The Lion of Justice (15 page)

“Take your time and look around,” Trankov said. “I’ll go change.”

He disappeared behind a door. I looked for a CCTV in the corners and found it between the skylights. It looked like it could record the entire room. Whatever I’d do here Trankov would find out later. So all I did was walk to the panorama window and watch the scenery by the bay. The sleet had turned into a drizzle, and the tiny droplets began to move the surface of the sea. I saw three swans gliding toward the shore; one of them looked like a baby from the previous spring, as it was still covered in fluffy gray feathers. Uncle Jari had read me the story of the ugly duckling when I was a child, and he had to stop whenever I cried at the discrimination the poor duckling had to endure. I wanted to go into the story to show those ducks. Uncle tried to convince me that there was a happy ending, but I didn’t believe him. I didn’t finish the story until later in my teens, and I still wanted to avenge the poor duck’s suffering, abandoned by his parents.

“What are you thinking about?” Trankov appeared next to me, now wearing white rubber-soled sneakers covered in drops of paint. He’d switched into light-blue jeans and a roomy jacket down to his knees. He wore a white T-shirt underneath. This man really knew how to dress for his roles. I understood where he was coming from.

“Ducks and swans,” I told him.

“I bet you were never a duck,” he said.

“Of course not.”

Trankov already knew one of my soft spots—Stahl—and I wouldn’t reveal any others.

“So, shall we? You’ve seen one of my paintings, so I thought I’d use a similar theme. It could become a sort of Diana, the goddess of hunting. Surely they teach Greek mythology in school here? And look what I found for you.”

Trankov walked a few steps toward the veiled pile in the middle of the room and pulled the sheet away. I almost screamed when I saw the familiar tufted ears and spotted fur. The lynx was stuffed in a seated pose, its posture regal and whiskers thick. The taxidermist had wanted to display the animal in an alert state, yet benign, which is why its mouth was closed. Only the eyes looked wrong: they were made of glass and looked dead.

“What do you think?” Trankov asked.

“It’s dead.”

“What, you wanted a live one? We need to go to Russia for those. You can get anything in Russia. Or did you want the kind of fur coat Anita Nuutinen wore? Maybe a lynx pelt to stretch out on? I thought about that, too.”

“Yuri, I don’t want to see a dead lynx. Where did you find it?”

“I found this taxidermist online. This lynx was hit by a car somewhere in Juva. I had to drive hundreds of miles to get it just for this painting. It will be gorgeous. I’ll lift it up on the pedestal a bit so you can lean your arm on it.” Trankov got on his knees next to the animal and wrapped his arms around it. “I’ll paint you two on a cliff so your posture looks natural. It’s the lynx princess throne in the midst of majestic scenery. You two rule the world from high above.”

Laitio was right to warn me about Trankov. He wasn’t just dangerous; he was also deranged.

“I’ve dreamed of this painting for years. Ever since I heard how passionate you were about lynx. Here. Take this robe. You can wear it when we have a break. Now go take your clothes off. This studio is warm enough to keep you comfortable.”

15

I stared at Trankov. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. We hadn’t talked about nudity. Then again, I only had myself to blame for not asking questions. I had followed my instincts, and they told me Trankov would have some useful information. I had behaved like a lynx that jumps after a deer and doesn’t notice a hunter in the bushes.

“All right, just hold your horses, Yuri,” I told him in Finnish.

“I wasn’t going to take anything off. Only you.” I both despised and liked Trankov’s smile. “Look at these sketches. They’re just simple pencil drawings.”

I’m not very well versed in the visual arts, but Mary Higgins had taught me a thing or two while I lived with her. Trankov’s work was definitely old-fashioned and not abstract. It depicted a woman and a lynx high up on a cliff. The model could have been any woman.

“Can’t you use your imagination? You could paint anyone. You don’t need a model,” I told him.

“I want to see how the light moves on your skin. You can’t imagine that.”

