Authors: Jens Lapidus
Life Deluxe (32 page)
A question that was impossible to evade.
“I won’t use all of the extinguisher,” Jorge said. “You can have the last of it.”
Babak glared at him. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You think I’m gonna take a bigger risk than anyone else? All I’m gonna get are the dregs of your fucking fire hose?”
Jorge continued to spray foam. Ignored the Iranian’s bitching. “You or the front man for this car should call and report this thing stolen tonight at the latest.”
“The fuck are you talking about?”
Jorge stopped spraying. “Stop bitching. When you used the car, you must’ve realized it was a risk. Now we gonna reduce that risk.”
Babak kept on glaring at him. Jorge didn’t wanna go at it now.
The Range Rover looked like a wreck—miracle that it’d made it all the way here. And even more of a miracle that no one’d reacted along the road.
Jorge stopped spraying foam. Babak grabbed the fire extinguisher from him. Jorge told him to start with the wheel, the instrument panel, and the seat. That was where you had the greatest risk of fingerprints and traces of DNA.
There was enough foam for everything in the front of the car.
“Fuck,” Babak hissed. “I’ve driven people in the backseat too. There’s probably mad hair, boogers, and shit back there.”
Jorge didn’t even want to deal with this
huevon
. Still, the Iranian was right. The van was secured: fire extinguisher goo covered all the surfaces. But the Range Rover was still a lethal threat. Even if it wasn’t registered in Babak’s name. The foam in the front seat wouldn’t cut it.
They had to torch the fucking thing.
Again: this was not according to plan.
He opened the back door. Was still wearing gloves.
Fished around in the bag on the floor. He’d planned only on burning his clothes. He pulled out a bottle of lighter fluid—squeezed out more than half of it over the car’s tan leather in the backseats.
He felt stressed. They’d already been here too long. More than five minutes. He picked up the matches.
His hands were shaking. He dropped a match. Difficult to do this while wearing worker gloves.
If Mahmud hadn’t taken the weapons with him, they could have shot
at the Range Rover until it caught fire. That’s what they did in movies all the time, but now all they had to work with was matches. Old, soggy matches.
He pulled one glove off.
Fuck—his hand was shaking for real. Was it the roofies? Was it the rush from the robbery of the century? Was it the familiar criminal anxiety switched into panic mode?
One match finally flared up. He tossed it onto the backseat. Saw the lighter fluid catch fire.
Babak laughed. The flames flambéed his luxury interior.
Blue flames.
Jorge started taking off the jumpsuit he was wearing. Felt so good to take it off. The sun warmed him.
He pulled out a pair of jeans and a shirt from the duffel. Crammed the overalls, the gloves, and the ski mask into the bag. Sprinkled the last lighter fluid over it.
The bag, the clothes, the traces of Jorge Royale went up in flames.
Babak started bitching again, “Look man, the car’s not lighting on fire.”
Jorge looked up.
This was NOT according to plan.
The fire in the backseat’d gone out.
A minute later—as if they’d been there for three years. Jorge expected to hear sirens any minute. Cruisers with shrieking breaks. SWAT pigs with guns raised.
Babak unscrewed the cap to the tank of the car, stuffed sticks and grass down into the tank, and pushed in a piece of bark by the actual lid in order to let in oxygen.
Jorge picked up the matches again.
His hands: shaking worse than a vibrator turned on max speed.
Still, he succeeded. Lit four at once. Tossed them into the gas tank.
Stepped back quickly.
Waited for an explosion.
Nothing happened.
Finally: it looked promising. There was some smoke spiraling out of the opening in the tank.
They couldn’t stay any longer.
One final thing before they split. There were still three security bags with valuables left on the ground. He picked them up.
“What the fuck is that?” Babak said.
Jorge walked toward the mini Fiat that’d been parked there the night before. Hauled the bags into the tiny trunk.
Babak repeated, “Weren’t those supposed to go with Mahmud to the apartment?”
“This is our bonus,” Jorge said. “Mahmud’s in on it too, he knows about it. You want in?”
Babak grunted. But didn’t talk back. X-tra cash
para los tres
.
Jorge started the car. They drove toward the apartment.
Hagalund. Blåkulla. All the apartment buildings looked like exact replicas of one another. Light blue, superhigh, crammed full of Iraqis, MMA fighters, and AIK soccer supporters. And chill
chicos
—J-boy knew a lot of good guys from here.
When he and Babak arrived, everyone was already there. Also: the Finn’d sent a guy over to check the booty. He was leaning against the wall, trying to look cool. They were gonna divide the cash up immediately—the Finn would get his cut.
Jorge followed Babak through the door. Was met with cheers.
