Available Dark: A Crime Novel (Cass Neary) (14 page)

Then silence.

I lifted the tonearm and stared at the record spinning soundlessly. Wind shook the walls; hail battered the lone window. At last I switched off the turntable and examined the album sleeve’s back cover. No song titles. No band photo or production credits. Inside, only a blank paper jacket.

Nothing more. It seemed like a self-annihilating thing for an unknown band to do with their first album, but maybe that was the point.

I removed the LP from the turntable and held it to the light. In the old days, you’d sometimes find messages etched into the run-out groove in the middle of a record, like “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law” inscribed on the original pressing of “Immigrant Song.”

The groove on side one of
Dod Svart Sol
was smooth and glossy as though oil had been poured onto it. I turned the record over, tilting it back and forth until I saw it.

There was no bolt of radiance as in Ilkka’s photographs; just a knot of coiled lines, fine as though etched with a sewing needle. I brought the disc closer to my eyes and lost the image, and after another minute’s scrutiny, found it again. Half the size of a fingerprint, and almost as difficult to see: three skeletal arms, each with a bony hand that formed an interlocking pattern where it grasped a wrist. In the center of the image was a ghostly face created by the negative space left by the surrounding images.

The same symbol that was tattooed on Quinn’s chest.

I stared until my eyes watered. What the hell was it? A record company logo? Then why would Quinn have it tattooed on his chest? I tried to remember what I knew about Viðar, other than the band’s fleeting association with Ilkka. I came up with nothing. What had been their appeal for Quinn—or Ilkka? I could see how the brutal music might have attracted a Quinn numbed and hardened by prison. But Ilkka seemed far too coolly genteel, corked way too tight for adolescent satanic pyrotechnics.

Though I guessed that might have been the allure, if you were a smart, middle-class kid from the Helsinki suburbs, the kind of college student who got off on crime-scene photos. Maybe that whole dark, violent Oslo scene had shaped the teenage Ilkka the way the downtown New York scene had shaped me a million years ago. Until he grew out of it and got a life and career and family—everything he wanted, till someone snuffed him.

I started to put the album back on the turntable when I heard the sound of a car. Quickly I slid the LP back into its jacket. Halfway in, it stuck. I pulled it out and tried again, but the same thing happened.

Something else was inside. I edged my fingers into the opening and felt around till they closed on a thin piece of cardboard. I pulled it out: a lurid vintage postcard, the now-familiar greeting scrolled above a horned figure who dragged a sled that bore two weeping children bound with chains.

GRUSS VOM KRAMPUS!

I looked at the back of the card. It was blank.

Outside, the car’s engine died. I pocketed the postcard, shoved the LP into its cover, returned it to the carton, and hurriedly draped the plaid blanket across it. I strode back into the living room just as Quinn stepped in, shaking rain from his coat.

“Dinner.” He handed me a steaming bag. I sat on the bed and waited for him to join me. “Sorry it took so long. The place was hopping.”

I didn’t trust myself to speak, but Quinn didn’t notice. We sat without talking and ate greasy burgers and reconstituted French fries stained red with paprika. When we were finished, Quinn smoked another cigarette, then threw his arm around me.

“You tired?”

“Not really.”

“Good,” he said, and pulled me down beside him.

16

Hours later Quinn’s cell phone started beeping. Quinn slept through it, so I reached for it and stared blearily at a two-word text message.

help galdur

Looked like Baldur had gotten so wasted he’d misspelled his own name. I dropped the phone and dozed off till I was awakened again by a “Gimme Shelter” ringtone. This time I shoved the phone in Quinn’s face. He looked at the time and sat up, groaning.

“Shit, it’s after eight. I have to get back to the city; market’s only open on weekends.” He pointed to a counter. “Coffee’s there.”

I made coffee, went into the bathroom, and showered. When I walked back into the living room, Quinn grabbed me by the shoulder.

“What the fuck?” I tried to push him away.

“What were you doing in Helsinki?”

I stopped cold. “What do you mean?”

“What I just fucking said. What were you doing in Helsinki?”

“I told you—I was checking out some photos for Anton.”

“What photos?” He shook me so hard my jaw snapped. “Whose fucking photos, Cass?”

“A guy. A photographer named Ilkka Kaltunnen.” I glared at him, rubbing my jaw. “Don’t hand me this shit, Quinn! You were the one who gave my name to Anton.”

