Available Dark: A Crime Novel (Cass Neary) (4 page)

That radioactive flare was his signature; but how had he gotten it on a moonless night, working without a flash, with no available light? It was impossible.

And who kills someone with a window?

If this photo was for real, Kaltunnen would be crazy to leak it, unless he was up for a long afternoon with the police. Bredahl would be crazy to buy it.

And I was crazy to be looking at it. Before I could quit the screen, my phone rang again. It was Anton.

“Forget it,” I said.

“Oh, he didn’t kill him; he didn’t kill any of them.”

“‘Them’?”

Bredahl made a dismissive sound. “Did Weegee kill the people in his photographs?”

“So this is, what? A crime-scene photo? A fashion shoot?”

“You really do have a good eye, Cassandra.”

“For what?”

“You recognized it as Ilkka’s work.”

“You just sent me a link to his goddamn Web site.”

“Yes, but most people would have been looking at the people and the clothes. And you knew this photo was authentic. You recognized the light.”

“Kaltunnen was famous for his light;
CameraArts
did a cover story on it twelve years ago.”

“Yes, and you remember that, too.” He sounded gleeful. “I’ve made your flight arrangements. Direct to Helsinki tomorrow evening; you’ll arrive early Friday morning. The bus goes from the airport to the train station; you can take a cab or bus to Ilkka’s house. I will arrange to have half your fee delivered to you there; the rest I will give you after I have completed my own transaction with Ilkka. You must be certain that all the photos are original and that the sequence is complete: There should be six of them. If you incur any other expenses, let me know; also how you would like the rest of your fee to be paid.”

“You’re sending me to Ilkka Kaltunnen?”

“Yes, of course. I envy you. No one has seen this sequence, not even me. Only that one photo. His wife is very nice. What is your mobile number?”

“I don’t have a fucking cell phone.”

“Get one in Helsinki. The whole country is fucking cell phones!”

He laughed, and the line went dead.

5

I awoke early the next afternoon, feeling like I’d fallen out a fifth-floor window. My computer was still on, but the last e-mail Bredahl had sent me was gone. I must have deleted it, out of drunken panic or spite. Among the usual spam I found a flight itinerary, an electronic voucher for my e-ticket, and Ilkka Kaltunnen’s address and phone number in Helsinki.

I cursed myself for deleting that message. I tried in vain to remember the URL, checked my browser’s history and clicked on the link. It was no longer valid. Neither were any of the links that had brought me to the darkweb the night before. If it hadn’t been for the e-ticket and itinerary, the whole thing might have been the backwash from another bad hangover.

But given my recent phone messages, it seemed like a good time to get the hell out of Dodge. I downed some ibuprofen and a couple of Focalin and scrambled around the apartment to pack. I didn’t have much in the way of warm clothes: a few long-sleeve black T-shirts and worn black cashmere turtlenecks, a bulky black sweater, two pairs of skinny black jeans, an old striped Breton shirt, some socks that weren’t too threadbare. I went to an ATM and withdrew what remained of my cash. I briefly considered splurging for a warmer coat but didn’t want to use up my meager credit. Instead I bought a pair of cheap leather gloves and a knit watch cap from a street vendor, along with a fake Burberry scarf.

Back in the apartment, everything fit into the same beat-up satchel I’d been carrying around since I was a teenager. I transferred the Focalin into an empty prescription bottle that had last held antibiotics, tossing in some Vicodin to even things out; stuck Phil’s glassine envelope of crank into a little Baggie with some ground coffee, to throw off drug dogs at the airport, and shoved the Baggie through a hole in the lining of my leather jacket. Then I found my camera, the ancient Konica my father had given me on my seventeenth birthday.

Over the years I could, intermittently, have afforded a better rig. Phil Cohen never stopped giving me shit for not upgrading to digital.

But the Konica got the job done. I replaced the battery and made sure the flash was charged, and stuck the zoom into the satchel with everything else. I got out the ziplock bag of film I kept in the freezer, removed some rolls of Tri-X, and packed them, setting aside one. A camera’s like a gun—no good unless it’s loaded and in your hand when you need it.

