DUNJA HOUGAARD HELD ONE leg above the surface of the water and ran the razor up her shin. She wiggled her foot, happy to see that the months of Pilates had already made her legs look several years younger. She definitely couldn’t complain. People were seldom able to guess her true age. When she revealed she was thirty-five, they usually thought she was joking. And she couldn’t blame them — she’d never looked better.
In the past six months, she had gone through a dramatic transformation. Some of her old friends hardly recognized her. She had a new hairstyle, had stopped shopping at H&M, and amped up her exercise routine, which had finally burned off the last of the baby fat she thought would follow her to the grave.
She put down the razor, slid her head down under the water, and rinsed out the hair mask. She was finally starting to relax. The warm bath and all the pampering had helped drive away thoughts of work, which had preoccupied her mind earlier in the day. She’d had to cut her workout short to go home and unwind because her thoughts were spinning so out of control: one second she thought she had done the right thing, only to decide a moment later that she’d made a fool of herself. But now she had finally made up her mind once and for all: she had made the right decision. If they wanted to fire her, so be it. All she wanted was for the investigation to move forward. If the car could help the Swedes, then a setback in her career was a reasonable price to pay.
She stood up, pulled the tub stopper out with her toes, and turned on the shower. After rinsing herself off, she stood on the bath mat, took the top towel from the freshly washed stack, and dried herself to the sound of the bathwater disappearing down the drain. She rubbed lotion on her skin and it burned where she had shaved.
Dunja listened to the prolonged slurping noise from the tub as it emptied. She knew the sound was the drain’s cry for help, reminding her it needed cleaning. She had been meaning to do it for a while, but something had always gotten in the way. It seemed plausible that she wouldn’t fix it until the water was flowing onto the floor and into the living room, with its recently refinished floor.
She was just wondering if her condo insurance would cover that sort of damage when the doorbell rang. Her watch, which lay on the counter, said it was twenty minutes before midnight. Maybe someone had gotten lost? The bell rang again — long and insistent this time. Dunja put her kimono on and tied it at the waist as she walked into the hall. Could it be one of her more recent lovers? Although she’d always been careful never to bring them back to her place or to use her last name, three of them had managed to track her down. She hadn’t had any problem with the first two, and had been more than willing to let them in. The third had come to propose to her and had broken down when she kindly but firmly said no. Two pots of tea later, he had finally agreed to take a taxi home. She realized that, somewhere inside her, she was hoping it was one of the other two men at the door tonight.
She leaned toward the peephole but couldn’t see out into the stairwell. It was pitch-black. The doorbell rang again, this time at quick intervals, like a warning buzzer before an imminent blast. She turned the lock and opened the door.
“Mmm... just showered? Nice.” Kim Sleizner took a sip of the half-empty bottle of whisky he was holding in one hand.
“Excuse me, but it’s almost midnight. What do you want?”
Sleizner held up a warning finger and grinned. “You and me... we’re gonna... have a little talk.” He pushed past her into the apartment, and Dunja was left with the stink of alcohol in his wake.
He was standing at her iPod stereo when she walked into the living room, turning up the volume of Sade’s “Your Love is King.” Then he sank onto the sofa with legs splayed wide and took another sip from the bottle. “Perhaps you’re wondering why I’m here? I would be, if I were in your shoes — or your kimono. It’s pretty, by the way. Sexy.”
“Kim, I have no idea what you want, nor do I wish to find out. All I want is for you to leave — now!”
“That’s some tone to take with me when you’re already down for the count. I really ought to be offended, but I can’t help but think it suits you, especially in that kimono.” He gulped down the whisky and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Now, I want to know if you were the one who tattled to Ekstra Bladet.”
So that’s why he was here. He didn’t yet know that she had forged his signature and that the Peugeot was on its way to Sweden. With a bit of luck, he wouldn’t find out about the car until after he was forced to resign, which everyone was expecting in the aftermath of “Blowgate” — the name Ekstra Bladet had given to the affair.
Dunja took a few steps toward the coffee table and looked down at him. Don’t sit down. Don’t invite conversation. And for God’s sake, don’t show any sign of weakness, she said to herself.
“Kim, it’s no secret that you and I haven’t always gotten along, and that we tend to have different ideas about how an investigation ought to be run. But I would never sink so low as to contact the papers about your infidelities.”
Sleizner considered what she had said, and then rose from the sofa. He walked past her into the hall. “So that’s your statement? It wasn’t you? Interesting.” He stopped, turned around, and looked into her eyes. “So you had nothing to do with it?”
He must have been able to smell the whiff of hesitation as she wondered how to respond, which was a microsecond too long. “Listen, Kim —”
He cuffed her ear so hard that she thought her neck had dislocated. She could hear him shouting, but she couldn’t make out the words. Her cheek burned and throbbed in time with her heart. He grabbed her kimono and yanked her toward him. She felt his pungent breath encroaching on her. Then her hearing returned. It was as if someone had turned up the volume again.
“Don’t you think I know you’re lying? I know it was you!”
He knocked her legs out from under her and she fell straight to the floor. The recently refinished wood still smelled like varnish close up. He straddled her, clasping her arms above her head with one hand as he fumbled for her crotch with the other. His panting, stinking breath was right in her face. “Mmm... so smooth and shaven. How nice. Is that for my sake?” he rasped in her ear. “Maybe you could just feel that I was going to come for a visit? I know you want it. You just have to admit it. The first time I saw you I knew just what kind of woman you were, but you didn’t want to sleep with the boss and reap all the benefits. Fair’s fair, right?” His middle finger roamed about her clitoris. “But I have good news. Even though I’m your boss, I can guarantee that you will not reap a single benefit,” he said, shoving three fingers inside her. “Just so you know. I’m going to be on you like a fucking leech.” He moved his fingers up and tightened his grip on her pubic bone. It hurt, and she tried to twist out of his clutches, but he only pressed harder.
“And I’m not going to let go until I’ve sucked you dry.” He pulled his fingers out. “And even if I’m not always around, you should be afraid that I might suddenly show up, because I will — when you least expect it.” He tasted his fingers and wiped them on her cheek. Then he stood up and left the apartment.