Lucifer's Tears by James Thompson Read Free Book Online Page A

it.”
    Milo and Filippov stare at each other, adversaries, for a long moment.
    “I’ve heard about both of you,” Filippov says, “and I’m honored to have two such distinguished detectives investigating my wife’s death. Your reputations precede you.” He looks at me. “You for your tenacity and bravery,” and then at Milo, “and you for your intellectual investigative achievements.”
    He looks at me again. “In fact, your name was mentioned at the dinner party last night.”
    And then Arto hands me the high-profile murder of Filippov’s wife, which I thought he would be reticent to do, only hours later. This strikes me as less than coincidental.
    “No doubt my wife’s murder will be swiftly solved,” Filippov says. “I assume you want me to identify Iisa’s body. Isn’t that the procedure? I can do it this afternoon.”
    “That’s not necessary,” I say. “Your wife’s identity has been established. However, I would like to come to your house and examine her belongings. Something among them might provide evidence of who killed Iisa and why.”
    “Absolutely not,” he says. “I won’t dishonor her memory by having her intimate possessions pawed at.”
    “I can get a subpoena if necessary.”
    “You can try. I’ll have it quashed. That’s within my power. Let’s compromise. I’ll go through Iisa’s belongings. If I find something I believe helpful to you, I’ll deliver it to you myself.”
    What an arrogant prick. “You’re not a detective. You might overlook something crucial.”
    “You’ll find that thoroughness is among my better attributes.”
    He smiles at me. Given the circumstances, it’s disconcerting. “I read in the newspaper,” he says, “that your wife is the general manager of Hotel Kamp. Their restaurant is my favorite.”
    This bewilders me. I say too much. “We just informed you that your wife was murdered, and you’re thinking about food?”
    “I mourn the loss of my wife, but we must all grieve in our own way. Mine is to carry on with life as usual.”
    I stand. Milo and the pastor follow my lead. I find Filippov repulsive, can’t bring myself to offer my hand or parting condolences.
    When we get outside, I ask Milo, “What do you think?”
    “Motherfucker butchered his wife and framed her lover,” he says, “and he’s so goddamned haughty that he doesn’t even try to hide it.”
    Pastor Oksanen pretends he hears nothing.
    I’m less certain than Milo-being a bastard doesn’t make him a murderer-but I’m inclined to agree. “If he framed Rein Saar,” I say, “he did a good job. It’ll be difficult to prove.”
    “I…”-he realizes his fuckup-“we will.”
    Likable as he is, in his own way, Milo has a fundamental character flaw that he’ll have to pay for eventually. Arrogance.
     
    On the drive back to Helsinki from Vantaa, Jyri Ivalo calls. “I understand you’re investigating the murder of Iisa Filippov,” he says.
    “That’s right.”
    “I further understand that she was found dead beside her lover, some Estonian fuck.”
    I haven’t filed a report yet, so Filippov must have called Jyri as soon as we left and filled him in. “Also correct.”
    “Ivan Filippov is a good acquaintance of mine, and he’s well connected in the business world. This sounds open-and-shut, but you’re given to leaps of imagination. Close the case fast. And defer to Filippov whenever possible.”
    I say nothing.
    “I’ve got a vicious hangover and I’m not in the mood to be nice. Let me make this clear. You solved the Sufia Elmi case, but it dragged on too long and turned into a fiasco. Not this time.”
    Fuck Jyri. “Filippov cites you as his alibi. Care to confirm it?”
    “Confirmed. He left the party around one. I see no need to relate his whereabouts of last night to the press. I and some others would prefer to be distanced from the investigation. Somehow, the media would invent a conspiracy theory and create a scandal.”
    Yes, they would. “I