JW’s question: What had the IT millionaire been doing the spring Camilla went missing?
He took a chance on easy answers, tried to call Holbeck. It took three days to track him down. Finally, he got hold of him. Holbeck sounded short of breath when he answered the phone. “This is Peter.”
“Hi, my name is Johan.” It wasn’t often that JW introduced himself with his real first name. “I have some questions for you. I hope I’m not calling at a bad time.”
“Are you a journalist? I don’t have the energy to speak to you people.”
“No, actually not. It’s regarding a private thing.”
Holbeck sounded surprised. “Shoot.”
“I’m looking for a woman, Camilla Westlund. She disappeared about four years ago. No one knows where she is. We know that she was sometimes seen in a yellow Ferrari before she disappeared. You owned one of those during the year in question. Thought maybe you know something. Maybe you lent out the car, or something?”
“Are you calling from the police, or are you a journalist?”
“Not a journalist. Didn’t I already say that? Not from the police, either. I’m a private person, calling about a personal matter.”
“Either way. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Are you insinuating something?”
“Sorry if this sounds strange. I just wanted to know if you remember anything.”
“Whatever. I was in the Rockies half of that year. On skis. The rest of the time I was in the south of Sweden or in Florida. With my kids. The car was parked in a garage in Stockholm.”
JW realized: no point in pushing it any further. Holbeck’d said enough. He ended the conversation.
The next day, he Googled Holbeck for hours. Finally ended up in the archives of Aftonbladet. Holbeck was mentioned in articles about luxury vacationers. It was true: He had a house in the south of Sweden and one in Florida, and he’d been skiing in the States the same year that Camilla disappeared. Maybe the IT millionaire wasn’t involved.
There was one more yellow Ferrari, after all. JW looked up the leasing company, Dolphin Finance, Ltd. Just the name gave off sketchy vibes. He got in touch with the National Registry of Incorporated Companies. The administrator on the other end of the line was helpful, told him that the company’d gone bankrupt a year ago. All the assets-the cars and boats-had been bought by a German company. There wasn’t much more JW could do. It was almost a relief. He could let the Ferrari go. Or could he?
A honk from the street. JW looked out and saw Nippe in the Golf that’d been a twenty-first-birthday present from his mom and dad.
They headed south on the freeway-on the road to peeps, parties, possibilities.
A classic Swedish hip-hop song on the radio. JW wasn’t a big fan of hip-hop, but he couldn’t help but dig Petter’s lyrics: “The tide has turned.”
It applied to him. Big-time. His time had come-to stop living a double life, to become like them, for real. To get even deeper in the clover. Eat them for breakfast.
They chatted. JW listened. Nippe had the hots for Lollo. Nippe thought Jet Set Carl’d had attitude last weekend-who did he think he was? Nippe complimented JW’s Canali blazer. Nippe discussed the latest reality-TV show. Nippe had verbal diarrhea.
“I might quit the finance focus. Thinking about marketing instead.”
JW’s interest, lukewarm. “Really.”
“Marketing’s where it’s at, especially branding. Sell any product at any price, no matter how cheaply it’s made. As long as it’s branded and marketed correctly. There’s such fucking potential.”
“Sure, but in the end it’s your core business that matters, the leverage of capital employed, the financing. If your marketing costs too much, and you never really make a profit, you die.”
“Sure, but you make money. Just look at Gucci and Louis Vuitton. The clothes, the boutiques in Stockholm, the fashion collections, all of that is just an excuse. What really makes it rain are branded accessories. Shades, perfume, belts, purses. China-made crap, little stuff. Branding, that’s, like, all it is.”
In JW’s opinion, Nippe wasn’t the sharpest brat in the pack, and today he’d apparently gotten hung up on one word. Like a broken record.
They chatted on.
JW dug life. Next month, he’d triple sales. He did some mental arithmetic: added, subtracted, multiplied. He saw sales curves, credit, cash. He saw a bull market in himself.
It took an hour to get there. Nippe told him it was an old manor where Gustaf’s parents lived. The parents-good friends with His Majesty King Carl XVI Gustaf.
Gustaf welcomed them. JW made the same analysis of the guy as the last time they’d met: He was the essence of a backslick brat. Dressed in a tweed jacket, white chinos, red cravat, checked shirt with double cuffs, and Marc Jacobs loafers. Slicked hair stiff as a helmet-lion mane of lion manes.
The main house was over 21,000 square feet. Two massive crystal chandeliers dangled between the pillars in the hall, and paintings of snow-covered landscapes hung on the walls. A curved staircase led upstairs. Gustaf introduced them to Gunn, “the housemother,” as he put it.
“She’s the one who looks after me when Mom and Dad are gone.”
JW retorted, “I guess that’ll be needed tonight.”
Gunn laughed. JW chortled. Nippe giggled. Gustaf guffawed, loudest of them all.
Definite good vibes. Gustaf seemed to like him.
Nippe and JW were led away by Gunn, who got them settled in a guest room in one of the wings of the house.
JW fingered the manila envelope in his pocket. Fourteen grams, just to be on the safe side.
Dinner was served at seven-thirty. Beforehand, Sophie and JW played tennis doubles against Nippe and Anna. Seven-five. Six-four. Four-six. Seven-five. Spirits soared among the winners. Nippe was a bad loser, threw his racket on the ground. Anna stayed calm. JW hadn’t really played tennis while growing up and thanked his natural athleticism for his ability to impress-made it look like he’d been playing all his life.
They showered. JW napped for half an hour. Nippe took a shit.
They changed into tuxes. JW had a secondhand Cerruti that he said had cost twelve grand. The actual damage was 2,500. Nippe wondered if JW’d brought some gear. “Seems like you’re reliable these days.”
JW didn’t know if the comment was good or bad. Had he moved too quickly?
He laughed. “Sure, I’ve got some. You want a taste?”
They split thirty milligrams, enough for a mild rush.
The coke hit right away.
They were slammed unexpectedly fast with a fit of giggles.
They walked down the stairs to the cocktail party in the salon. JW felt like the world’s most intelligent human being.
The fourteen other guests waited with champagne glasses in hand. JW scanned the crowd.
The guys: JW, Fredrik, Nippe, Jet Set Carl, Gustaf, and three other dudes.
The girls: Sophie, Anna, Lollo, and five chicks JW hadn’t met before. They were all upper-crust creamers. Girls with good genes. Rich dads equaled hot moms, or the other way around. They knew how to make themselves up. How to apply the right rouge, the best eye shadow, smooth foundation. Above all, they knew how to rock self-tanner for a sun-kissed look. They knew how to dress themselves, how to cover up the flaws: a somewhat saggy belly, a thick waist, too-small breasts, too-flat back. They highlighted their strengths: nice neck, full lips, long legs. Fit, slim girls. Odds were, they all had luxury gym memberships.