Mahmud hugged him. Tom Lehtimäki held up a champagne bottle. Jimmy was jumping up and down.
At first Jorge was gonna say something about the wheel loader. But something inside him just let go. He smiled instead.
“Bros, we’re fucking kings!”
They laughed, screamed, hugged each other again.
Even the Finn’s guy looked happy.
“I don’t wanna get all serious,” Jorge said. “But we’re not done yet. First, I have some questions. After that, we’ll open these sacks and secured bags.”
He gestured widely with his arm. The fifteen bags were lined up against one wall.
“Were the bags visible when you unloaded them?”
“No,” Mahmud said. “We put them inside the duffel bags.”
“Has everyone gotten rid of their cells?”
They nodded.
“Crushed and tossed the SIM cards?”
“Burned your clothes?”
“Dumped the angle grinder?”
They nodded again.
“Mahmud, d’you take care of the weapons?”
“They’re in the bathroom. I took them apart and sprayed them with fire foam. They’re ready to go.”
“Good, when I’m done, you’ll take them and toss the different parts where we decided.”
Mahmud nodded.
“Has the jammer been on the whole time?”
They nodded.
“Do we have protective clothes, masks, and all that?”
Robert nodded.
“Did we prep boxes?”
Jimmy nodded.
Jorge raised his chin. Looked at the guys, one by one. He felt like a general. A gangster boss inspecting his army. A godfather rewarding his men.
“Then, gentlemen, it’s time to open these bags.”
* * *
Police Inspector
Jörgen Ljunggren
Granitvägen 28
Huddinge
REGARDING GROSSLY INAPPROPRIATE BEHAVIOR DURING A POLICE PROCEEDING
YOUR DOSSIER NUMBER: K-2930-2011-231
Undersigned represents Natalie Kranjic in the above-identified matter and hereby makes the following statement.
You are part of an investigation into the murder of Radovan Kranjic in Stockholm. In the context of this investigation, my client has been questioned by the police on four separate occasions. You have led the interrogation on all these occasions. My client has recorded the three most recent interrogations with the help of recording equipment that she brought with her.
I have had these interrogations transcribed and have thereby been able to note a great number of instances in which your behavior is grossly inappropriate. You also make yourself guilty of sexual harassment on at least three occasions.
For your information, my client is considering reporting you
for the above-listed crimes as well as grave professional misconduct. She is also considering reporting you to the ombudsman at the Justice Ministry. Undersigned will be in touch with you again with additional information on any such legal action. Attached you will find excerpts of the transcribed police interrogations with my client.
My client also wants to stress that she, in order to show her good will, has only informed you privately at this point.
Stockholm as written above
Anders Nyberg, Esq.
Attachment
(TRANSCRIPT OF RECORDED INTERROGATION.)
“There we go, now I’ve turned off our little recorder here. So what we say from now on will not be included in the interrogation. Do you understand?”
“And why did you do that?”
“Because we want to cut the crap with you, you see. Talk about some serious things.”
“Go ahead.”
“We know who your old man was. We’ve been working on him for years. He wasn’t one of God’s best children—you know that, don’t you? Frankly, he was a cowardly fucker who managed to scare people in this city. Isn’t that right? But we’re not scared.”
“If that’s how you’re going to talk, I’m leaving.”
“That’s what you said last time too. But you won’t. Listen to us. Your disgusting
daddy
ruined this city. People like him and you shouldn’t even be sent back to where you came. You should just be shot, straight up.”
(The sound of a chair scraping against the floor.)
“I said, I’m leaving.”
“If you leave, I can guarantee that we won’t work to find your father’s murderer. You can forget that we’ll lift a finger for him or you. So you’ll stay right where you are, and you’ll listen to me, you snotty little brat. What I wanna say is that we have to collaborate on both ends here. If you want us to make an effort to collar the gentleman who ground your dad into hamburger, we want some information from you. Do you understand?”
(TRANSCRIPT OF RECORDED INTERROGATION.)
“Okay, so I want to bring up some of the stuff we talked about last time too. As you can see, I’ve turned the recorder off.”
“If you start your bullshit again, we’re done for today.”
“You know what I’ve said. You and me, we still want the same thing. We both wanna know who finished off your pop. If you want us to work on that, you’re gonna have to collaborate.”
“You’re a pig. What do you want to hear?”
“Don’t use that tone with me, you little slut. If you do, I won’t be happy. I want to know the names of the guys who worked with your dad.”
“Forget about it. If you call me that again, I don’t care if you get hold of the murderer or not. We’ll just end this little circus.”
“I said, don’t use that tone with me. Maybe you want to spend a night in a jail cell? Maybe have some fun with me on the cement floor?”
(
A Little over Two Months Later
)
