The Lion of Justice (2 page)

Damn it
, I thought as well. But I had to remember that David was not my client to protect—he was just my lover. I could have demanded that my clients let me listen in on their phone calls, even if they didn’t always agree to do so. I tasted the creamy, tangy risotto and ground more white pepper into it. I was amused by the way Italians called a pepper mill
tappomachina
, considering that
tappo
in Finnish means a kill. A killing machine.

David wasn’t on the phone for long.

“Who was it?” I asked when he returned to the kitchen.

“My former boss from Europol. Just a weekly routine call to make sure I’m still safe.”

“Then what was all that cursing about?”

“Because he interrupted our dinner,
cara
.” David smiled, but it didn’t reach all the way to his eyes; the eyes I still couldn’t interpret. He avoided looking at me. He walked over to the risotto and took it off the stove to grate some pecorino cheese into it with his strong hands.
A killer’s hands
, I thought. He grated with determined movements. I quickly grabbed my glass and took a gulp of local wine that tasted bitter after eating the artichokes.

One more lie, or at least, something David would never let me in on. He had never told about the night when he stole the SR-90 isotope and blew up the boat called
I Believe
. He’d said, “It’s not something I want to dwell on. I killed four people. I’m not proud of it, but I have to live with it.” That was the only answer I’d ever gotten from him. At least in Spain he’d described to me how he floated in the sea for hours and how the freezing cold slowly seeped in despite his wet suit. Once, after downing half a bottle of brandy, he mentioned how the four dead people had hundreds of relatives and friends they’d left behind. Sure, the dead had chosen their lifestyle, but he doubted this was much consolation to those close to them.

After finishing the risotto, we went out for a walk, switching into English as soon as we left. Our plan was to drive to Siena the following day, and David suggested we wake up early to pack for an overnight stay. The tourist season was not in full swing, so we didn’t think we’d have trouble finding a place to stay. David wanted to show me the fresco Simone Martini had painted of Montemassi, which hung in the town hall.

“I don’t know history well enough to know whether Guidoriccio was considered a hero for conquering Montemassi or not. His role would depend on who wrote the history,” David said as we stood inside the fortress, watching the new moon cast a bridge of light across the valley below. A black cat made his way along the stone wall and stopped to meow, which enticed a couple of other cats to join him: an orange and a gray tabby. The cats obviously knew each other well. I wished humans had it as easy as cats; just one sniff and you’d immediately know whether the person was friend or foe. Just then, the tabby hissed at the black cat, who growled back at him, and my theory about cats’ flawless recognition system fell apart like dandelion fluff blown off my palm.

In the darkness I wanted to feel physically close to another person, because everything smelled stronger at night, and I was drawn to silhouettes and shadows. As David pressed me against the southern wall and kissed me, I thought about how the hands he used to stroke my neck could easily close around it, too. People of Montemassi had seen a blond Finnish tourist walking around with Mr. Lanotte—surely the body of a Finnish tourist wouldn’t later be found inside this fortress. I had to stop myself. Why was I entertaining these thoughts?

As soon as we got back to the apartment, David announced that it was time for bed. I wasn’t sleepy, though; my mind was racing. I stayed awake next to David until the wee hours of the morning. I considered taking a sleeping pill, but then I remembered I needed to be sharp for driving the winding road to Siena, watching out for construction crews and detour signs. I finally fell asleep a little after three.

My sleep was rudely interrupted around seven by a rooster crowing below us on the hillside. I had kicked off my blanket. David was already out of bed. I sniffed at the air, hopeful that he had already brewed the first cup of espresso. But the only thing I could identify lingering in the air was David’s new aftershave.

I put on my bathrobe and headed to the kitchen. No one was there. The espresso machine stood on the counter unused and cool to the touch. I wondered whether David was in the bathroom. As soon as I splashed my face, I could see better—no one was in the bathroom, either. Maybe he’d decided to make a last-minute run to the grocery store in the village.

I saw David’s scooter—he didn’t have a car—parked in the yard, so he couldn’t have gone far. I went back to the bedroom and opened the closet. All of his clothes were still there. But the jeans, shirt, socks, and underwear he’d hung over a chair the night before were gone, as were his brown leather shoes and jacket.