I had had enough of this. This lynx would take a leap and narrowly escape the bullet. I tried to assess whether Trankov was armed. His white smock didn’t have a bulge.

“I’m surprised you’re this shy. Based on your performance at the Bromarf villa, I had thought the opposite. You wouldn’t be the first woman I’ve seen naked.”

“I’m not interested in hearing about that.” I yanked the bathrobe from his hands and disappeared behind the same door where he had changed clothes. It was a combination changing room and sleeping alcove and had a wide bed and a closet where Trankov’s suit was. I went through his pockets, but all I found was a crumpled gas receipt. It looked like driving a Jaguar was getting expensive.

I didn’t even know what I was expecting from him. Did he really want to paint me with no ulterior motives? I wasn’t naïve. I had humiliated him, and he was biding his time before taking revenge. I’d knocked him unconscious and rescued the woman he’d planned on giving Paskevich as an offering.

I wasn’t afraid of nudity. I had modeled for plenty of Mary’s friends back in New York, and under their gazes I had felt just as comfortable as if I’d been dressed. What I worried about was the vulnerability of being naked. I couldn’t hide anything. Still, I took off all my clothes except for my panties. Then I threw the bathrobe on and grabbed all my things before returning to the studio.

Trankov was setting the stuffed lynx on a sawhorse.

“How did you know lynx are important to me?” I asked. “You sold my neighbor a painting a couple of years ago, and it was meant as a message to me.”

“When Valentin was planning his revenge on Anita Nuutinen, he looked into everything. Do you remember Mika Siiskonen, the bodyguard who worked for Nuutinen before you? Valentin’s brother had some connections in Florida. Siiskonen badly injured his ankle and couldn’t get back to work. Boris arranged a job for him at a gym in Fort Lauderdale. Siiskonen didn’t mind going from sleet to sunshine.”

“So you’re saying there was nothing wrong with his ankle?”

Trankov propped up the lynx. He grabbed my shoulders and walked me next to the stuffed beast.

“Well, the ankle’s not completely healed. Tougher men than him would break if their ankles were repeatedly hit with a metal bar. His ankle can’t support his weight for more than a few feet.”

“And who did the hitting?” I asked, although I didn’t really want to hear the answer. A smile slowly spread across his face.

“This’ll be good. Really good. Too bad your hair is so short. I’d like it to wave in the wind. Never mind. I can always paint it how I want. I can paint
you
the way I want.” Trankov moved my right hand onto the lynx’s coat. It didn’t feel at all like Frida. This animal had had no name; it was just one of many pieces of roadkill. What time of year had it died? In the fall and winter, males traveled alone and would only search for mating companions in the spring.

“Siiskonen was extremely cooperative. He got us the keys to Nuutinen’s house in Lehtisaari. The room for the new bodyguard had a lynx poster on the wall, and since it was the only personal item left behind, I thought it was important. The new bodyguard seemed smarter than Siiskonen—she changed all the locks and security cameras in the house. Of course we heard about that whole fur coat incident in Moscow. Valentin had informants everywhere. Even some of the people who worked for Vasiliev were loyal to Valentin. They didn’t keep all their eggs in one basket.” Trankov began squeezing oil paint out of the tubes and onto a mixing plate. “Then, when we finally found out your last name, the rest was easy. But let’s not dwell on the past. We’re friends now, aren’t we?”

“And friends won’t be clobbered with metal bars.”

“I would never hit a woman.” Trankov’s hurt yelp was so exaggerated it made me relax. So this guy liked to brag about his exploits? Another weakness.

I knew a large oil painting took longer than a single afternoon, so I let Trankov get on with it. He moved the brush around the canvas, probably creating an outline. I recalled how Frida’s bones had felt under her fur and how quickly she’d transformed from a relaxed feline into a nimble beast. This stuffed lynx didn’t even smell like the real thing. I switched positions a couple of times, and it took at least half an hour before Trankov made his request.