“Anton’s dead.”

“What?”

“I just talked to Baldur. They found Anton in a parking garage at the Helsinki airport. He’d been strangled. Someone shoved a candle in his eye.”

“A candle? What the hell are you talking about?”

“You tell me.” He pushed me against the wall. “Ilkka—what happened with him?”

“I don’t know,” I stammered. “Anton gave me an address. I got a cab to the place and talked to him. Ilkka Kaltunnen, the photographer. I hardly saw him. He showed me some photos he’d done. Anton was interested in buying them.”

“What photos?”

“Bondage pictures.” The lie came quick as breath. “Girls, a bunch of Asian girls, all trussed up. From Bangkok. Underage, probably, I didn’t want to know too much.”

Quinn held my eyes, then shoved me away. “Did you know Ilkka was dead when we got here last night?”

I wouldn’t push my luck with another lie. “Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know. It was all so … I mean, I just found you yesterday; everything happened so fucking fast. I just saw it on TV yesterday, in a bar here in Reykjavík.”

“Did you tell Ilkka you knew me?”

“Why would I do that? I had no clue you knew him, or Anton. I couldn’t pick Anton out of a police lineup.”

“Well, now you won’t have to.” Quinn grabbed some clothes from the floor. “Baldur got a text message from Anton on Friday, the same message I just saw this morning. Baldur didn’t text Anton back till last night. No answer. He tried calling Anton, still no answer. So he called a friend in Helsinki. The police are all over it.”

“Fucking shit.” No wonder Anton had misspelled Baldur’s name. It was probably the last thing he did. “Are they … does anyone know about me?”

“I don’t know. But Ilkka’s place was ransacked. Bondage photos.” He fixed me with a grim stare. “Why would Anton need you to look at bondage photos?”

“I don’t know. I told him the deal was a go, far as I was concerned. I thought
he
killed Ilkka. Him or someone he hired, a hit man.”

“The police say Anton was killed sometime Friday afternoon; they only found him in the parking garage yesterday. I doubt he was the killer—Anton liked to let other people do his dirty work for him.” Quinn tossed me my leather jacket. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Kolaportið. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I’m gonna act like nothing’s wrong until I figure it out. You can check into a hotel or something and wait for me.”

I threw the jacket back at him. “I’m not going anywhere. Anton owes me money; I don’t have shit till he pays me.”

“Then you better get used to shit, because Anton’s not paying anyone anytime soon.”

“You knew him. Ilkka.”

I pulled the Krampus postcard from my pocket and held it up. Quinn stared at it, his deep-set eyes burning inside a skull mask. “Where did you get that?” he asked in a low voice.

“Tell me how you knew him.”

He grabbed the postcard and threw it aside, then clamped a hand around my wrist. “Listen to me. You have to leave. There’s an afternoon flight to New York. Change your return ticket; I’ll drive you to the airport.”

“I don’t have a return ticket. And my credit card’s tapped out.”

“I’ll pay for it.”

“I told you, I can’t go back to New York. I’m wanted for questioning about Kamestos already.”

“Goddammit, Cass, this is fucked,” Quinn shouted. “You have no idea how fucked! I don’t know what you were doing with those guys, but this is some seriously bad shit. You’re like a fucking bad penny, you know that? I was out of my fucking mind to go after you yesterday. I should’ve let Einar take care of you.”

“You knew what was going on?”

I hauled back to punch him, but he pushed me away.

“No, of course I didn’t know.” He leaned against the wall and clutched his head. “I still don’t know. And you know what? Don’t fucking tell me, because I don’t want to know. Bredahl’s a sick Pekingese, and Ilkka—Ilkka’s worse. I know he went straight and all that shit, but trust me, the guy used to sniff formaldehyde to get off. He’s a fucking necrophile.”

“Huh.” I looked at him disdainfully. “Nice friends.”

“Yeah, well, I know you, right?” He pounded the drywall. “I can’t afford to get mixed up in this. There’s too much old shit you don’t know about. I could be deported, and if that happens, I’m fucked six ways from Sunday.”

“Same with me.”

“Yeah, but the difference is maybe no one here knows who you are, yet. Maybe no one gives a fuck. Or maybe not. But they know me. There’s more people in Newark than in this whole country. Everyone knows everyone else. Everyone’s related to everyone else. You can’t hide, Cass.”

