Her Enemy (2 page)

“I could go for a beer right about now,” he said. “You?”

I nodded, and we walked a block to a café and took a seat on the patio. Makke insisted on buying the round, and I watched him as he walked inside to get the drinks. The silhouette created by his worn jeans and tight purple T-shirt revealed a surprising mass of muscle. His straight straw-colored hair was a little longer in the front than the back, and it swung in front of his eyes as he turned back. There was something about those eyes, something there that seemed more than rambunctious.

“This is typical for me: first sports, and then a sports drink,” I said. “My name is Maria Kallio, by the way.”

“I know. I looked when you signed your credit card receipt yesterday. Markku Ruosteenoja, but most people just call me Makke. I live in Hakalehto, in the apartment buildings behind the tennis center. Are you from around here?”

“No. I just started working here last month, in a law office.”

“For Eki Henttonen? He said he’d just landed a feisty new lady lawyer. That must be you. Eki helped me out with some stuff last year.”

Even though it was nearly nine o’clock at night, the sun was still in my face, the light bouncing off the windows of the five-story office building that also housed the café. Ducks were splashing in the reflecting pool, and an energetic golden retriever plunged in, chasing them away. The beer tasted too good—half of mine was already gone.

Makke lifted his own to his lips. He was the sort of well-built jock I probably wouldn’t have looked at twice if I’d just seen him walking down the street, unless I had noticed that flash of something deeper in his eyes.

“Lawyer, gym rat, biker—what else are you?” he asked, teasing.

“Ex-cop and punk till I die,” I rattled off. “And you?”

“Well, not much of anything. Sporting goods salesman. Do you live close?”

“I don’t really know where I live. This summer I’m staying in my possible future in-laws’ row house on the shore in Itäranta, but I don’t have a clue what’s going to happen after September.”

“Possible future in-laws?” Makke said sadly. “So you’re taken. Of course you are.” Then he drained his glass, and for a second I thought he was going to get up and leave right then
and there. When he instead stayed sitting, it seemed as though continuing the conversation was now my responsibility.

“‘Taken’ sounds depressing. Let’s just say I’ve been dating the same guy for almost a year. Which is a pretty big accomplishment for me.”

Makke grinned, although he probably didn’t realize exactly how serious I was.

“So this boyfriend of yours doesn’t mind if you go out for a beer with another guy?”

“I wouldn’t be going out with the kind of man who wanted me sitting at home. Even if we were married and had five kids, I’d still need to have the right to go out for a beer with whoever I chose.”

“You want another?” Makke had emptied his glass and was getting up to fetch more.

“Bring a bottle, but it’s my turn to pay now.”

Makke had already gone, and when he came back, he wouldn’t take any money. We continued our slightly stiff conversation about bicycles and bodybuilding, until Makke suddenly asked, “Were you joking when you said you were an ex-cop?”

“No. I went to the police academy and then worked for a couple of years before going to law school. I’ve done some temporary stints on the force too, including last summer.”

“You don’t really seem like a cop. Or like a lawyer, for that matter.” Makke looked at my sweatpants and at my red hair twisted into a messy swirl on top of my head. No, my freckles and snub nose don’t exactly give the impression of a sober defender of the law.

“Although I guess there isn’t much point judging people on how they look,” Makke continued. “Winter before last I was still drinking pretty damn hard, but now two pints in the evening is plenty.”

I felt a life story coming on. Oh well, I was used to listening to life stories. But no—Makke fell silent, sipping his beer and looking off somewhere in the distance. He suddenly came to, and raised his arm in a wave as Kimmo Hänninen biked past.

“Hey, guys!” Kimmo yelled as his bike curved down the underpass and disappeared from sight.

“You know Kimmo too?” Makke asked, rotating his beer glass.

“Kimmo lived in the same small town as me for a couple of years when we were in high school. I didn’t really know him; he’s four years younger than me, but I hung out with his sister sometimes. Sanna, the one who died last spring. And Kimmo’s brother is married to Antti’s—my boyfriend’s—sister.”

Makke looked at me as if he were expecting a punch in the teeth.

“I was Sanna’s boyfriend. I was on the beach when she drowned.”

