The Golden Calf (39 page)

Hazel nodded. “Exactly. Falcone sent Rothstaahl’s key to Edward. So Edward didn’t need to break in. The apartment key was found in his rental car, where he was found, too. Falcone, after killing his victims, sent all the discs and computers he found to Edward. Edward had gone to Paris to look for more, which was when Irene and Kajsa stumbled upon him.” Hazel pointed at her own eye while looking at Kajsa, and they both grinned. “My theory behind the attempted murder of Sanna Kaegler is this,” she continued. “Edward sent his cell phone to Michael Falcone and told him how to lure Sanna out of the house. Only Edward knew the proper code. If you hadn’t been there, Sanna would have been killed, and Michael Falcone would have gotten away. We might never have cracked the case. Now, at least, you have Falcone in custody.”

“Is he going to talk?” asked Fredrik.

“He might confess to the attempted murder of Sanna Kaegler, but probably nothing else. Perhaps you can
convict
him for the other murders on the evidence you’ve gathered, but he will never confess to them. Attempted murder, yes. Premeditated murder, no.”

“Why anything at all?” Kajsa wondered.

“Because he needs to chill for a while. A short stint in a Swedish prison doesn’t look half bad to him. In fact, being in an American prison would be life-threatening. The Bonetti family would be waiting. And I’d guess that the Santini family hasn’t much use for him, either. He was a hit man working for
Edward Fenton, outside the family, and that’s not something they appreciate.”

Hazel looked down at her paperwork thoughtfully. She tapped the top folder with her glittering fingernail.

“Edward Fenton did his best to survive the Bonetti murder in one piece. He might have done it, too, if he hadn’t had the affair with Sanna Kaegler. In hindsight, that was probably the last nail in his coffin.”

F
REDRIK WAS GIVEN
the task of driving Hazel to the airport. She would be able to catch the last plane to London with plenty of time to spare. Irene was by her office window on the fourth floor and saw Fredrik and Hazel walking to his car. They were exactly the same height. Her long black hair flowed down her back, contrasting with Fredrik’s blond tufts. They made a beautiful couple. She watched them until they’d gotten into the car and Fredrik began to back the car out of its spot in the lot.

Sighing, Irene returned to her desk and sat down in front of the computer. She hadn’t had the chance to check her email for two days. The last message in her inbox was from Glen. It had been sent earlier that day. At the end, he wrote:

Isn’t Lee Hazel something else? You should have seen her at work here when she was going through all those discs at superhuman speed. She must have a computer between her ears. Maybe she’s a Terminator? At any rate, she’s much better looking than Arnold Schwarzenegger. Still, it’s easy to see why she doesn’t work in the field. She is much too noticeable!

Say hi to the family
,

Glen

O
N THE FIRST
Monday morning of November, Irene’s desk phone rang. After she answered, there was only silence on the other end. She was about to hang up when she heard someone clearing his throat.

“Hello. Good morning. It’s Billy—Billy Hermansson. I just wanted to talk to you and let you know that my mother passed away on Saturday. I was thinking about … your investigation. That is, she can’t be your witness any longer about what she saw through her telescope. And … I thought of calling you because I couldn’t think of anyone else who would even care.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Irene said. She was touched that Billy had thought to contact her. He was probably right, too. No one else cared whether or not Annika Hermansson had died. Irene thought a long few moments about what she knew. She decided to go right to the point.

“Billy … I know who your father is. Do you think you’d ever want to come down to the station and talk about it?”

There was silence on the other end of the line for a long time.

“No,” he said slowly. “I don’t think I want to know. At least, not yet. Maybe later. It’s too much to deal with now, with Mamma’s death and all.…”

“I understand. I’ll get back to you,” Irene said.

Once they’d hung up, Irene sat silently at her desk for a long time, until she decided what to do. She took out the business
card from the pile of things in her desk drawer, where it had lain for weeks. She stuffed it into a small white envelope. She carefully sealed the envelope with a piece of wide tape. Then she wrote a message on her computer:

Dear Billy
,

In this sealed envelope is a business card, which belongs to your father. If you don’t care to deal with it now, I suggest you put this envelope in a safety deposit box. You can get it when you feel ready to know. Otherwise, you could always burn it unopened
.

If you decide to contact your father, do not tell him how you got this. Instead, tell him that Annika told you when she was delirious during her final illness
.

I wish you the very best for the future
.

Yours
,

Irene Huss

Gunnar Lindstedt, author and journalist. His books
Trustorhäven
and
boo.com
inspired me to find out more about how great sums of money can vanish. Gunnar has also been kind enough to review sections of this book. His grasp of economics is much greater than mine.

Morgan Johansson, ornithologist and my neighbor. He has been extremely helpful sharing his knowledge of binoculars, which play a major role in this book.

Eva Odd, my hairdresser, who not only helps me figure out how to deal with my hair but is also knowledgeable about motor boats.

Inger Brunbäck, my childhood best friend, who has lived for many years on Styrsö. I have visited many times, and now I can comfortably rearrange the geography of the island and the surrounding rocks and smaller islands to suit the needs of this book. The houses described here do not exist in reality (at any rate, not where I’ve placed them) and my description of the southern archipelago does not correspond to the sea charts.

The author wants to make it absolutely clear that because of the geographic changes, this book cannot serve as a guide, for either Göteborg or Paris. The reader is discouraged from
attempting to navigate the southern archipelago of Götheborg using the geographic descriptions found in this book.

All resemblances to any persons living or dead is coincidental and not the intention of the author. The single exception is the dog Sammie, who has no objection. Since he is my dog, he’s managed to remain aloof from all literary fame and takes life as it comes.