“All right. You can take your robe off now. I’ll get a better feel for the outlines.”

I took the robe off and hung it on the sawhorse. The room was warm, not a single draft coming from the gigantic windows. Still, I felt goose bumps on my skin under Trankov’s gaze. Maybe I was trusting too much in Trankov being like his father, who hadn’t been able to resist women. I suppose Trankov hadn’t been blind to the damage it had done to his father, many times over.

“Tell me, why were you allowed back into Finland again? Who told you about it?” I asked.

“It would be better if you didn’t speak,” Trankov said while dabbing a thin brush into light-brown paint. He took a look at me, then looked at the canvas and began to paint a thin line. “The Russian militia called me and said I could apply for a visa again. Despite that, Valentin doesn’t feel comfortable coming back. He’s worried about getting arrested. He doesn’t have the same kind of friends that I do.”

I didn’t ask which friends. Trankov asked me to lift my chin a little and look into the distance, as if there were something interesting on the horizon.

“Look alert. You’re the lynx princess observing her queendom. Enemies lurk everywhere.”

I held my tongue and didn’t criticize Trankov’s artistic view, although it was hilarious. I guessed he was serious with this lynx princess business. I was also relieved that he didn’t ask me to take my panties off. He was concentrating on his work, and the setting felt entirely professional. After an hour and a half of posing, I asked to step out of the pose. I was starting to cramp.

“Oh, yes, of course. Should I make some tea?”

“I can put the kettle on,” I offered.

I would drink only what I made. I pulled on the bathrobe and walked into the small kitchen. I found cups in the cabinet along with an unopened box of black tea and a jar of honey. I wouldn’t have any honey unless I saw Trankov taste it.

I turned the water boiler on after I made sure it was clean inside. Outside, I saw swans come out of the water and walk onto the shore. I wondered about Trankov’s friends in high places. When did he look into getting hired by Syrjänen? They got along well, considering Trankov lived in Syrjänen’s house.

After the water boiled I poured it into the cups and let it cool before I dropped in the tea bags. Trankov was transfixed by the painting; after some pondering he added a dot of dark brown. I wanted to ask him what he knew about David Stahl. David had laughed when I’d told him about my adventures in Bromarf; he’d asked me to tell the story again and again when we were in Spain. The memory made me teary eyed—good thing Trankov was still focused on the painting and didn’t see my face.

I asked Trankov if he wanted honey in his tea. He didn’t even turn his head when I poured some into his cup. I brought the teacup over to him and took a look at the painting. It was definitely just a starting point, and you could barely make out figures on the canvas. There was no need for me to be naked at this point, but because Trankov had painted with care, I didn’t question it; he seemed to know what he was doing.

“Don’t look at it just yet,” Trankov said, looking embarrassed.

I went back to the kitchen and added honey to my tea, too. As a cub, Frida had stalked a swan that had ended up in our yard. She’d circled closer to the swan, but as soon as the swan spread its wings and hissed, Frida ran off. I’d watched them from afar and laughed. Later I’d regretted laughing at her. I don’t think Frida had ever heard a bird hiss like a cat before.

“I turned up the heat so you won’t get cold. I didn’t even dream of using nude models back in Vorkuta, and as a young kid I don’t think I would’ve dared to ask them to take their clothes off. We had just one room, and I used it for painting when Mom was at work. I had to be careful not to make a mess. The art school had plenty of light, but they had no heat. I had to wear fingerless gloves and heat my hands over a candle. Once, my glove caught on fire. I still have a burn mark on my left hand. Look.” Trankov lifted the back of his hand to my face. An irregularly shaped red mark about the size of a quarter sat between his thumb and index finger.

“I was lucky. I had a teacup nearby and dipped my hand in it.” Trankov toasted me with his cup.

“Does your mother still live in Vorkuta?”