I didn’t know what to say. Sanna drowned on her thirtieth birthday in the cold March waters of the Baltic Sea. Her blood-alcohol level was considerable, and tests also showed traces of sedatives. Her boyfriend had been found drunk out of his mind and half-frozen on the beach, with no memory of what had happened. According to the official explanation, Sanna tried to go swimming and drowned. A lot of people, including Antti, thought she did it on purpose.

“So your Antti is Antti Sarkela,” Makke said quietly.

“Yeah.” I drained my beer, trying to decide if I should give in to my desire for another.

“So this little date we’re having is perfect payback. I was always jealous when Sanna talked about how smart Antti was.” Makke forced a smile, and I grinned too, although nothing about the conversation made me feel good.

Three weeks had passed since that conversation. Afterward, I would see Makke at the gym sometimes and joke with him in the weight room. We didn’t talk about Sanna, or anything else serious, but there was always something more under the surface of his wisecracks. I liked Makke, but he also frightened me a bit.

Anyway, I was surprised how quickly I was meeting people in Tapiola, and they all seemed to know each other—my boss was a friend of the Sarkela family and of Kimmo Hänninen’s parents. Sometimes I wondered whether my job offer had come thanks to Antti’s dad helping me out, but with the amount of student debt I had, there was no room for moralizing.

The day turned out hot, and to be able to walk out the back door and jump straight into the water after work was heavenly. Although I had my doubts about the purity of Otsolahti Bay, I risked it, bobbing in the seawater for fifteen minutes before going in to bother Antti.

He was sitting at the kitchen table chewing on a sandwich.

“Were you swimming? I’ll come too if you’re going back out. What time are we supposed to be at Risto and Marita’s?”

“Seven. We still have a couple of hours. Are you going to work anymore?”

“Well, not if you have a better suggestion,” Antti said hopefully, brushing his hand against my body. I let my towel fall to the floor. We weren’t in any hurry.

We didn’t realize it was time to start getting dressed until after six. Antti mixed us cocktails from his parents’ generously stocked bar while I tried to calm down with a cold shower. The birthday party, for Antti’s brother-in-law’s fortieth, had me tied up in knots.

Usually I don’t care much about how I’m dressed—I’m happiest in jeans—but I’d bought a new dress in honor of the occasion. I’d liked it at the time, but staring at myself in the entryway mirror, I thought the bright-green fabric seemed too garish, the hem too high, the neckline too open. The cap sleeves barely fit over my shoulders, making me look like a drag queen.

“Wow.” Antti looked at me admiringly. Clearly, he didn’t think the dress was too revealing. Antti’s idea of formalwear was a flower-print dress shirt with a violet leather bow tie and his best black jeans. As far as I knew, the only suit he’d ever worn was on his confirmation. The purple suede shoes were new to me.

“I found them for three pounds in London. Overstock, I guess,” Antti said in reply to my incredulous look.

Well, demand for that particular style in men’s size twelve probably wasn’t all that high.

I slipped into my own size six-and-a-half black stilettos, which made me walk like a newly birthed calf. Three inches isn’t much these days—plenty of style gurus think a five-foot-three woman should wear at least four-inch heels—but these still weren’t made for walking.

Suddenly we were out of time and had to make the trip by bike. Unfortunately, my dress got in the way. The police-auction eighteen-speed I had was a men’s model, not designed for use with a narrow skirt and high heels. After my third attempt to mount ended with threatening sounds from the hem of my skirt, that was it.

“You could ride on my rack,” Antti suggested.

“And sit sidesaddle! Fat chance!” Flustered, I marched inside and put on my running shoes and a pair of bike shorts. Then I
hitched my skirt up around my waist, hoping the resulting wrinkles wouldn’t be a complete catastrophe. I brought the heels, deciding I could smarten up once we got to the house.

“Nervous?” Antti asked as I stepped back into my shoes along the shoulder of the Hänninens’ street.

“I hate being shown off like this.”

Of course, I had met all the close relatives in small batches—but the idea of a public inspection, where they would probably all be trading comments about me, was irritating.

“I’ll get you back, though. My Uncle Pena’s sixtieth birthday is in the fall,” I said as we walked in.

Built in that ostentatious style popular in the mideighties, the Hänninens’ house featured white plastered brick, columns, and arbors, making it clear the owners wanted us all to know they had spent time in southern Europe. The woman of the house was Antti’s sister, Marita Hänninen, née Sarkela, a math teacher who spent her summer vacation tending her immaculate geometric garden. Well-dressed partygoers mingled through, filling the linear spaces between the flowerbeds. I wished I had drunk a stiffer cocktail before leaving.

