“Is it hard to talk?” I ask.
“Not if I don’t open my mouth too wide.”
“It’s a stupid question, but how are you?”
“Do you want the gory details?”
“Yes.”
“I’m burned to a crisp from the midsection down. I’ll need several surgeries, skin grafts, I can’t remember what all they said, but it’s bad, and it will be a couple years until it’s over.”
The only thing I can think of to say is I’m sorry, but those are paltry and tepid words, inadequate to her suffering, so I say nothing.
She can’t smile because of the burns, gauze and plastic, but she tries. “You should have made love to me when you had the chance. Those parts won’t be in working order again for a long time.”
I lie. “Yes, I should have. I wish I had.” I change the subject. “Where are your parents?”
“They flew in from Rovaniemi and have been here most of the time. I told them to go to a hotel and get some sleep.”
“If they need anything, have them call me.”
“Do you know anything about my condition?” she asks.
“The doctor told me what he could after he finished with you in the ER.”
She has a self-administered morphine pump. She doses herself. “I’m afraid they lie to me, to keep my spirits up. Please tell me what happened to my face. Tell me the truth.”
“Your face was farthest from the fire and so the least damage was done to it. You suffered third-degree burns to much of your lower body. From your lower torso and upward, you suffered first- and second-degree burns. If you looked at yourself in a mirror now, it would startle and frighten you, but it will pass, and most of those more minor burns will heal to a great degree within a few weeks. Your hair burned off. But hair grows.”
She sniffles, tries to keep from breaking down, keeps trying to smile. “I was beautiful just a couple days ago. This seems impossible.”
Her eyes are uncovered. She closes them and I kiss her on their lids. “You’re still beautiful, inside and out. It’s hard, but try to be patient. When they unwrap it and you see your face, you’ll realize that for yourself.”
She tries to squeeze my hand. It makes her wince. “Kari, I love you. Whatever and whoever else you have in your life, I want you to know that.”
I take a moment, try to decide what to say to make her feel the best. “And I want you to know this. If circumstances allowed it, I would have returned all the love you’ve shown me. I would have been proud for you to be my life partner. I would have been proud if you were the mother of my children. Since you walked into my life, I’ve thought of you as a godsend, and I love you, too.” There is a modicum of truth in most of this, but the last is a blatant lie. I just don’t love her.
She weeps quietly, and we share a few moments of silence.
“What will happen to me?” she asks. “I won’t be able to walk for a long time. Who knows when I’ll be able to work. I don’t want to live in this hospital for months.”
“You’ll stay with us. I’ll get you in-home care.”
Mirjami gives herself another jolt of morphine. “I don’t think your wife will appreciate that.”
No, she won’t. “You two were becoming friends. You took care of her and Anu when they needed it. You took care of me when I needed it. I can’t imagine her objecting to us taking care of you.”
Yes, I can. I picture strenuous objections. But that will be a few weeks away. I’ll deal with it then. It’s the right thing to do.
I wait for Mirjami to speak, but she’s passed out. The combination of morphine, burn trauma and exertion from talking put her lights out. Before I leave, I inform her doctor that I’m treating the fire that put her here as a criminal investigation, and ask him to call me immediately if there are any changes in her condition.
29
I have an appointment at three p.m. with the Russian ambassador’s wife. I ask Milo to drop me near the fountain where we’re to meet. She’s already there. Loviise said she “looks like a magazine,” and indeed she does. Many fashion models would envy her looks. She wears pumps with one-inch heels and, with them, is about as tall as I am. But unlike me, most of her height is composed of thin, coltish and spectacular legs. She’s model skinny, dressed in a not quite mini-skirt and sleeveless top. Her honey-blond hair is cut above shoulder length and curls over her ears, toward eyes the color of glacier-blue ice set in a face that speaks of childlike innocence. Hardly the face of a killer.
She, of course, recognizes me because of my wounds. We greet, shake hands. The esplanade is one of my favorite spots in the city, a long and well-manicured park that runs through the city center. The harbor and a market square are at one end of it, the trendy restaurant Teatteri-Theater-occupies the other. A Dixieland jazz band is playing on a pavilion not far from Kappeli, one of Helsinki’s oldest and most classic restaurants, close to the fountain. Both restaurants have large outdoor patios, places to people-watch, to see and be seen. The sun, warm weather, sea breeze and blue sky make a day spent with beers here on a patio inviting.
“Where would you like to go?” I ask.
Her smile would melt the heart of any man. “It doesn’t matter. You can choose.”
An ice cream stand is near to us. I nod toward it. “How about a double-scoop cone and we sit here on the edge of the fountain.”
I didn’t think it possible, but her smile broadens even more. “It’s been ages since a man bought me ice cream. You’re quite charming for a policeman.”
I laugh. “You just don’t know me yet.”
Yelena turns flirtatious. Her eyes dance. “You seem to presume I will get to know you.”
“Trust me,” I say. “I presume nothing.”
We get our cones and sit on the edge of the granite ring surrounding the fountain. “I’ve never known quite what to make of this statue,” Yelena says.
“You’re not alone. Opinions have been divided since it was erected in 1908. It’s called the Havis Amanda. A mermaid standing on seaweed surrounded by four fish and four sea lions.”
“So you’re a charming detective and a historian as well.” Her smile disappears, replaced by the expression of a shrewd and calculating woman analyzing me. “What is it you wish to discuss with me?”
Pistachio is my favorite flavor of ice cream. It’s starting to melt. I lick a ring around it to keep it from dripping. “Several things. Why did you murder your lover?”
She screws up her mouth with distaste. Or disgust. “Where to begin? I am chattel. My husband, the ambassador, is a wealthy and powerful man. My father is an even more rich and powerful man. They reached a bargain for me. My husband paid for the privilege of my hand in marriage, primarily with oil and gas stocks. Our marriage was a kind of merger.”
I joke. “No pigs or sheep involved?”
It gets a grin out of her.
“And why the shoplifting?” I ask, more out of curiosity than anything else.
This gets a belly laugh. “Because it drives my husband crazy! I may be his wife, but I’m still Daddy’s little girl. My husband must take everything I do in stride and fix the problems I create for him. I get bored and create problems.”
“Does ‘everything in stride’ include your affair with Sasha?”
“In a sense, but he punished me by telling me the truth about Sasha, that he was deeply involved in human trafficking and forced other women to have sex with him. I was in love with Sasha, my husband ruined it, so he got his revenge.”
“And you got yours and killed Sasha.”
“He went from my bed to that apartment, where, by the looks of things when I entered, he intended to defile a filthy little urchin. Every person has limits, and I confess, I do tend to let my temper get away from me.”