“So I’ll just lie low.”

“Like you lay fucking low in Helsinki?”

“You seem able to disappear when you want.”

“That’s because I’m not a total fucking idiot, like some people I know. You’re too old for this, Cass. I’m too old for it.”

“Not too old to deal drugs.”

“Who told you that?” He went into the storeroom and returned with a carton of vinyl. “It’s more like a hobby. I’m trying to keep it that way. Look, Baldur just got a call from a guy who has some rare albums he wants to unload. He set up a meeting with the guy, but I can’t trust Baldur with shit. He let go a Sun Records Elvis 45 once, worth five grand. So I have to get down there before I end up with a thousand dollars worth of crap. You can’t stay here while I’m gone. And I’m not taking you with me to Kolaportið. I don’t know what I’m going to do.” He headed to the door. “I’ll figure something out.”

I got my stuff and followed him to the Jeep.

It was mid-morning and the air felt mild, almost springlike. Stars faded above a sea that paled from indigo to cobalt. By the time we hit the suburbs, sunlight flared along the distant mountaintops like grass fire. Neither of us had said a word. Quinn pulled the car into a church parking lot, ignoring the curious glances of people chatting nearby. He stared at a pair of gulls squabbling over a piece of trash. I dug into my bag for the Focalin, popped two, and held out the bottle. Quinn poured some pills into his palm and swallowed them, continuing to stare as the gulls tore apart a pizza box. I watched him uneasily from the corner of my eye. Finally he started the car and pulled back into the street.

“Where are we going?”

“Brynja’s place.” He didn’t look at me. “Baldur’s sister.”

“Baldur told me she hates you.”

“What, did you run a background check? She does hate me, I guess. But she loves her brother, and he’s my business partner. She’s got a gift shop; it’s in a lousy location. She makes more money when she’s at Kolaportið. But you probably won’t run into anyone there. She’s usually at the shop on Sunday doing accounts.”

“You’re not going to call first?”

“That’d just give her the chance to say no.”

The shop was in a block of shabby little buildings with a view of distant snowcapped mountains, a dream of winter against the blue sky. There was an old gray Opel parked out front. Tattered flyers in the windows advertised Ayurvedic massage and elf tours. Brynja stood in the doorway, smoking a cigarette. She scowled when she saw the car pull up.

“Wait.” Quinn opened the glove compartment, withdrew something, and turned to hand it to me. “I want you to take this.”

I looked at him in disbelief. “Are you out of your fucking mind? I don’t have enough problems, you want to give me a fucking gun?”

“Take it,” he urged. I punched his arm.

“I’m not touching that. Put it away, damn it.”

He glared at me, shoved the gun back into the glove compartment, and slammed it shut. “You know what your problem is, Cass? You can’t think ahead. You’re incapable of seeing three seconds into the future, unless there’s a fucking bottle there.” He turned to open his door. “Don’t move.”

He hopped out and hurried toward Brynja, greeted her perfunctorily, then began talking in a low voice. Brynja listened, her dark eyes fixed on me. Finally she shook her head. Quinn took her arm and bent his head to murmur into her ear. With a grimace she pulled away, threw the cigarette at the Opel, and stormed inside.

Quinn waved me over. “She says you can hang here for a couple hours.”

“Yeah? What’d it cost you?”

“I told her I’d give Baldur the next two months off. With pay. I’ll come back for you in a few hours.”

“A few hours when?”

“I dunno. Let’s say two o’clock. If I’m going to be late, I’ll call Brynja.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know.” He stared across the housetops to the mountains. “Just wait for me. Whatever happens, don’t leave. Got that? Do. Not. Leave. I’ll figure something out.”

He took my chin in his hand and gazed at me for a long moment, pulled me to him, and held me close.

“Cassie,” he murmured. “You are a royal pain in my ass, you know that?”

He turned and walked to the car. I watched it pull away, dread tightening my gut, and went into the shop.

17

Brynja sat behind a counter, staring balefully at a computer register.

“I know this is some drug thing. Or more prostitutes. Lock the door.” She looked up at me—a photographic negative of her brother, angry dark eyes and black hair, her lips a spiteful curve. She looked at least ten years older than Baldur, mid-thirties maybe. “Quinn is an evil man.”