SERGEANT JESSICA NIEMI ties back her shoulder-length black hair into a ponytail and pulls on a pair of leather gloves. A bright signal sounds as she opens the passenger door; the engine is still running.
“Thanks for the ride.”
The man at the wheel yawns. “It’s probably best if no one knows who dropped you off.”
They look at each other for a moment as if each is expecting a kiss. But neither will make the first move.
“This was so fucking wrong.”
Jessica steps out of the car and narrows her eyes; the icy wind scrapes her face. It has snowed heavily, and the plows rumbling over at the school haven’t made it to the waterfront yet. Jessica shuts the car door and sees a large contemporary house looming before her: a compact front yard, an arborvitae hedge clipped at eye level, a wrought iron gate. Two police vans are parked on the street out front, and based on the sirens howling in the distance, more are on their way.
“Hey there.” A man decked out in heavyweight blue police coveralls steps out from behind one of the vans and walks up to Jessica. “Officer Koivuaho.”
“Jessica Niemi.” She shows her badge, but her colleagues in uniform have already recognized her. She has caught a few of the nicknames in passing. Sergeant Sweetcheeks. Lara Croft. PILF.
“What happened?” Jessica asks.
“Goddamn it. . . .” Koivuaho takes off his navy blue cap and rubs his bald head.
Jessica waits patiently for the officer to pull himself together. She glances over at the house and sees that the front door is ajar.
“We picked up the call at ten fifteen. Taskinen and I were pretty close, so we were the first patrol to show up.” Koivuaho gestures for Jessica to follow him through the gate. She does, acknowledging the officers waiting near the van with a nod.
“What did dispatch say?”
“We were told that there was a suicide threat at this address,” Koivuaho says as they step up onto the porch. A puddle of melted snow has formed on the flagstone floor of the entryway. The wind dies for a second, and Koivuaho continues: “The door was open, so we went in.”
It is only now, under the bright porch light, that Jessica sees the depth of the fear in the husky man’s eyes. She curls and uncurls her aching fingers and allows her mind to form an image of the situation based on the little she was told a moment ago on the phone.
“So there’s no one else in the house?” she asks, even though she knows the answer is negative.
Koivuaho solemnly shakes his head and puts his wool cap back on, pulling it down to his ears. “We checked both floors. I have to say, my heart has never pounded so hard. Plus there was that damn music coming from the speakers.”
“Music?”
“It was, like, inappropriate for the situation . . . too mellow.” Koivuaho hands Jessica the basic protective gear: gloves, face mask, a pair of disposable shoe covers. She bends down to slip the blue plastic booties over her black sneakers. Her holster slides a hair toward the floor.
“Where’s the body?”
“We tried to leave the place uncontaminated,” Koivuaho says, then coughs into his fist. Jessica brushes a strand of damp hair from her forehead and walks toward the picture windows giving onto the sea. She passes a powder room and the kitchen and enters the living room, where the walls are all glass. The emergency lights glaring through the enormous panes make the furnishings pulse blue in time to her heartbeat. The room looks far too much like an aquarium to be comfortable, but when Jessica sees the figure sitting at the head of the table, she abruptly stops assessing the room’s aesthetic dimensions.
Jessica pauses and tries to figure out why the woman sitting almost upright in her chair looks so incredibly unnatural. She takes a few steps closer, and her stomach drops.
“Have you ever seen anything so creepy?” Koivuaho asks somewhere behind Jessica, but she doesn’t hear the question. The dead woman’s face is twisted up in a hysterical grin. Even her eyes are laughing. The expression is in utter contrast with the fact that this woman lost her life just a moment ago. She’s wearing a black evening gown, its most prominent feature a plunging neckline, and her crossed hands rest on the table. The table is otherwise bare. No phone, no weapon. Nothing.
“I felt for a pulse. I haven’t touched anything else,” Koivuaho says, and now Jessica turns to look at him. Then she warily steps up to the woman and leans in to examine the face distorted in an unnatural expression.
“What the hell . . . ?” Jessica mutters in a voice so low that the only one who could hear her would be the woman, if she were still alive. Jessica glances down and quickly observes that the bare feet have been crossed underneath the chair, and a pair of matte black Jimmy Choo spikes have been placed tidily on the floor next to the chair. Both the toenails and fingernails have been painted a glossy black.
“Koivuaho?” she finally says, returning her gaze to the forced euphoria of the woman’s face.
“Yes?”
“You called this in as a homicide. Even though this doesn’t seem like your typical suicide, it—”
“Shit.” Koivuaho gulps, takes a few steps toward the table. A trickle of sweat runs down his knobby temple, behind his ear, and vanishes between his thick neck and the collar of his coveralls. He appears to avoid eye contact with the lifeless woman as he tentatively continues: “Didn’t they tell you? The call to the emergency number . . .”
Jessica is getting impatient. “Yes?”
“She didn’t place it.” Koivuaho pauses for a few seconds to lick his parched lips. Jessica knows what he’s about to say next, but even so, hearing it makes her shudder.
“It was called in by a man.”