Death Spiral (24 page)

“You haven’t said whether you’re taking your full leave,” Taskinen said.

I had to admit I still didn’t know. I’d been watching my friends’ and sisters’ lives with their little children, but I still didn’t have any idea what it would really be like. My conversations with my sisters had made me feel like a bad mother before I’d even given birth. My sister, Eeva, had asked straight out why I wanted to have children at all if work was the most important thing in my life.

“Your priorities are going to have to change after the baby comes,” she said, after first complaining that she hadn’t read a single book or even been out for a beer with her girlfriends in the two and a half years since Saku was born.

Taskinen invited me to lunch, but I said I would catch up with him after I contacted Rami Luoto. When I did, he sounded as if he had just woken up and said he was busy. Ultimately we agreed that I would pick him up after juniors practice at the ice rink around five thirty. We could chat at his apartment.

Five thirty . . . exhaustion washed over me, reminding me that these ten-hour days were insane. Surely now I had a legitimate reason to rest. Stretching out on the couch, which now held the crisp lemon scent of Janne’s aftershave, I watched the Creature’s rear end make the skin of my stomach ripple. Everyone seemed so interested in whether the baby would be a boy or a girl. Antti’s parents were hoping for a girl as their third grandchild; Antti’s sister had twin boys. I only allowed myself the tiniest selfish hope of a daughter, as if by giving birth to a girl I could somehow make up for the fact that, for my parents, I was only ever a poor substitute for the boy they never had. But at the same time, I was terrified I was already passing down these distorted gender expectations to a child who wasn’t even born yet. How was hoping for a girl any better than hoping for a boy?

My eyes closed, and the Creature’s movements became even more vigorous. I wrapped my arm around my belly as if my embrace would assure this child that it was welcome in either case, no matter what its gender was.

The sound of the phone pierced my tender thoughts. Koivu sounded agitated. He had spent the morning sitting in his car outside Vesku Teräsvuori’s apartment.

“I’m on Lauttasaari Island,” he said. “About ten minutes ago a white van came and picked Teräsvuori up.”

“I think I can guess what it says on the back,” I interjected. “Tommy’s Gym?”

“Yep. Short guy driving with a flat top and chest like a refrigerator.”

Tomi Liikanen.

“What are they up to?”

“They went in an apartment building. I’m outside. Kind of a funny coincidence. A few years ago when we were still working in Helsinki, somebody was selling drugs out of this building. You remember the Mattinen gang? One of their main dudes lived in the B stairwell of this building. He got out of prison last year. I already checked if this is still his address. And guess what, it is. Something gives me the feeling Teräsvuori and Liikanen are paying a visit to unit B 22. Are you in a betting mood, Maria?”

13

The rain that had been drizzling for weeks gave no sign of letting up as I drove toward the Matinkylä ice rink that night. In the cafeteria the main topic of conversation among my coworkers had been where in the Canary Islands each of them was going on vacation. No one had any faith in the weather changing before Midsummer. Even though it was the end of May, the stores were still selling rubber boots instead of bikinis.

“You’re probably happy it isn’t hot,” Pihko had said to me almost accusingly.

“At least as long as I fit in my rain coat,” I responded, my thoughts elsewhere entirely than on the day’s weather. Even though I hadn’t been as excited about Koivu’s news as he’d probably hoped I would be, my head was still buzzing. Koivu had promised to stick to Teräsvuori for the rest of the day despite Ström’s loud demands for his help with one of his own cases. Even at midday Ström had still stunk suspiciously of old booze. I was almost worried; I didn’t want Ström ending up as one more name on the list of cops the job had driven to drink. He definitely fit the risk profile: over thirty-five, divorced, few friends.

The wheels of the semi driving in front of me kept splashing mud, so I turned up the windshield wipers. An unlucky pedestrian was soaked up to his waist when the semi sped through a puddle on a crosswalk to make it through a yellow light.

The ice rink parking lot was full of parents waiting in idling cars. I understood after what had happened to Noora why parents would drive their children to practice, but otherwise I had a hard time understanding all the people who drove to the gym to work out or complained if they couldn’t find a spot right in front of the supermarket. But I was from the country originally, and even after the two years I’d lived in Espoo, I still wasn’t quite used to the local customs.

The skating association’s schedule must have been thrown off, because the juniors training session was still in full swing when I walked in. Apparently hockey was up next, since the hall was swarming with irritated fathers and pimple-faced fourteen-year-olds looking like aliens in their pads.

On the ice, delicate, flat-chested girls glided around, among them Irina Grigorieva. Watching an eleven-year-old lightly throw one triple toe loop after another was amazing. Skates cut sharp slashes in the already abused-looking ice.

