“It’s about an American journalist,” she said. “He arrived at Arlanda from New York last Sunday and I’ve already received two tips about him.”
“What’s his name?” asked Waltin and leaned forward to get a better look at the text on her computer screen. What a delightful scent, he thought. Like rosy, freshly bathed skin.
“Jonathan Paul Krassner, goes by John,” she said. “Born in 1953.”
CHAPTER V
Between Summer’s Longing and Winter’s End
New York, New York, in December
[FRIDAY, DECEMBER 6]
When Johansson and his companions arrived in New York they were met by a biting wind, and his first move was to buy a heavy jacket and a sturdy pair of shoes. Wonder if they have them with a hollow heel? thought Johansson, smiling to himself as he stood in the store with the robust winter shoe in his hand. Heel?
“What do you call this?” asked Johansson, indicating the heel with his thumb.
“ ‘Heel,’ sir,” the clerk said politely. “You want them with a different heel?” he asked.
Johansson shook his head and smiled.
“No,” he said. “These are fine the way they are. I think I’ll wear them, so you can just put the old ones in a bag.”
That evening he and his two traveling companions went to a restaurant for dinner. At first they considered going to a Swedish restaurant with a good reputation located close to their hotel, but after further discussion they settled on an Italian one that the officer from the Interpol section had visited the last time he was in New York.
“It’s excellent, if you like Italian food.” The officer from Interpol nodded to underscore what he was saying. “A few officers here in town tipped me off about it last time I was here. It’s supposed to be a frequent haunt of the local Mafia bosses, and that’s a good sign, of course.”
“So herring and a shot is out of the question,” objected the officer from narcotics. “Instead you’ll be shot from behind with your head landing in a bowl of spaghetti with meat sauce.”
“You’ve missed the point,” said Johansson jovially. “You can eat herring when you get home, can’t you? You have the whole Christmas holiday ahead of you.”
And because he was the boss, Italian food is what they had.
“There’s a very good Italian restaurant a few blocks from where I live, but I must confess this risotto is hard to beat,” said Johansson a few hours later.
“It’s the truffles that do the trick,” said the Interpol chief inspector, who had eaten a meal or two while in service.
“Is that those little black bits of sawdust?” asked the narcotics chief inspector suspiciously. “I was just wondering.”
“It’s a remarkable mushroom,” said the one from Interpol. “It’s said to grow best if fertilized with human blood, at least if you believe that tale, and they grow best of all, it’s said, if the blood is from someone who’s been murdered.”
“Why don’t you take it, then? If they’d been a little bigger I could have pushed them to the side, but these are way too small. Especially now when you have a little red wine under your belt.” The head of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation’s narcotics squad smiled wryly and raised his glass.
“Maybe you should try grating a few truffles over the herring,” said Johansson, smiling. “Combine the Swedish and Italian food cultures, if I may say so.”
“The Swedish is good enough for me, herring and a shot and new potatoes with dill.” The narcotics chief inspector sighed nostalgically.
“What plans do you gentlemen have for tomorrow?” asked the Interpol chief inspector, changing the subject. “If there’s any interest, I can arrange a little educational field trip. I spoke with my friends this afternoon.”
Sounds interesting, thought Johansson. I can phone that woman who knew Krassner in the morning. If I end up calling her at all.
“Sounds interesting,” he said. “I have a few things to do in the morning, thought I’d shop for a few Christmas presents, but in the afternoon and evening I’ve got nothing better to do. Sure, I’ll gladly put the squeeze on the local bad guys.”
“Me too.” The chief inspector from narcotics nodded and there was a gleam in his eyes. “It’s going to look brilliant in the travel report the boss, here, is going to turn in. No rest for the wicked regardless of whether it’s a Sunday or a workday or wherever on earth you are. Such is a simple constable’s lot.” He grinned at Johansson.
“Then it’s a deal.” The officer from Interpol nodded.
[SATURDAY, DECEMBER 7]
Johansson waited until ten a.m. before he phoned Krassner’s ex-girlfriend. In the back of his mind he had the idea that she was probably the type who preferred to get up late if given the choice, which she no doubt could on a Saturday morning. He had brooded a good deal besides, before it even occurred to him to pick up the phone. It would be simplest, of course, to forget about the whole thing, he thought. Agree with Jarnebring’s theory of a little half-crazy suicide who for unknown but probably uninteresting reasons had chosen to store a slip of paper with Johansson’s complete name, title, and home address in a shoe with a hollow heel. A shoe with a heel with a hole in it, thought Johansson, and sighed.
He let go of that thought, however. Johansson had been curious even as a child, and that thing about the hollow heel was simply too much. Which was not to say that it was wise to phone her if it was his own curiosity that he wanted to appease. If he looked at the matter purely professionally it was almost always better to show up unannounced and simply knock on the door of the person in question. Or forget about knocking if that was the way it was. But this isn’t the right time for that, thought Johansson, so what do I do now?
With the help of a friendly receptionist at the hotel, he had carried out certain preparatory measures the day before. First he double-checked the telephone number he got from Wiklander. Not because he didn’t trust him. Wiklander was almost as capable a police officer as he himself had been at the same age, but better a check too many than one too few, thought Johansson. Weissman’s telephone number was in the phone book, so that had been simple enough, and because the address was the same as in his notebook it was quite certainly correct: Sarah J. Weissman, 222 Aiken Avenue, Rensselaer, New York. In addition he realized that Rensselaer was right across the river from Albany, which clearly was the capital of the state of New York. Like Solna and Sundbyberg in relation to Stockholm, thought Johansson.
“What’s the easiest way to get there?” asked Johansson.
“By train from Grand Central Station,” the receptionist explained. “Takes a little less than three hours if you go on the express. I can get you a timetable. They’re quite frequent even on weekends. Besides, it’s a really beautiful trip along the Hudson River,” she added. “Not like this,” she said, nodding toward the street outside the swinging lobby doors.
Wonder if it’s as beautiful as driving along the Ångerman River, thought Johansson.
I can take the train on Sunday morning, Johansson decided. Look around a little, see how he lived, perhaps exchange a few words with his ex-girlfriend since he had to be there anyway. The most practical, of course, would be to phone her ahead of time. There was nothing that suggested she was a common criminal who would cut and run if a Swedish policeman phoned to talk about an old boyfriend. Or was there? Johansson thought and sighed. Six of one, he thought, and dialed her number.
After a half dozen rings he got her answering machine. She sounded chipper and happy, so possibly he had been mistaken about her morning habits.
“Hi,” she said happily. “This is Sarah and I’m not home. Leave a message.”