Behind God's Back (16 page)

“No, why?”

“You didn't talk to Max about buying a car?”

“Nope. I haven't even seen him in months, except today at the funeral.”

Eli stroked his jaw. “That's weird. I remembered something. When Max left, he asked me to say hello to you and tell you not to buy the same kind of Benz he has, because it guzzles thirteen litres per hundred kilometres, and you have to fill it up all the time.”

14

The next day one more investigator joined the case when Detective Jari Oksanen returned from vacation. Oksanen was nuts about cars, and one of the driving forces behind the police rally club. He drove a customized Audi with an exhaust modification that must have been illegal, because the thundering and popping of the engine preceded his car by a hundred yards. I could hear it in my office when Oksanen turned onto Radiotie, accelerated the final yards, and plunged into the parking garage.

At the morning recap, I explained to Oksanen where we were with the case. He was as full of pep and energy as his over-tuned ride. All I had to do was channel that energy in the right direction. Oksanen required a little more steering than Stenman and Simolin, who carefully considered their every move. On the other hand, Oksanen's spontaneous blundering sometimes led to surprisingly good results. Either that, or he was exceptionally lucky.

We listened for a minute to Oksanen's most recent Formula One report, then forced the conversation back to work matters. I was just getting started when there was a knock at the door, and without waiting for a response, Huovinen stepped in.

“Got some interesting info.”

Huovinen was smiling so broadly that whatever it was couldn't have been very serious.

“Takamäki's team solved the Seeds of Hate case. The kidnapped professor wrote the letters himself.”

“Huh? Why?”

“He hit on one of his students at a party and went home with her. Her boyfriend walked in on them, clobbered the guy, and tossed him out in his underwear. The bloodied professor was looking for a cab when he ran into a patrol, and couldn't come up with anything except that he'd been kidnapped. He's married to a hot-blooded Spaniard, and didn't want to get busted for stepping out on her. To make the case seem more believable, he wrote a few racist threats the next day and sent them to relevant targets.”

Oksanen guffawed.

“How did they figure that out?” Stenman asked.

“The boyfriend who kicked the professor's ass chucked the professor's stuff in a dumpster, where someone found it. Rocky's fingerprints were all over it. He'd had a previous assault conviction, so the police paid him a visit, and that was all she wrote.”

“That professor's going to be sorry once the papers get hold of that story,” Oksanen said, still chuckling.

I briefed Huovinen on the status of my case, and he went on his way.

Simolin had gone through all of Jacobson's telecommunications data; it hadn't revealed anything new. Max's phone hadn't been found, but the call data had already been requested. The examination of the killer's Golf had proved to be an investigative dead end, and the Estonian police didn't have anything new for us. The divers from Search and Rescue had hunted for the weapon on both sides of the bridge without any luck. The dives at the other bridge, the one that crossed the canal near the Tammisalo marina, were just beginning. The sketch that Jacobson's neighbour's kid had drawn of the killer had been shown on the ten o'clock news, and it was in both tabloids and the
Helsingin Sanomat
the next morning. Even though the picture was good, it hadn't generated a single solid tip.

Max's murder had also made the papers, despite the fact that we had agreed that it wouldn't be reported until tomorrow. From the information included in the articles, we deduced that the
leak had been either the security guard or the harbourmaster. The tabloids were already talking about the second “Jewish killing” and wondering if the victims' Jewish background was just a coincidence. I drafted a brief release and sent it off to the STT, the national news agency.

In other words, the fourth day of the investigation had started off in somewhat depressing circumstances. Like you had blown a month's salary on lotto cards and ferociously scratched one after the other, only to have them all turn up blank.

“You think Oxbaum's murder is connected to the Jacobson killing?” Oksanen asked.

“One way or another,” I said. “The National Bureau of Investigation promised results from the ballistics tests this afternoon. Then we'll know.”

Oksanen had his own, completely new theory about events.

“What if Oxbaum shot Jacobson?” he enthused. “If Jacobson threatened to reveal something that would be bad for Oxbaum.”

“Who killed Oxbaum, then?” Stenman asked. “Both were shot with a .22 calibre weapon, and Oxbaum had a 9 mm.” Stenman found Oksanen's habit of thoughtlessly bandying about theories annoying.

“The description doesn't match Oxbaum; neither does anything else,” I said. “I believe he felt guilty about Jacobson's death and thought that he had put other people's lives at risk. That's why he wanted to meet me. But the killer got there first.”

“And just in the nick of time,” Stenman said.

“That's quite the conspiracy theory,” Oksanen said. “Did anyone besides you see this canoe guy?”

“The kayak was stolen from the marina, and it turned up at the West Harbour. Presumably the killer had a car there that he used to continue his journey. Unfortunately not a single eyewitness has turned up. No fingerprints were found on the kayak, or anything else that would help the investigation.”

“Of course not.” Oksanen sounded resentful, as if he thought it was unfair that the criminal hadn't left any clues behind. And maybe that is what he thought; who knew?

“You and Jari start by paying a visit to Oxbaum's secretary. Go through Max's office and bring in the computer and anything else necessary so we can check it out,” I said to Simolin. “Arja and I will go see his wife. Simolin, you can also put your Estonian connections to use and get us more information on Baltic Invest. Tell your buddy on the force there that our killer might be Estonian; maybe some suitable candidate will come to mind.”