A champagne glass in his hand and a rose at his breast, the man of the hour was standing in front of the buffet table. Risto Hänninen was wearing a well-cut summer suit, with an expensive-looking red silk tie that perfectly matched the rose in his lapel. My dress, picked out at a thrift store, suddenly felt more secondhand than vintage. Marita was standing next to him, dressed in a gauzy navy number that softened the angles of her slender frame. I had heard rumors that Risto’s company was doing just as poorly as every other engineering firm during the recession, but you couldn’t have guessed it by looking at the two of them.

We presented our gift, a leather-bound book about nineteenth-century hunting firearms. Antti had paid an arm and a leg for it at a used-book shop, and the volume was beautiful, with each individual illustration a small work of art. Although I find hunting revolting, I had flipped through the pages of gun diagrams out of sheer professional curiosity. As an ex-cop, I mean.

Instead of letting us slip away after drinking to his health, Risto insisted on presenting us to the other guests—“the cream of Tapiola.” He really said that, and I honestly couldn’t tell whether he meant it ironically. I met a couple of local politicians, the director of a major bank, a famous conductor, my own boss, and a local gynecologist who glanced at my pelvic area with a professional eye, making my dress feel not only secondhand but also too short.

“Hey, Antti! Maria!” Kimmo called out from across the grass. Wearing a beige three-piece suit more appropriate for an older man and with his cherubic curls uncombed as usual, Kimmo was disarming, even with his acne-scarred face. Nearly fifteen years separated Risto and Kimmo. After the death of his first wife, Risto’s father, Henrik Hänninen, had remarried. He and his second wife, Annamari, had Sanna, and then, several years later, Kimmo.

“Maria, this is my fiancée, Armi,” Kimmo said enthusiastically as we made it over to him. About my height, with a round face, wide hips, and thin blonde hair the stylist had wound too tight while doing her last perm, the girl looked sweet. Her poofy, flowery dress was woefully out-of-date. Maybe she’d gone to a thrift shop too, but she clearly wasn’t even trying to look vintage.

“Armi Mäenpää,” she said, smiling warmly. The blue of her eyes was so bright that I wondered whether she might be wearing tinted contacts.

We traded news and complained about the heat wave, and then said hello to Antti’s parents, who had come all the way in from Inkoo just for this party. I had already emptied my glass of Champagne—with a capital C, because judging from the label on the bottle, this was the real stuff—and started scanning the room, hoping for something stronger. Antti was telling Kimmo about his progress on his thesis, so I tried to chat with Armi.

Actually, I didn’t have to chat at all. Armi took care of the talking.

“I hear you’re working in Eki Henttonen’s law office. I’m a nurse, in Dr. Hellström’s clinic. He’s a gynecologist with a private practice. Actually, I’d like to specialize in obstetrics as well as gynecology, but after nursing school I’d had enough studying for a while. I hear you have two degrees—Marita told me—that you were a police officer first and then went to law school. Didn’t you like being a cop?”

“Well, it was sort of—” I managed to say before Armi interrupted.

“It was probably pretty dangerous…I guess handling legal cases pays better too and works better for a woman. But I’ve never known a policewoman before. I have all kinds of questions for you.”

Antti’s parents appeared with two wriggling little boys in tow. Completely spoiled, the Hänninen twins—Matti and Mikko—were terrors well known to our cat, Einstein. Whenever he saw them, the poor thing usually scaled the highest bookcase he could find. At first, Einstein had tried hiding under the bed but had found that it was too easy to end up boxed in, with a twin on either side.

“Uncle Antti! Uncle Kimmo!” the boys whooped. “Come look! We got a Nintendo for our tree house!”

“Maria, you haven’t even seen the boys’ tree house yet! Kimmo and I built it last summer. Come on,” Antti said, laughing as one of the shrieking boys dragged him and Kimmo toward a pine in the backyard with a handsome playhouse perched in its branches.

I swallowed. When I was little, I’d always wanted a tree house just like that. All the most exciting books featured one as a fort or clubhouse. However, building a tree house would have required the help of an adult, and my father didn’t think girls needed tree houses.