I told myself he could have just walked to the bakery.

When he wasn’t back an hour later, I called him. An automated message said in Italian, “The number you have dialed cannot be reached.” I didn’t hear his phone ring in the apartment, and I knew he always kept his wallet in his jacket’s breast pocket. He must’ve taken both with him.

I sat around all morning, waiting for him, calling his number every ten minutes. I peeked out to make sure my car hadn’t disappeared, too. The black cat from the night before sat on the hood, and I was dead sure he’d seen David leave.

As the church bells rang at noon, it finally dawned on me that something had gone terribly wrong. I doubted David would return. He didn’t trust me, so I decided not to care about his privacy. My first task was to break into his locked drawers.

2

The sturdy hutch was made of old wood, perhaps mahogany. It contained four drawers, and the two bottom ones were not locked. I’d used them a couple of times for sorting laundry, and we’d only kept socks and underwear in them. I estimated that David could not have taken more than one change of clothes, if that. The lynx socks I’d bought for him—merchandise for Ilves, the Finnish hockey team, whose mascot was the growling head of a lynx—had not been touched. I’d bought them because of the animal, not because of any team alliances.

The upper two drawers were locked and required a key of approximately two inches in length. I tried to feel for the lock with my fingers, but I could fit only the tip of my little finger in. I grabbed a thin spoon from the kitchen and shoved it into the lock. It seemed like the lock had only two wards inside it. I’d made a couple of futile attempts at finding a key when David had gone out before, but I wasn’t sure what kind of key I was actually looking for. Now I had time for a more systematic search, although it was possible David had taken the key with him. The key wasn’t essential—I could break into the hutch if I really wanted to with an ax and a saw—but I wanted to avoid damaging the beautiful wood if I could.

I went through David’s closets, patting down all of his suit and pants pockets and shoes. I found a hunting rifle bullet in his jacket pocket and a receipt. He’d splurged at a restaurant specializing in truffles in Paganico called Il Tre Canton a week before I’d arrived; the receipt revealed a five-course dinner. He’d had company, judging by the two orders of appetizers and entrées. All of it had been washed down with a couple of pitchers of wine and five after-dinner drinks: either coffee or liqueur. The appetizers must have been something special, as they had cost way more than the entrées. Although David was by no means a small man, I doubted he could’ve gorged on this much food. He hadn’t mentioned this dinner to me, nor had he ever taken me to this restaurant. I tried to rationalize that David had taken his landlord out to thank him for fixing up the place, but I had to admit the idea seemed ludicrous.

The kitchen cupboards had enough dishes for four people. I checked inside the kettle where we had boiled asparagus, and I peered inside the cheese grater. No keys. My default hiding place for the keys to my gun locker was inside a box of muesli or tampons—where no one else would be looking. I assumed David employed a similar logic, so I checked the few boxes of staples he kept in the kitchen. No key in the spaghetti box or the bag of espresso. I sat down at the kitchen table and tried to convince myself to give up. It was obvious by now that David had the key with him.

He had been careful not to let any of his objects reveal too much of himself. The few clothes and items of personal hygiene he’d brought along could’ve belonged to anyone. That’s why I was so interested in the locked drawers, though I knew he wasn’t stupid enough to leave anything important inside a drawer that could be pulled apart with tools readily available in the apartment.

I walked back to the hutch, pulled it away from the wall, and turned it around. Then I removed the two unlocked drawers to make the hutch lighter. I began shaking it from side to side. Judging by the sounds and movements, one of the locked drawers held something small and heavy, metallic. It didn’t sound heavy enough to be a gun, but it could easily be a knife. I could only hear a faint scraping from the other drawer, like papers sliding on wood.

I inspected the back of the hutch. My dearly departed Uncle Jari, who had taken care of me when I was a child, had been a carpenter, and he’d taught me how to use woodworking tools. The dovetail joints in the hutch were expertly made, but age had weakened them. I was fairly certain I could slide a thin knife between the joints to release them and later put them back together. Although anyone would probably be able to tell that someone had been tampering with the joints, it was still a better option than attacking the hutch with an ax.

