James Thompson - Lucifer's tears

She’s got me. “Yes.”

Anger and frustration creep into her voice. “You lie to me. Why?”

I take a second before answering. “Because I’m afraid for you and our baby. Because I don’t want to cause you needless stress and worry.”

“When you lie to protect me, you treat me like a child. It’s not fair and it’s not right. I also had a talk with John today.”

I suppress a sigh. I guess she’s got all the goods on me. “And?”

“And I knew there was something going on between you two, and I made him tell me what it was.”

She put John on the spot, but I told him to keep things between us between us. It pisses me off. “He wasn’t supposed to do that.”

“He said that, too, but he said you told him to be my friend, and he thought the best way to do that was by telling me what a good husband I have. He told me the truth about himself, about getting fired from New York University and why. Then he told me about his screwups since he arrived in Finland and how you fixed them all. About how you got his boots back.”

I say nothing, prepare for her well-deserved anger.

Kate wraps her arms around my neck and hugs me tight. “Thank you so much,” she says. “John is right, you’re a wonderful husband.”

I think I know Kate so well, but she continues to amaze me.

“But still,” she says, “you should have told me the truth.”

“I was afraid to. John’s life is his own, and I didn’t see how upsetting you with his problems could help.”

“He’s my brother, and you don’t have the right to make those decisions for me. And this discussion goes deeper than that.”

I was afraid of that. “How?”

“You keep all sorts of things from me. We’ve been together for almost two and a half years, been through a lot together, but still you hold things back. I know things hurt you. I want you to tell me about them.”

“I don’t see how it would help.”

“Maybe you should try and find out.”

Back against the wall. I let out a sigh. “Tell me what you want to know.”

“Everything. But this thing with Mary has taught me that I need to know about your childhood.”

“Like what?”

“People were mean to you, especially your father. I want to know about it.”

I try to make myself tell her, but I can’t. I don’t want her to know. “Maybe one day,” I say, “but I’m not ready for that.”

“Don’t you trust me?” she asks.

“Yes, but it’s not about you. I’m just not ready.”

We hold each other in silence for a while. “I shouldn’t have pressed so hard,” she says, “but please don’t lie to me anymore.”

I consider if this is possible for me. It is. “I won’t,” I say, “but sometimes I need time to work up to telling you things. You have to let me do it in my own time and in my own way.”

“Okay,” she says.

Kate falls asleep. I lie awake thinking. We hold each other tight, in a state of detente.

I get up early Saturday morning, thinking about Sulo Polvinen. He seems like a good kid who took a hard knock. No doubt he assaulted the bouncers at the Silver Dollar, and alibis from his parents or no, he’s going to get caught. If he turns himself in, he’ll get a reduced sentence. I decide to have a friendly talk with him. I check my case notes and find his address.

He lives in East Pasila, not far from the police station. It’s a crappy neighborhood, built in the 1970s. It’s frequently called the DDR, because its concrete and bunkerlike buildings call to mind the architecture of East Germany during the Soviet era. I drive over without calling first, because I think if I asked, he would refuse to see me.

The temperature remains around minus twenty, the snow still flies. Driving is difficult.

Mama Polvinen opens the door of their dreary apartment. I introduce myself. With a look of distaste, she lets me in. The furnishings are all old and worn. Papa Polvinen sits on a dilapidated couch, reading a newspaper, sipping his morning hangover beer. Sulo sits cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV, playing video games. They should be called the Family Big. Mama Polvinen is two ax handles broad. Papa Polvinen is even bigger, his body built out of thousands of gallons of beer. Monster-sized Sulo takes after them.

“Sulo,” I ask, “is there somewhere we could talk in private?”

Papa doesn’t approve. “Anything you got to say to him, you say in front of me.”

Sulo shrugs, that’s the way it has to be.

No one invites me to sit down, so I stand in the doorway and keep my boots on. “I just came to offer some friendly advice,” I say. “You stabbed those bouncers yesterday evening. They probably got what they deserved, but you’re going to get nailed for it. It’ll cost you years of your life. I’d like you to consider turning yourself in. You’ll still have to sit for the crime, but maybe for three years instead of five.”

Sulo starts to speak, but Papa speaks for him. “Sulo was here with us, as I told you bastards yesterday. Fuck off and leave him alone. He lost his brother. This family has gone through enough.”

“You’ve gone through a lot,” I say, “but losing Sulo to a long stretch in prison won’t make it better.”

Papa chugs his beer dry and throws the can down beside the couch. “If Sulo had stabbed those cocksuckers, which he didn’t,” he shoots Sulo a dirty look, “he did a shit job of it. They’re alive, and our Taisto is dead.”

So, Papa put Sulo up to the attack.

Sulo finally speaks for himself. “Inspector, it’s nice of you to come here. I know you did it out of concern, but I didn’t do anything wrong. And besides, I’m thinking about leaving the country soon. I don’t have a job. I may go to Sweden and look for work.”

As if we can’t extradite him from Sweden. That doesn’t leave much to be said. At least I tried. “Okay, Sulo, I wish you luck.” I take a business card out of my wallet and flip it over to him. “Call me if you need anything,” I say, and leave for work.

I drive the few minutes to the Pasila police station and sneak to my office, bypass the common room. I sit for a while and contemplate December Day, my print of the Albert Edelfelt painting. It portrays a village on a frozen river in sepia and monochromatic colors. I hung it here because it soothes me.

I think about my meeting with Filippov later and what I could possibly say to him. I come up with nothing. I call Jyri and fill him in. I don’t want to, because his input will be Machiavellian, but I have little choice. He takes a while, turns it over in his mind. I turn on the recorder in my cell phone and document the conversation, to protect myself in case all this goes wrong.

“Why do you think he left the semen in his freezer, in clear view?” Jyri asks.

“Arrogance. He didn’t think we’d figure out that DNA samples were part of his blackmail scheme.”

“Then he’s made other mistakes, too. We just need to buy some time to find out what they are.”

“I’m not sure we have much time. Filippov might get pissed off or feel cornered and pull the trigger on you and the others. Release the videos to draw attention away from himself.”

“Maybe.” Jyri pauses. “Tell him we’ll give him the business contracts he paid us for.”

I note the use of pronoun, us. Jyri also takes bribes.

“And tell him if he returns the videos, we’ll guarantee that he never becomes a suspect in his wife’s murder investigation.”

This was my fear. Jyri will go the obvious route and hang Rein Saar out to dry. “You’d let an innocent man sit for murder?”

“Do you have a better plan?”

I think yes, let the truth come out and justice be done. “Not at the moment.”