Trankov turned serious and looked at the floor—another Achilles’ heel. “No. She’s dead.”

“So is my mother.”

“I know. Your father killed your mother. Maybe the same could be said about my mother.”

“Are you saying Paskevich had her killed?”

Trankov walked to the window. The swans noticed his movements and rushed back to the shore.

“You can kill in so many ways. You don’t need guns or poison to do it. But enough about my mother. Are you ready to continue?”

I downed my tea and asked if the powder room was behind the second door. I took my bag with me and looked in the mirror. I didn’t like the way my eyes looked. I tried to bring out their glow.

Trankov had already begun to paint when I returned, but he stopped to pose me again. Even his gentlest touch felt heavy, and when he helped me take the robe off, my brain signaled,
Alert! Alert! Retreat immediately!
I didn’t listen. I just posed. Luckily Trankov kept quiet. Brushes of all sizes flew over the canvas, and another hour went by quickly. It was almost four in the afternoon. I could see the dusk slowly creeping in from the sea. How long was he going to keep me here? I hadn’t found out half of what I wanted to know. I had to find out more about Syrjänen’s business plans.

Trankov painted for another half hour, then took a while to stretch. I was hungry, and although I had learned how to control feelings of hunger, those feelings often came out as anger. I always kept a couple of energy bars in my bag, so I had to rely on them.

“So you have no idea where David Stahl is?” Trankov’s question startled me.

“Stahl has nothing to do with this,” I said as I dug for my energy bars. I could feel the hard leather of my gun holster inside the bag. I peeled the wrapper off the bar and ate a third of it in one bite.

“Are you hungry? There’s fish soup in the main building. All we need to do is heat it up. Let’s take a break,” Trankov suggested.

“I think I better get going. Can you take me to Kirkkonummi? I’ll catch a train from there.”

“Stay for dinner with me, and we’ll also need to arrange to meet again. You can get dressed.”

I was curious to see where Usko Syrjänen was living these days. The headquarters for his businesses was somewhere in Vantaa. The previously prepared fish soup sounded suspicious. I decided to take the risk while I walked to the changing room. Trankov’s question about David bothered me. How much did he know about our relationship? Trankov had claimed that he could tell me things about David that neither I nor Stahl’s so-called employers had a clue about. Were these scraps of information the reason I was standing here naked on the shores of Långvik?

“Did you want to take a look? The painting is not even remotely done, but I think you’ll get the idea.” Trankov pulled me by my wrist to the front of the stand.

Now the lynx looked like more than just a sketch; it was more alive on the canvas than the stuffed model. Trankov had worked quite a lot on my body as well; my painted version wore a wreath of flowers around her hips to hide the pubic area, and although my breasts were exposed, he’d managed to make me look demure rather than sexual. My face was only a sketch, as was the background, but the spirit had been captured. The image was neither menacing nor endearing; I would’ve called it dignified. I decided not to start making guesses as to why Trankov had wanted to paint it. I certainly wasn’t an irresistible siren, and I doubted Trankov had chosen me because of a vendetta. I felt like he was waiting for feedback.

“Interesting,” I said. “I just don’t know what you’re trying to say with this.”

“Does art need to have a message? This is a portrait. Isn’t that enough?”

I didn’t want to argue. What did I know? I was just the model. I walked out of the room behind Trankov. He locked the studio door and took out the remote control to open the doors to the main building. The security camera for the main building was above those doors, and I flashed a smile at it. Once in, Trankov took my jacket and hung it in the foyer closet that was covered in full-length mirrors. I held on to my bag. This building, too, had large windows looking at the sea: the largest was the size of the entire wall in the living room. I could see the swans swimming again. There was movement on the shore across the bay. It looked like a tall man with binoculars around his neck. A bird watcher, I supposed. The shape slipped back into the dusk, and I felt cold all over. He had moved just like David. But he couldn’t have been David, could he? I wanted to pull the shades to hide the view.