The only knife I had was my bowie knife, but its blade was too short and too thick at the handle. A thin file would have been ideal. My rental car had only a small toolbox in it, with a screwdriver and a jack. The nearest hardware store was in Roccastrada, but I didn’t know when it opened. I screwed around with the bowie knife until five o’clock when I realized how hungry I was. The only food in the fridge was a tomato, a piece of cheese, and some oranges. Because we were supposed to be on our way to Siena, there had been no point in stocking the fridge. I ate a couple of oranges and took a shower, then hatched a plan. The truffle restaurant was only thirty minutes away, and someone might be able to tell me who had dined there with David.

I had to look like a person who didn’t have much time for primping, so I wore a black-and-gray striped tunic, black jeans, a leather jacket, and sneakers and added a touch of mascara. I’d look like a woman unsure of her charms, someone desperately seeking a holiday fling.

I grabbed the key to the apartment off its hook inside the door and locked the apartment. That key certainly didn’t fit the locked drawer. I frowned at the blue lion painted on the house number plate. David had only one set of house keys, and if I took them, he wouldn’t get back in.

Irises bloomed on the hills, and apple trees were softly rustling their leaves. Pigeons cooed inside the fortress. They all appeared to mock me.

I slowed the car as I meandered down steep roads from Montemassi to Paganico. Trees were not in full bloom, their greens varying between mint and moss. Grapevines on the hills had started to produce new buds, and the first roses of the season were already blooming in sunny spots. I crossed over a small river on a low bridge that looked like it might be in danger of being swept away during a flood. I swerved around two hens and a pregnant dog that were lurching slowly into the road. Each house was home to a small group of animals; the minimum requirement appeared to be a dog and a couple of cats along with hens and a rooster for fresh eggs.

I remembered how Uncle Jari had brought three hens and a rooster to Hevonpersiinsaari, but our chicken coop had not been sturdy enough. First, one of the hens went missing, then the rooster. Our neighbor Matti Hakkarainen had seen a fox lurking around the area. Without their rooster, the hens soon stopped laying eggs, and they ended up in a large cast-iron pot in our campfire kitchen outside, where Uncle cooked most of our summer dishes. He’d been a fervent defender of organic and local foods even before it became trendy. He would have gotten along well with my friend the chef, Monika von Hertzen, but all Uncle Jari enjoyed these days were the clouds in heaven. Come to think of it, I hadn’t heard from Monika for a while—connections to Mozambique, where her makeshift kitchen was located, weren’t always the best.

I spotted the restaurant I was looking for while driving east past the Paganico village wall. It was a little past seven, slightly too early for dinner for Tuscans, but my growling stomach forced me to play the ignorant tourist. I parked my car and stepped into the empty restaurant. I scouted my surroundings: a couple of dozen tables that could seat about a hundred customers, an easy place to guard because of the clear layout, just one dining area without booths or labyrinthine private areas. I sat at a table where I could see the entire room, as was my habit. A waiter popped up immediately with a menu, and I began scanning for a meal that matched David’s receipts. I’d never had truffles before, but I did like mushrooms. The prices looked quite reasonable, even for someone with a small budget. I soon figured out that the expensive appetizer David had ordered was a selection of five different truffle dishes. The waiter luckily knew English and helped me with the menu. I ordered truffle carpaccio and truffle pasta as my appetizer and first course and a Florentine steak as my main course. I needed meat; it would give me strength and possibly a good night’s sleep in the bed that David had abandoned. Given that I had to drive back to the house, I only ordered a glass of red wine.

I decided to wait until I’d eaten my appetizer before I grilled the seemingly friendly waiter about David. He looked to be about my age and must’ve thought of me as an insensitive tourist who didn’t understand that meal times were sacred. I knew how pathetic I looked when I placed my cell phone next to my plate. I switched the sound off but kept an eye on the screen just in case. I sipped the house red. Though I didn’t know anything about wine, it tasted good. Monika had tried to teach me about wine back at Chez Monique when I still worked as a security guard for her, but she grew frustrated quickly. A six-dollar red wine tasted exactly the same to me as a sixty-dollar one, and for the life of me, I couldn’t tell sparkling wine from real champagne.

I could smell the white truffles coming my way, and I instantly forgot about my phone. I took a careful bite of the mushroom and the raw meat. I wanted to gobble down everything in one shot, but Monika’s voice in my head instructed me to taste and enjoy the food and made me slow down.

