Lucifer's Tears by James Thompson Read Free Book Online

living.”
    Filippov is a cold fish, but businesslike and seems candid. “Forgive me,” I say, “but I need to ask you about your whereabouts last night and today. Please understand that this is in no way an accusation, but a part of standard procedure.”
    He waves his hand, gestures for me to get on with it. I’m senior officer here, but Milo is a new detective and needs experience. I don’t want to disregard him. Also, there’s something to be said for the good cop/bad cop routine. I nod, signal for him to take over.
    “Where were you last night?” Milo asks.
    “At a party. In fact, the national chief of police, Jyri Ivalo, was in attendance. He can serve as my alibi.”
    Filippov was drinking with Jyri while he and the interior minister discussed me, and here I sit. Interesting.
    “And you left the party and arrived home when?” Milo asks.
    “I left at around one and was home in bed asleep by two a.m.”
    “Were you drunk?”
    “No. I’m not given to excess.”
    “Tell me about your morning,” Milo says.
    “It was like every other workday. I arrived here at nine and haven’t left since.”
    “Not even for lunch?”
    He takes a receipt from a file on the tabletop and hands it to Milo. “Lunch was delivered pizza.”
    Milo pauses, looks thoughtful. “What time did your secretary arrive?”
    “Also at nine.”
    “Can you verify your times of arrival?”
    Filippov sighs. “What sort of verification are you looking for?”
    “Do you have a security camera and video record?”
    Filippov offers a wry grin. “Detective, you’re playing games. A camera is mounted over the entrance and you saw it when you came in. You doubtless also saw the video recorder in the outer office.” He pushes a button on his intercom. “Linda, would you please eject today’s video surveillance tape and bring it in here.”
    We wait. Linda enters. My memory kicks in. She reminds me of Filippov’s dead wife. She looks much as I picture Iisa Filippov did before the cigarette burns and riding crop disfigured her face. Ivan Filippov has precise taste in women. He asks her to give the tape to Milo. She hands it over and departs.
    “Inspector Vaara was being euphemistic when he said your wife was beaten with a riding crop,” Milo says. “It would be more accurate to say that first, the killer used her for a human ashtray, then whipped her, focusing on her face, until she was nearly unrecognizable. She was systematically tortured, and for the coup de grace, we suspect smothered to death.”
    That was way too harsh. I feel an inward cringe, but Filippov doesn’t flinch. “I see,” he says.
    The dark circles around Milo’s eyes take on the dull gleam that says he’s enjoying himself. “Who might have a reason to do such a thing to her?” Milo asks.
    “No one,” Filippov says. “Iisa was a gregarious and pleasant person. She enjoyed other people and they enjoyed her. I would say her priority in this world was simple. She liked to have fun.”
    Simple and fun. This fits in with Rein Saar’s assessment of their relationship.
    “I would consider a two-year sexual relationship with her riding instructor having fun at your expense,” Milo says.
    We have to ask questions, but we just informed Filippov of his wife’s death. His detached demeanor makes me dislike him more with every passing moment, but still, Milo is pushing too hard. He doesn’t relent.
    “So you have no alibi to account for your whereabouts between the hours of one and nine this morning.”
    “No,” Filippov says, “most people don’t.”
    “When did you last see your wife?”
    “Yesterday morning at about eight thirty, before I came to work.”
    Milo smiles and raises his eyebrows. “Iisa wasn’t home when you got back from the party?”
    “No.”
    “And you found nothing unusual about that?”
    “I repeat. Iisa liked to have fun. And I might add that, unlike myself, she was somewhat given toward excess. So no, I found nothing unusual about