In their training tights and tight ballerina buns, they were practically carbon copies of each other. Only the way they moved varied. It was clear that most would never be in medal contention at even the county level. Next to Irina Grigorieva, they looked clumsy and stiff.

“Remember your knees!” an imperious female voice yelled from the edge of the ice. “More flex, Johanna, bend, bend!” came as a girl who was practically skating on wooden legs bumped to the ground with a resigned expression on her face.

The coaches stood in a line rinkside, Rami in skinny jeans and a sweatshirt, Elena in a track suit jacket and tights, and Ulrika Weissenberg in a shiny black vinyl raincoat, lecturing Rami about something. Elena’s attention was on the ice, though, where most of the girls were just turning pirouettes. She glided over to one girl who looked about ten and corrected her posture, pointing to Irina, who, at least to my eye, was doing the pirouette perfectly.

“Listen everyone! Knees. If you want any movement, especially your jump landings, to look and feel soft, you have to bend more at the knees. Flexible knees are the foundation of beautiful skating at any level. Jumping high is not enough if you thump back down on the ice with your jumping leg straight. Watch the difference between a straight-leg jump,” Elena said as she did an easy double toe loop, “and this one with a flexible knee.”

As I watched Elena’s jumps, I thought of Noora’s jumping leg, which bent incredibly deep especially in her throw jumps. That had made her landings look solid and effortless, even though those flexible knees must have required highly trained thigh muscles.

“Everyone remember the extra funeral practice on Saturday morning,” Ulrika said as the girls began skating around the rink. The music, which had been classical strings during their movement practice, changed to a brisk techno beat. Funeral practice? They weren’t going to have pallbearers wearing figure skates, were they? But what did I know? Maybe Ulrika had organized a memorial service in the ice arena. Although the practice seemed to be running smoothly, Noora’s death must have cast a shadow over everything the skating association did. For the younger skaters, Noora had been an idol they could relate to—one of them. The violent death of a figure like that would be distressing for anyone. Hopefully the parents and coaches realized how these little ice princesses were feeling; maybe a big funeral all of them could attend would be a cathartic experience.

Rami had moved out onto the ice and was helping one of the girls find the right closed position for her jump rotation. I remembered myself as a prepubescent, how uncomfortable I had been to have anyone touch me, but of course skaters would be used to smelling their partners’ sweat and the garlic on their breaths, and feeling their coaches’ cold hands on their waists.

Then Rami started guiding the group through their cool-down routine. I wished I could join them—my back was stiff from sitting and driving and could have used some limbering up. Just then Ulrika noticed me and started walking over. Her heels clicked sharply against the concrete floor.

There was acid in her eyes, and I steeled myself for yet another scolding, but the first words out of her mouth floored me.

“Thank you for saving Janne from those impertinent police officers.”

Apparently Janne had called Ulrika immediately after getting out of the police station and asked her for legal advice in case he had to go to court. Chairwoman of the Espoo Figure-Skating Association seemed to be a full-time job, or at least Ulrika Weissenberg had turned it into one.

“Noora’s funeral will be next Tuesday,” Ulrika continued. “It will do Hanna good to get past at least one of the stages of grieving. But what exactly did you say to her about Teräsvuori? She seems to be convinced he’s guilty now.”

“There aren’t any grounds for that,” I replied evasively, because Elena Grigorieva was also approaching now. She didn’t have anything for me, though, and just walked past with nothing more than a brusque nod of her head.

To Ulrika she said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea to make Irina skate Snow White. She doesn’t know the role properly yet. And . . . I’m afraid it will bring bad luck.”

Elena Grigorieva’s features looked sharper today than before; the depressions below her high cheekbones were like small graves, the skin of her large nose stretched tight as if by a facelift.

“I think doing Snow White would be a little tasteless too. Perhaps we should settle for the group dance after all,” said Ulrika.

What on earth was Ulrika Weissenberg planning? I didn’t have time to ask, though, because the music stopped and Rami Luoto announced that practice was over. Glancing around, he noticed me and then quickly skated over to us. He moved so differently than the blocky hockey players now barging onto the ice. He was almost catlike.

The trip to Rami’s took only a few minutes, so I understood why Rami usually walked. I guessed he also usually climbed the stairs up to the fourth floor. Now he politely opened the narrow door of the three-person elevator, probably thinking that I wouldn’t be up to hauling my mass that far. At the last second a third person stepped in with us, a middle-aged woman wet from the rain and carrying a shopping bag. Her presence forced Rami to lean against my belly. A strange emotion, which he obviously tried to suppress, flashed across his face. Like disgust. Rami could barely restrain his sigh of relief when the woman got out on the third floor.

