NINA PULLS UP outside a large home in Westend that, superficially at least, appears to be of an era and style similar to the Koponens’ house in Kulosaari. Nina hasn’t been to the Koponens’; neither she nor Mikael has visited any of the crime scenes over the course of the case, but she has stared at hundreds if not thousands of photographs that the others have carried back or sent to the station. So she has grown acquainted not only with the Koponen and von Bunsdorf residences and the storefront on Korkeavuorenkatu, but ample examples of shoreline, forest, and field. Places that share nothing in common but that are bound together by what is perhaps the grisliest series of killings in the history of Finnish crime.
“What do you think? How did Mr. X’s teeth end up in our dinners?”
“I don’t know. But I do know that that asshole,” Mikael says with a nod toward the house, “is the one who ripped them out of the victim’s mouth last night.”
Nina rotates the vent to blow against the windshield, which has fogged up.
“You coming?” Mikael asks, and makes sure the Velcro straps of his Kevlar vest are secure. They’re not assuming force will be required during today’s arrests, but they know not to take pointless risks with these witch hunters.
“You go ahead with the boys,” Nina says, eyes glued to the house. The blue emergency lights sliding across the white plaster remind her of a work of contemporary light art. Bright lights blaze in nearly every window.
“Is that him?” Nina asks, pointing at a floor-to-ceiling expanse of glass on the second floor. The man who has made his appearance there is dressed in white sweatpants and a black knit top.
“Goddamn it,” Mikael says, and pops a piece of gum into his mouth. “That’s Torsten all right.”
Torsten Karlstedt raises a hand in greeting.
“Holy hell. What’s he doing?”
Mikael grunts. “Hell’s exactly where he belongs.” He glances at his watch; it’s midnight. His phone rings; he answers it with a single word and hangs up. The group that has moved into position outside Kai Lehtinen’s house in Vantaa is ready to go. “When it comes to what he’s doing, you’ll be able to ask him yourself before long.” He opens his door.
Nina feels a cold breeze on her face. Then the door shuts, and Mikael joins the group of four men in coveralls. Nina watches them advance across the front yard. Once they make it to the door, one of them starts circling around to the back. Nina notices her leg bouncing restlessly. It’s hard to believe Karlstedt would try to run. But almost anything is possible. Could this be a trap? Is he about to blow up his house and himself just to cause more chaos?
Karlstedt disappears from the window, and a moment later the front door opens. He stands there on the other side of the threshold and, as far as Nina can tell, is perfectly calm. Nina sees him vanish for a moment and then emerge wearing a red parka. She watches the escort as it makes its way to the van without incident. Once Karlstedt is finally ushered in through its rear doors, Nina shuts her eyes and lets out a long sigh of relief.
The door opens, and Mikael sits down at her side. Nina keeps her eyes closed, but she would recognize the gum-chewing in her sleep.
“What a sleazeball,” Mikael says, unzipping his coat. Nina shoots him a questioning look. “You can tell he’s guilty by the look on his face.”
“It’s written on his forehead?”
“Yup. In huge letters. Besides, if you’re named Torsten, there’s got to be something wrong with you.” Mikael holds out his hand, and Nina smiles and takes it. “Were you worried?” he asks.
“Don’t think for a second that what you just did makes me think of you as an action hero. You guys might as well have been playing with Barbies out in the yard. That’s how dangerous it was.”
“Fuck that. Weren’t you watching? Our lives were at risk. Torsten tried to kill me with garlic.”
Nina laughs and starts up the car. “Was the arrest in Vantaa equally dramatic?”
“Apparently. Lehtinen was led to the car without any fuss.”
“And hey, dork. Garlic is for keeping vampires at bay, not witches,” Nina says as the two vans in front of them pull out.
“My bad. I guess I need to brush up on my Harry Potter.”