. Nobody ever chases me away. Apartment buildings call the cops right away. We don’t mean any harm, and these newspapers and magazines were abandoned here. We’re not stealing,” Veikko said while chewing on a piece of bread with his four remaining teeth.

“But what are we supposed to do when they stop printing papers and put all the news on the web? Kilobytes don’t make for warm blankets,” his friend said.

“That won’t happen anytime soon. We’ll be gone by then.” Veikko smiled. “How many winters did they promise you? Last time in rehab they told me the Grim Reaper would come any day, unless I quit drinking. Every day could be your last, so let’s drink to that!”

It could be the last day for anyone
, I thought while I fed potatoes into the peeling machine. People can’t handle thinking about this, so they refuse to. There have been times when the Grim Reaper was on my heels and I barely avoided looking into his eyes. I had told myself I wasn’t afraid of death, but I couldn’t possibly know how I’d react until the moment arrived. At least I’d fight until the bitter end. I wouldn’t be an easy catch.

It was nine o’clock when the last people with reservations arrived. One of the waitresses, a cute brunette, Helinä, told me someone had asked for me in the dining room. I checked the CCTV to see who it was, and sitting in the waiting area near the door was Yuri Trankov with a drink in his hand.

“Did you tell him I was in the kitchen?” I asked Helinä.

“Was I not supposed to? He’s so cute.”

Helinä was closer to Trankov’s age than I was.

“You can have him. What’s he drinking?”

“A Bloody Mary.” An alcohol license was granted to Sans Nom immediately, mostly due to Monika’s good reputation. Still, most customers came to eat, not drink.

The room was full of people, but the murmur of voices and the background music were still low. Sans Nom’s playlist included mostly classical music and old jazz, except during lunchtime, when we played folk music from Mozambique. I had thought about switching the music to the Finnish oompah cover band Eläkeläiset as a joke, but that would have to wait until Monika wasn’t there or when our customers were being exceptionally annoying.

Trankov looked casual. He wore light-blue jeans, a white shirt, and light-brown hiking shoes. He’d taken the matching suede jacket off and draped it over a chair. He got up and greeted me by grabbing my shoulders and kissing my cheeks. His eyes were deep blue. It looked like he wore contacts. His eyelashes were dark and unnaturally thick.

“Hilja! I had to come see you when I never heard back from you. I’m so excited about the painting—when are you coming?” Trankov asked.

He smelled good. I remembered Laitio’s warning, but I wasn’t going to heed it. Was Trankov running errands for the Grim Reaper? I could only find out by finding out.

“I’m off on Thursday. Would that work? And how do I get to Långvik?” I asked. I wasn’t sure if I could borrow the company van.

“I’ll pick you up,” Trankov said.

“In the ostentatious SUV?”

“That’s Syrjänen’s. I have my own car. What time should I get you?”

There was no
safe
time of day, so I agreed to meet him in front of Hotel Torni at 11:00 a.m. Laitio was screaming in my head, and I wouldn’t dare tell Monika. I’d use Mrs. Voutilainen as my safety.

“Are you going to have dinner?” I asked Trankov. “The perch fillets from Kaavi are excellent.”

Trankov shook his head. He’d remained standing, acting like a true gentleman, but quickly snatched his cocktail from the side table and lapped it up so the tomato juice beaded on his lips. He looked like a supporting actor in a low-budget vampire movie, and I had a hard time taking him seriously. I told him I had to get back to work. Unfortunately, I wasn’t quick enough, and Trankov grabbed my hand and kissed it. It didn’t feel completely disgusting. I hadn’t had sex for six months—far too long. I was probably better off finding a random man in a bar so I wouldn’t end up in Trankov’s arms. If I messed around with Petter, could we still be friends? I needed a cold shower. I spent the rest of my evening thinking about acne-riddled boys in my middle school.

On Monday I woke up at six. It was still dark outside, and streetlights dotted the roads. I couldn’t see the horizon from my window, but the arch of the sky looked promising; it would be a sunny day. I skipped breakfast and had a cup of coffee with milk before I went on my morning jog. Once again I roamed the Helsinki shores and observed how the city was slowly cranking itself up. The lines of cars grew slowly longer. Lights turned on in apartments and then went off as the sun climbed higher. Old ladies chatted on street corners and dads took their screaming kids to daycare. I wondered whether any of them had a murderer in their family or had found a dead body in their boyfriend’s apartment. These experiences hadn’t made me a better person.