Two of the doors on the fourth floor said
Luoto
.

“My sister lives next door,” Rami said without me asking. Inside he offered me a glass of mineral water, and then said he was going to shower and change. Because I knew he had skated on the North American ice-dancing circuit for more than a decade, I had expected his home to be somehow gaudy, but I was wrong. His neutrally painted one-bedroom apartment was completely different than I had imagined. It didn’t reveal anything about its owner’s profession. The only object that suggested figure skating was an International Skating Union rulebook lying open cover side up on the corner of the coffee table.

I guess our house didn’t reveal much about Antti’s or my professions either. Someone might expect to find a gun collection or shelves full of true crime books in a cop’s house. You wouldn’t be able to tell Antti was a mathematician unless you peeked in his little office next to the kitchen, which was dominated by two computers, shelves full of math books, and colorful fractal prints on the walls. Based on the mass of books in the living room and bedroom, you probably would have guessed the residents were more literary people. The French poetry and other more abstruse things were Antti’s, while I contributed a nice pile of mystery novels and my girlhood books. My idol, Pippi Longstocking, graced the wall of the downstairs bathroom, and the lined face of Antti’s hero, Samuel Beckett, stared from the wall of the front hall into the eyes of everyone who entered from the wall of the front hall. Our house also probably communicated that neither of us had much time for interior decorating or cleaning. The comfortable burgundy flea market armchairs and functional sofa were constantly covered with cat hair, and more than once a book had turned up in the refrigerator. Although Antti hadn’t received his mathematics assistant professorship, he showed serious symptoms of absentmindedness.

In a spirit of conciliation, my old electric bass leaned against Antti’s piano, which, according to the tuner, was just a few steps away from being firewood. The area around the stereo receiver and amplifiers was piled with records. After we moved, Antti had organized our vinyl, classical according to composer, rock according to performer, although sometimes Alanis Morissette and Mozart’s “Requiem” ended up lying next to one another.

So far the upstairs bedroom had served as a storage closet and occasional guest room. My first project for maternity leave would be decorating it as a nursery, which meant setting up the bassinette and changing table we’d inherited from Antti’s sister and the big red rocking horse that had been Antti’s dad’s.

It seemed as if Rami Luoto had done everything he could to remove any sign of his personality from his apartment. The milky-white leather furniture was stylish enough but boring. On the blond birch shelves were the standard television, VCR, and stereo, but all the media was hidden somewhere. There were hardly any books—maybe they were in the bedroom—and there weren’t any skating trophies. My water glass was a green Iittala tumbler like most Finnish homes had, probably purchased on sale at a local supermarket. Actually the only personal object was a black-and-white photograph of a ballerina hanging above the couch. Judging from her outfit, she was dancing Odette in Swan Lake. Who was she? An old lover? That would refute Ström’s notion of Luoto being gay.

“Well, what can I tell you about Noora?” It was hard to believe Luoto had just gotten out of shower. His silver-streaked hair was perfectly combed, and his gray sweater and slacks looked as if they had been ironed. But his apparent relaxation was like that of a resting cat. He was carrying a second glass, ice, and a half-liter bottle of lemon mineral water.

“I actually wasn’t thinking of talking about Noora but about the Grigorievs. You met them in the early seventies, didn’t you, Mr. Luoto?”

I usually tried to address clients who were older than me a little formally. Calling him Mr. Luoto emphasized my official position, creating distance and authority. I used first names when I wanted to play the part of the woman you could confide in. Rami and I had used first names since we met, which may have been a carryover from his years in Canada.

“The Grigorievs?” Rami asked, creases dancing around his mouth. “What about them? Anton died years ago.”

“Under more than slightly suspicious circumstances. What was he like? Did their marriage seem happy?”

Rami poured himself a glass of water, emptied half, and then turned it in his hand.

“Happy . . . how do you measure that? A lot of Russian skating pairs got married back in those days. Elena and Anton were just kids when they started skating together, and they got married young too, in their early twenties. Elena had dreams of a career in the ballet, and Anton was supposed to be a hockey player, but you remember the Soviet system—not everyone had a choice. They produced top figure skaters like widgets in a factory, and one of the coaches must have realized what a perfect match they were. Of course it was a big opportunity for them. They got to travel and represent their country, and they had enough money to buy things the average person in Moscow couldn’t dream of . . . But they lacked that certain something that would have taken them to the very pinnacle of the sport.”

“What was that?”

“A sort of final emotional kick. Technically, they were nearly perfect. But Elena—how can I put this gently—lacked expression, and Anton only really fit comic routines. Back then the Russian style was very classical and tragic.”