Just as I was finishing my appetizer, the bell above the door rang, announcing new customers. It was a young family with three small children. So long, peaceful dining. Of course they sat near me. If we’d been in Finland, they would have chosen a table as far away from me as possible to ensure the noisy children wouldn’t bother me.

I dived into my enormous plate of truffle pasta, relishing the taste, while the kids sang little ditties. The waiter seemed to know the family, which was a good sign; he might remember the strange, towering giant—David—and his companion from a couple of weeks earlier. I tried not to dwell on what sort of beauty his date had been. I’d show David’s receipt to the waiter in hopes that he would remember.

Two women came in. They were in their fifties and had a medium-sized dog the color of dark honey. Monika had wanted to allow dogs in Chez Monique, but the food administration officers weren’t thrilled about it. These women sat near me, too, the dog curling itself at their feet. They spoke Italian. One of them was short with gray hair, while the taller woman was slim with curious, young eyes.

I devoured my pasta, thinking I’d talk with the waiter when he came to clear my plates. I wasn’t sure if the other customers understood English.

The dog stood up to stretch, then walked over to me. I reached out to pet him, and the dog sniffed my shoes as I scratched him between the ears. His fur was silkier than a lynx coat.

“Get back here, Nikuzza,” the taller woman said in Finnish.

I drew a surprised breath before I caught myself and turned away. Was it just a coincidence that I’d run into another Finn here, in this godforsaken village in the middle of nowhere? Maybe this woman had been with David. But who was she?

The waiter made a remark about the dog, upsetting the women. Apparently the dog wasn’t welcome. The taller woman got up and yelled at the dog, this time in Italian. I may have just imagined it sounded like Finnish. The dog followed her out, bumping into my leg when he passed. The waiter came over to pour more water and smiled, without a hint of flirting. I contemplated whether I should ask him anything now that the women were here and could be Finnish. When I’d studied at the security academy in Queens, New York, for two years, I had shed my thick Savonian Finnish accent from my English during that time, but my accent was still recognizably Finnish. I didn’t hear the same accent in the Italian the dog owner had used, but then again, I didn’t know Italian that well. I tried to recall the words of Mike Virtue, the founder and head of the academy in Queens: any person of any nationality could have learned an American accent from pop songs or movies.

As soon as the waiter served my steak, I asked him about David’s bill and whether he remembered a very tall, dark, bearded man from a couple of weeks ago. His expression was priceless:
not another jealous girlfriend.
He apologized, as he had not worked that night. He said Luigi may have, but he usually didn’t remember men—a charming
signora
like me was a different story. I thought of slipping him a twenty for more information, but it might not have been enough, so I just took a bite of my steak. I doubted Luigi even existed; restaurants like these were family owned, with Mom and Pop toiling away in the kitchen and the kids working the floor. I suppose Luigi could have been the waiter’s brother.

My phone flickered with a message from my former roommate Riikka, who asked me to save the date for her wedding on the first Saturday of September. A line from an old poem came to mind: “I have funerals to go to, you have weddings.” I’d attended one wedding in my life—as a bodyguard. I’d seen far more funerals.

The women at the nearby table ate their pasta. I thought of donating my steak bone for the dog to chew on, but I didn’t want to speak to the tall woman in case she recognized me as another Finn, so I just asked for the bill and refused an offer of dessert coffee. My meal had sated my hunger, but I still felt empty inside. I paid and left a small tip before stepping out into the dark. It was now drizzling, and the wind fluttered my coat. As I reached my car, I heard someone calling for me.

“
Signora
, please wait! Luigi just called!” The waiter ran over and met me under an awning that had been built under the cypress trees. “Luigi remembered that man with a black beard. Or rather, he remembered his friend. Not a nice man. Luigi thinks he was Russian because of his accent and the Greek Catholic cross around his neck.” The waiter shrugged. “He couldn’t speak any other language, not even English. He understood the word for truffle. He just kept saying
tartufo
,
tartufo
. Didn’t know how to eat his appetizer. Just ate it in one bite. You have nothing to worry about. Your man dined with a rude Russian, not a beautiful woman.”