“What about your brother?” Simolin asked uncomfortably.

“What about him?”

“How should we treat him?”

“The same as anyone else. Just do your job.”

15

The Oxbaums lived in Lauttasaari, in a big, light-filled brick house. You could tell the place was no package design for the average homeowner; it was an architect's custom work that integrated the terrain and orientation. The picture window in the living room faced onto a view of a pine-dotted rock, and beyond that the sea. A view like that cost a nice chunk of change.

I had always considered Ruth a naive, almost pathetic figure, because she accepted Max's misdeeds with endless good nature and a hen-like maternalism. I had wondered on more than one occasion whether she was stupid, whether she was lying to herself, or whether she just didn't care. She had been a housewife for as long as I could remember. She didn't appear to have an iota of professional ambition, even though she had a master's degree in political science. Her ambitions were channelled into her home and her children – those arenas she had managed brilliantly. The house could have graced the cover of an interior design magazine any time.

I was surprised by how calmly Ruth was able to discuss Max's death, even though she had been a wreck the previous evening. Her sister was still there supporting her, and intermittently shot me cautionary glances.

“I'm sorry, I'm going to have to ask about some unpleasant matters.”

“It's fine. I understand.”

Ruth was leaning forward on the buttery-soft Italian leather sofa. Behind her hung an enormous abstract, an acrylic glowing in vivid yellows and oranges. With the dazzling autumn
sun shining on it, it seemed to illuminate the whole wall. I recognized the artist, and guessed that the work cost as much as a mid-priced automobile.

“We're interested in knowing what exactly Max was involved in. No one is killed this way for no reason. Evidently he was in some sort of predicament. Do you know what it could have been?”

Ruth fiddled nervously with her wedding ring. Her fingers were long and beautiful, and Ruth wasn't bad-looking herself. She had a gentle domesticity about her. I could imagine her taking her prodigal, careworn husband into her arms and comforting him like a little boy who had cut his finger.

“As his wife, I suppose I should know. Unfortunately I don't, no matter how badly I wish I did. He had been acting strange for several weeks, letting trivial things upset him, but when I asked him what was wrong, he just put it down to pressure at the office.”

“How did he react to Jacobson's death?”

“I could tell he was shocked, but he didn't want to talk about that, either.”

“Are your financial affairs in order?”

Ruth looked almost offended. “Max handled them, and everything should be fine. I asked Max if that's what it was, and he said that the money was the last thing he was worried about.”

“This is an expensive house,” Stenman continued tentatively.

“Lawyers make a good living,” Ruth retorted.

“Did Max have enemies, or did he ever mention having received any threats?”

“As far as I know he didn't have any enemies nor had he been threatened – at least he didn't mention anything of the sort.”

“We have reason to believe he was being blackmailed, but why, we don't know. Money is the first thing to come to mind,” I said.

“Don't lie to me. You know you believe Max was being blackmailed because of his other women,” Ruth snapped.

“Did he have other women?”

“Of course he did, and you know it. But in their infinite wisdom, our mothers taught us that a smart wife turns a blind eye. Max knew that our marriage wouldn't have ended over something like that. That couldn't have been the real reason.”

I struck an unexpected blow: “And what about you? Did you have other men?”

Ruth's breath seemed to catch for an instant, and she glanced at her sister.

“I don't suppose it makes any difference any more… I did, but only once. It happened last spring, when a friend saw Max kissing a young woman on the street. God knows how many times it had happened before, and I decided I'd get my revenge. You can be sure it had nothing to do with Max's death.”

“Who was the guy?”

Ruth snorted glumly. “I don't think you want to know.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Your brother. We screwed on the sofa in the office.”

The word “screwed” sounded incongruous uttered by milk-and-cookies Ruth. It was even harder imagining her and Eli having wanton sex on the leather sofa where I had sat in innocent ignorance. I was a little shocked.

“Not money, not women – what's left? What about his reputation in the congregation? Could he have been blackmailed with, for instance, photos of a sensitive nature being sent to members of the congregation and his clients?”

“Blackmailed how?”

“Into providing information about Jacobson, for instance.”

“I suppose it depends on the information. As an attorney, Max's reputation was important to him, but how important, I don't know. Do you think that Max had something to do with Jacobson's death?” Ruth asked, proving that she was anything but stupid.

“Max handled Jacobson's company's loans, and the company Max represented is suspected in Israel of money laundering. Max called Jacobson twice only a few hours before he was shot.”

“Max was fond of old man Jacobson. He never would have got involved in anything that would have caused problems for him.”

“Did Max ever mention Jacobson?”

“Nothing involving work. They were both on the congregation's board and met at each other's homes in that capacity. They didn't socialize otherwise.”

“Did Jacobson come to the house?”

“Yes. Most recently, three weeks ago.”

“What did they talk about?”

“I don't know. They were in the office. I went in to bring them coffee, but I didn't stay to listen. I imagined it had something to do with congregation business.”

“More coffee?” Ruth's sister asked, filling my cup without waiting for an answer. Her cheeks were still burning from her older sister's revelation.

“And did Max ever meet Jacobson's son, Roni?”

“Why would he have?”

“Roni had also taken out a loan through Max.”

“Max didn't care for him, and they had very little to do with each other.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know. He spoke as if the company's troubles were the son's fault, not the father's. I thought it was unfair, because wasn't the recession really the underlying cause?”