I printed out the information Bredahl had sent me, then deleted all his e-mails and cleared my browser’s history. They could still be dug out of the hard drive by a cop or dedicated hacker, but I hoped my anxiety was a function of alcohol and prescription amphetamines. If it wasn’t, I wanted to make my electronic trail a little harder to follow. I pulled on my cowboy boots—not the best gear for Helsinki, but all I had—grabbed my leather jacket, started for the door, and hesitated.

On the desk beside my computer was the envelope from Quinn. I pulled out the photo and stared at it; then I stuck it in my bag, and went to catch the bus to JFK.

By the time I got to the airport, I was vibrating from caffeine and Focalin and shaky because I hadn’t had a drink since leaving my apartment. The TSA guy gave me the hairy eyeball. But there didn’t seem to be an APB out on my passport, so once past security I loaded the roll of Tri-X into my camera, exchanged some of my dollars for euros, and found the duty-free shop. I knew two things about Finland: It was cold, and alcohol cost more than cocaine. I bought a bottle of Jack Daniel’s for the trip, then found a bar to kill time until my flight was called. Once on board I wedged myself against the window. I swallowed a Vicodin, pulled the watch cap over my eyes, and passed out.

It was dark when I left New York, dark when the flight landed at 6:00
A.M.
in Helsinki; dark when I filed through Border Control and got my passport stamped by a guy who looked like his last job had been checking IDs in Lothlórien. Two hours later, when I finally stumbled from a bus into the slush-covered street in front of the railroad station in Helsinki, it was still dark.

6

The exterior of the Saarinen-designed train station was flanked by ominous colossi that looked like they’d really do a number on your head if you were tripping for the first time. The wind was freezing and smelled like the sea. I shivered and pulled up the collar of my leather jacket, dodging thin, silent people in black on their way to work, and looked for a cab in the stream of buses and cars whipping past.

After a few minutes a battered Audi with a taxi sign pulled over. The door opened and a man tumbled onto the sidewalk. He landed on his hands and knees and lifted his head to stare at me, dazed.

I stepped over him and ducked inside. The cab jolted off before I closed the door. Music shrieked from a tinny speaker, some kind of opera. The driver yelled something at me. I shook my head and pointed vehemently at the radio. He made a face, but turned it down.

“Mihin mennään?”

“I don’t speak Finnish. I’m going here.”

I handed him the piece of paper with Ilkka Kaltunnen’s address on it. He glanced at it, then at me.

“You could walk, you know. It’s not far.”

“Or you could just drive me.”

The car shot forward then jerked to a halt at a stoplight. My head slammed the seat behind me, but before I could steady myself, we were off again. I grabbed the door handle and felt a stab of sympathy for the guy kneeling back in front of the train station.

The driver gave me a suspicious look in the rearview mirror. “You don’t like Wagner?”

“Yeah, sure, I love Wagner. Just not so loud.”

“Das Rheingold.
Good for the drive to work. You American?” I gave him a curt nod. “I’ve been to Disneyland five times. I love America. You been to Disneyland?”

“No.”

“You should go.”

“It’s on my life list.” I read the name on his ID—William Lindblad. “You Swedish?”

“Swedish Finn. Like Tove Jansson. Who do you know in Ullanlinna?”

“Friend of a friend.”

“You have rich friends.”

I stared out at a stretch of high-end stores and restaurants, sleek Art Nouveau buildings alongside blocky Soviet-style housing. A metallic-blue sheen clung to everything, toxic by-product of the nearly sunless morning. It all looked familiar in an odd way, like a northern American city that had been Photoshopped. Yet the light seemed unworldly, as though I viewed the streets through a lens that filtered out the sun and tinted the world gunmetal blue.

The car made a sharp turn, dodging an old woman in layers of bright clothing and a long knitted cap. The smell of the sea grew stronger. Beyond the Tinkertoy mashup of Jugend houses and high-rises, I saw another skyline, bristling with cruise vessels, tour boats, cranes, trawlers, vast container ships. The driver glanced back at me.

“Ever been to Finland before?”

“No.”

“What do you think?” Before I could answer, we careened into a maze of narrow side streets. “A lot quieter here. Finns don’t talk so much.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh, yeah. Know how you tell which Finn’s the extrovert? He’s the one staring at someone
else’s
shoes. Here you are.”

