Life Deluxe (35 page)

Natalie let the neg thoughts go. She knew what had meaning in her life.

The body pump class’d been hard—she liked to push herself. She could still feel her heart beating fast. Her body was warm. The sweat rose like steam from her head and arms. In the mirror that covered one wall, she could see that her face was red.

She reflected about the summer. A difficult time, with so many sleepless, tear-filled nights that she’d almost lost control. She’d isolated herself—couldn’t deal with seeing Viktor too much, spent time with Louise and Tove only at her own house. She didn’t go along with them to Saint-Tropez or Gotland. She didn’t go along with them on their nighttime adventures around Stureplan. She didn’t even go along with
their jokes and sense of humor. She just wanted to become grounded in herself—become stable enough to handle law school in the fall.

She didn’t want to involve them in what was truly important—finding out more about what happened to Dad. Who’d taken his life.

She’d called Goran in June, a few days after she’d trailed the Louis Vuitton chick to Solna.

They met up at Natalie’s house. Talked briefly in the hallway. Goran wanted them to take a walk in the neighborhood. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “For safety’s sake.”

Natalie understood. He was right. There was no reason to take risks.

She threaded her arms into her short leather jacket. They walked out.

The streets were empty. Summer vacations hadn’t started yet, so her neighbors were at work.

Goran asked how she was feeling. Then he said that everything about Dad’s death had been unnecessary. He said it in a different way than before. He didn’t use any clichés about Dad being up in heaven among the heroes and so on. He cared.

They walked up to a wooded area where she used to play as a kid. Natalie liked this place. The trees, the rocks, and the pinecones belonged to her. This was her world.

She turned to him. “Goran, I want to ask you a favor.”

They continued walking. Goran put some snuff under his lip.

“Like I said, I took those binders.”

Goran picked his nose.

“There was some information about a weird apartment.”

Goran scratched his ear.

“Don’t you care about what I’m telling you?”

Goran turned to her. The snuff was dripping down over his teeth. “I’ve already told you. You’re his daughter. I’ll support you and help you in whatever you do, you know that. But you’re the one who chooses the path. Not me.”

Flashback: Goran’s words in the parking lot outside the hospital after the meeting with Stefanovic. He’d promised her his loyalty. Promised to live according to promises made.

They talked for a while.

“The police aren’t doing their job,” Natalie said. “I don’t really give a shit how they treat me. But they don’t seem to have a clue who did this to Dad. So I want to deal with it now.”

They discussed different strategies for how Natalie could get hold of information about the police’s investigation. She’d recorded the most recent round of questioning. When she told Goran about that, he suggested she have a lawyer send a threatening letter to the police. And he would also see if he could help in other ways. Check with Thomas Andrén, the ex-cop who used to help Dad. He could put some hooks out among former colleagues. Pull some strings. Make it worth their while.

Natalie ruminated: she still hadn’t told him about the girl she’d trailed. Should she go that far? Either Goran didn’t know about the apartment, or no one wanted her to know about it. Still: she couldn’t be alone in this.

She went out on a limb, all the way. Told him how she’d found the apartment. That she’d tried but failed to find the keys. That she’d gone there. That she’d seen a girl her own age enter and exit the apartment.

That she’d trailed the chick to Råsundavägen.

They stopped walking. There was a pile of pinecones on a rock.

“I want you to find out who this girl is,” Natalie said. “And you need to be honest with me, even if it’s something embarrassing.”

Goran picked his nose again. He didn’t have any manners.

“If it’s embarrassing, let it be embarrassing. But I don’t want to speak badly about the dead. A man is a man, that’s all there is to it. And a man like your father probably needed places where he could be a man.”

“I hear what you’re saying.”

“But when it comes to this apartment, all I can say is that I didn’t know about it. I’ve never heard about it before.”

Natalie looked at Goran. He was unshaved. Dressed in his usual style. Poor posture. He said he didn’t know anything about the apartment. Still: she trusted this man. His entire being was radiating one and the same thing:
I care
.

Right now that felt so incredibly good.

“And the woman?” Natalie said.

“Not her either,” he responded. “But that’s no problem. I’ll find out all there is to know about her.”

Goran’d put Thomas on the case.

They installed Skype on their cell phones. Neither Goran nor Thomas was particularly good at computers, but they still knew about safety. The thing about Skype—the police couldn’t listen in even if they’d tapped one of their phones.

The ex-cop’d called her two weeks later. “Hi, it’s me. Thomas Andrén.”

“I can see that. Have you gotten anywhere yet?”

“Somewhere, anyway. Her name is Melissa Cherkasova, she’s originally from Belarus, but she’s lived here for five years. She speaks Swedish and lives alone in that place in Solna. She is twenty-five years old and doesn’t seem to have a regular job.”

“So who is she? What does she do?”

“Let me put it this way: she meets men at hotels.”

Natalie fell silent. Took a few breaths. “What men?”

“So far, I’ve seen her meet two different guys. Twice each. At the Sheraton Hotel.”

“Who are they?”

“One’s a Brit and just seems to come here on business. The other one is Swedish, middle-aged. I don’t know much more about him. They don’t come down to meet her, she goes up to their rooms. But I’ve got some photos of the old boys.”

Natalie took a few more breaths.

“Thomas, find out everything you can about them.”

* * *

Thailand. Pattaya. Queen Hotel. A fully private bungalow with a pool.

Jorge was lounging in bed. Staring up at the ceiling. It was decorated with painted pussies.

The air conditioning was buzzing—it sounded like it was dripping.

Thailand. Pattaya. Queen Hotel—100 percent whore den: when Jorge’d booked the rooms, the hotel’d asked if they wanted a
special reception
. He knew that would make the boys happy.

Eleven hours to Bangkok—they flew two days after the heist.

Two hours to Pattaya—they took a minibus. Pattaya was the biggest tourist nest near Bang-cock—easy to disappear into the crowd. Perfect stopover for robbers on the run.

Many weeks at Queen Hotel—the restaurant’s menus included prices for girls. Thailand hadn’t changed—the exact same feeling as the last time he’d been there, four years ago. The palm trees, the parasols, the pedophiles—everything a little too up close for comfort. The only difference: the last time he was here, they’d been playing the Police, Dire Straits, U2. Now: American R&B everywhere.

But the weather was sweet, and they were lying low.

Jorge turned over in bed. Grabbed the watch that was resting on the nightstand: it was heavy. An Audemars Piguet Royal Oak Offshore. The face was forty-four millimeters in diameter, nineteen millimeters thick. He hadn’t been able to resist the temptation, despite the Finn’s
mandamientos
. The day after the heist, he went to Nymans Ur on Biblioteksgatan. Shelled out for the freshest, phattest model they had. He could’ve ordered it online or bought it in Bangkok. But that wasn’t the same—part of the thing: walking in and paying cash in the middle of Svenland’s swankest street. Floss, get a receipt, a guarantee, and a Sven who bowed to him, smiled, and brownnosed until the shit came out of his ears.