Jarkko Sipila - Darling

The man was drunk and obviously had trouble thinking clearly. A couple of times he started to say something but quickly changed his mind. Joutsamo glanced at the corner of the room to make sure a trash can was at the ready in case he had to vomit.

Korpivaara’s finger stopped on a name. “This one,” he said.

Joutsamo peered at the name. She didn’t recognize it. The lawyer wasn’t one of the regulars at the station.

“Why that one?” she asked.

“You said I could pick whoever I wanted.”

“Yeah, that’s your right, but…”

“That’s the one I want,” he stressed with drunken determination.

“Alright, I’ll make a call and see if they’re available. Some of them are quite busy.”

“Okay.”

Joutsamo decided to try one more time and took a chair across from the man. She looked him in the eye-not piercingly, but with police-like urging.

“We can talk about this some more, just so it’s all clear. That’s for your good, too.”

The man ignored her effort by lowering his eyes to stare at the table.

“I told you I don’t remember anything. I…uh…well.”

“Where did you…?” Joutsamo began, but the man interrupted her.

“How ’bout we talk when the attorney gets here.”

“Fine, we’ll do that,” Joutsamo said and stood up.

This was nothing new to the sergeant. It wasn’t personal. The man was afraid to confess, but he’d eventually do it. For a fleeting moment, Joutsamo felt sorry for the man, not for the act of killing, or his fate, but because he lacked the courage to confess. Six months ago, in the spring, she had questioned a tattooed career criminal for assault and battery, and right away the guy admitted to beating someone with a baseball bat. Stone-faced, he said, “If you can’t take the heat, stay outta the kitchen.”

Korpivaara was not ready to face the consequences. Not yet.

“The guard will take you to your cell,” Joutsamo said in a neutral voice. They’d sit in the same room several times in the next few days, and making the guy mad wouldn’t help the case move in the direction she wanted. If it wasn’t for that, she would’ve cussed him out as one of the biggest assholes and cowards she’d ever met-and she had met plenty of them over the years.

* * *

A scooter buzzed past a trendy street café in the Trastevere district of Rome. The waiter, Alberto, was carrying two glasses of wine on a small black tray. His shirt was spotless-the restaurant had the staff’s uniforms laundered daily-and he skillfully carried the pasta and salads to the tables without spilling anything. The restaurant could seat about fifty customers, counting both the indoor and outdoor tables. The two steps leading to the terrace were the trickiest spot; last spring a fat Finnish tourist-drunk, naturally-had surprised him, and a plateful of pasta carbonara had splattered all over the man’s T-shirt.

It was obvious who was at fault, but this was Rome and you didn’t anger the tourists. The manager felt that in this internet age, the customer was more right than ever. He didn’t want to see comments about the restaurant’s rude service on travel review websites. Restaurants abounded in Trastevere, and travelers, especially the Americans, would read reviews on their smart phones right in front of the restaurants. The overweight Finn had been appeased by profuse apologies and, after a flood of cursing, grunted what Alberto interpreted to be his acceptance of the apology.

The busiest tourist season had ended a couple of months earlier, but the outdoor terrace was still open. At nearly sixty degrees, it was a warm evening for December. The gas heaters were placed outside in October. Alberto was carrying a basil salad and instinctively slowed down on the stairs. He didn’t see anyone and stepped down. Alberto smiled as he approached the four-person table where a woman sat alone. While this wouldn’t have been possible in August, there were only a dozen people on the terrace-all tourists, because the locals wouldn’t dine al fresco in this cool weather.

The woman fascinated Alberto. In the summer, the tourists dressed according to their home countries’ standards-mostly shorts and T-shirts in the daytime and loose-collared shirts and jeans in the evenings.

This Basil Woman-Alberto named his customers by the food they ordered-didn’t fit the tourist mold. Even though she wasn’t Italian, she was dressed in the latest fashion. The waiter tried to figure out what gave the woman her classy look, and he finally realized it was her shoes.

The lady looked to be in her mid-thirties. She had straight, dark hair to her shoulders. She was slightly overweight, but Alberto found himself wanting to flirt with her-he was interested in her. What was this shoe woman about? She spoke fairly fluent Italian when she ordered her food.

Alberto approached the table and the woman noticed him. Alberto figured that with the slightest effort he could end up spending the night in one of Rome’s four-star hotels. She wasn’t flirty, so it was up to him to make the move. Complimenting her Italian skills was the easiest way to approach her.

“Your meal, beautiful lady,” he said, and the woman granted him a warm smile. He wouldn’t sit down, of course, but if he kept coming back and rendering service, he could get her to agree to meet him that evening. Now he had to come up with the first step.

“Where did you study Italian? You speak so…” Alberto began, but just then the woman’s cell phone rang, and she pulled it out of her designer purse. She made an apologetic face and answered the phone. Alberto studied the purse and saw it was a Luis Vuitton . That made the woman even more interesting; a woman like that wouldn’t walk around Rome carrying a knock-off.

The woman spoke into the phone and Alberto thought it sounded like the language the fat man had spoken earlier. Strano lingua finlandese. The strange Finnish language.

Alberto realized the person on the phone had the woman’s full attention. The language sounded strange, but somehow Alberto recognized from her tone that she was asking if the caller was the police. At least that’s what it sounded like. If the woman had shown interest in Alberto earlier, she wasn’t the least bit interested after the phone call.

Alberto gave it one more effort, but the classy Finnish lady ate her food, finished her white wine, and asked for the check. Alberto saw on the credit card that the woman’s name was Nea Lind. It was a beautiful name, but he didn’t think it sounded particularly Finnish.

After paying the bill, the woman left without looking back, which disappointed him greatly.

LATE WEDNESDAY TO EARLY THURSDAY

JAIL AT HELSINKI POLICE HEADQUARTERS

Jorma Korpivaara woke up and for a minute didn’t know where he was. He was lying on something hard, and he had to take a piss, badly. He felt a backache first, and then realized his head was killing him. He opened his eyes and saw a dim light in the corner. The room was narrow, and its walls were bare and green. What the hell, he thought as he scrambled up. What time was it? Where was he?

Korpivaara walked to the iron door. It wouldn’t open; it didn’t even have a handle. He panicked. Shit, he was locked in some closet. He pounded the door and yelled, “I want out! Goddammit, I want out!”

The iron door thundered from the pounding.

A small hatch opened and a guard in a blue uniform said in a bored tone, “Be quiet.”

“I fuckin’ want out.”

“You can’t get out.”

“Why the hell not?”

“The door’s shut, and I have no intention of opening it.”

“Where am I?” Korpivaara asked in tears.