The car halted abruptly in front of a three-story house. A mid-century take on Jugend style, reinforced white concrete with carefully chosen Art Nouveau details—cedar shakes on the roof, small square windows, a hammered bronze door. A neatly laid-out garden, now all rattling stalks and desiccated leaves. The place didn’t scream “rich fashion photographer” at the viewer: It was more like a polite nod before you were shown the way out.

Lindblad handed me a card.

W. Lindblad

HELSINGIN TAKSI 24 HOURS

9-363-9714

I stuck it in my pocket, paid the fare, and hopped out before the Audi disappeared in a haze of exhaust. I stood and tried to get my bearings. The Vicodin’s fuzzy glow had faded hours ago. I raked a hand through my hair and wished I’d had a shower or some coffee, and started to dig around in my satchel for the Focalin when a harsh croaking echoed through the empty street. I looked up and saw a huge crow, the biggest I’d ever seen, perched on a narrow sill above the front door. It cocked its head and stared at me, clacked its beak, then made a strangled sound.

“Hyvää iltaa.”

Startled, I dropped my bag. The bronze door swung open, and a tall man in a faded work shirt and white cargo pants stepped out.

“Are you Cassandra?”

I nodded. The bird hopped from its perch onto the man’s shoulder as I stammered, “That crow talks.”

The man tossed something into the patch of skeletal plants. The bird flapped over and began to search among the dead leaves, clacking softly. The man said, “He’s a raven. Apu. Short for ‘thief.’ Come inside.”

I followed him into a living room where nearly everything was white—walls, ceiling, bleached hardwood floor. A mix of Saarinen and Ikea furniture; photos in simple black frames on the walls. Above the fireplace hung an oversize Jenny Saville painting of an emaciated runway model in a beaded gown that had been torn to shreds.

“Ilkka Kaltunnen.” The tall man extended his hand. He was in his late thirties, with close-cropped brown hair, gray-flecked, and a lean face that might have been handsome if he ever smiled. Small, deep-set black eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses; skin so pale his face looked like it had been chipped from milky ice. He smelled of expensive cologne, vetiver and fig, and wood smoke. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Yeah. That would be great.”

“Please.” He gestured at a chair. “I’ll be right back.”

I couldn’t bring myself to sit: The room felt like a set from
THX 1138
. Instead I dropped my bag and checked out the photos. A black-and-white homage to an Eadweard Muybridge stop-motion sequence, it featured a corpse posed upright, arms and legs extended as though in motion. In each photo the body was in a more advanced state of decay, until nothing remained but a skeleton. There was also a beautiful archival photo of a girl’s mummified body. She was blindfolded, a broken spear in the crook of one slender arm, and what remained of her long blond hair was coiled around her neck.

“That’s the Windeby Boy.” I turned to see Ilkka, accompanied by a black-haired young woman in loose white trousers and a black T-shirt. “The Windeby Girl, they thought, but when they did DNA testing they learned it was a fourteen-year-old boy. He is one of the bog people from Schleswig-Holstein, they found him weighted down by logs and a great stone. A sacrifice. And this is my assistant, Suri.”

The young woman smiled. She had broad shoulders, muscular arms that looked as though they could get you in a hammerlock, and surprisingly small hands, the nails squared off and lacquered indigo.

“Nice to meet you,” she said. She set down a tray laden with pastries and poured our coffee, flashed me another smile, and left.

I settled cautiously into a chair with a mug, wondering if guests who spilled coffee in the white room ended up as dead photo subjects. I inclined my head toward the picture sequence. “Charles-François Jeandel?”

“Yes. They have never been published or exhibited. Except here, of course.” He sank onto the couch across from me. “I have always heard this, but it’s true: You have a remarkably good eye.”

“It’s better when I get a good night’s sleep.”

“Of course. Where are you staying?”

I frowned. Somewhere in the back of my mind I must have assumed it would be here. Before I could reply, Ilkka added, “Before I forget—a courier left this for you, early this morning.”

He handed me a thick white envelope. No name or return address. I muttered thanks and stuck it in my bag.

Ilkka wasn’t much for small talk. We sat in silence and drank our coffee. I ate one of the pastries and did my best to keep raspberry jam from oozing onto the pristine upholstery. From outside I heard a low croaking, and a moment later the raven hopped onto the windowsill and tapped its beak against the glass.