RASMUS SUSIKOSKI LETS his chin rest on his crossed fingers and studies the collage of photographs and text snippets arranged on the wall. The conference room is still. There’s not the tiniest hint of Micke’s gum chomping, Nina’s sighing, Yusuf’s whistling, Erne’s raspy breathing, or Jessica’s fingernail drumming. He is finally alone. He’s always been happiest by himself. Even at law school, he preferred to delve into his books and leave the strutting and socializing to those for whom it came more naturally. He’s a lone wolf. He has never felt like he belonged, even at work.
Rasmus knows he’s different from the others in a lot of ways: an introverted bookworm who can never manage to open his mouth when he ought to. He has always been struck dumb at those very moments when verbalizing his thoughts would take life in the desired direction. It’s the greatest tragedy of his life. He has often wondered if his lack of success with women is the reason for or a consequence of this. Probably both.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Hey, Susikoski.”
Riikka Woodward steps into the room, and Rasmus’ heart skips a beat. Not because the investigative assistant has new information regarding the case, but because Rasmus, emboldened by a few shots of candy pink liquor, approached her with romantic intentions during a team-building cruise the unit took last October. And got a bitter smackdown in return.
“Yes?” The simple response almost catches in Rasmus’ throat.
“The report from the water utility came in.”
“Anything interesting?” Rasmus takes off his glasses; the temples feel sweaty in his fingertips. He rubs his eyes, and for a moment, the room looks blurry. It’s what he was hoping for. Maybe Riikka won’t be able to see him now either.
“I looked for consumption spikes of about twenty-five hundred liters. One challenge is that most of the old apartment buildings and homes in the area have old-fashioned meters, the kind that are read once or twice a year. The meters with remote capability that upload information directly to the cloud—”
“Well? Did you find any?”
“Yes. A cottage in Kaitalahti. Water consumption about zero otherwise, but five days ago, it was a serious deluge. About three, four thousand liters.”
“What—”
“And guess whose name is on the mortgage. Maria Koponen.”
Rasmus puts his glasses back on. “You’re kidding. How the heck could we have missed that?” Suddenly it feels hard to sit still; Rasmus stands. “Unless a pipe burst . . .”
“And was repaired the same day—”
“. . . that’s the tub we’re looking for. There’s not a doubt about it. We have to get a SWAT team out there.”
Rasmus opens the door and lets out an incredulous laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“Now we’re going to get those assholes. And it’s thanks to Micke’s idea, goddamn it.”