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immaculate. Saar is a good housekeeper. An iron skillet is on the stove. It’s weighty, a good weapon of opportunity. I try to pick it up, it’s stuck to the burner it rests on. I tug, it comes free. I feel its heft, then turn it over and look at the bottom. It’s smeared with blood that has hair stuck in it. I show it to Saar. “Looks like this is what you and Iisa got whacked with.”
    Milo comes back in. “No forced entry,” he says.
    I show the pan to Milo and sit down with Saar again. “Your story doesn’t hold water. It looks to me like you two fought, she hit you on the head with a frying pan, then you lost it and killed her-with gusto,” I add.
    He shakes his head hard, his eyes turn wild. “That’s not what happened. Iisa and I got along great. We never fought. I had no reason to hurt her.”
    “A married woman and her riding instructor. This reads like a romance novel. I can picture about fifty scenarios that would cause you to fight, maybe even get angry enough to murder her. Make me believe you.”
    “We had no differences. Our relationship was open and simple. We met a couple times a week and had sex. And we weren’t in love, we never used the word. It was just sex. We had fun together.”
    I admit, as bad as it looks for him, it’s convincing, as explanations go. “Who was her husband?” I ask.
    “Ivan Filippov. He’s originally from Russian Karelia. He owns a construction business that specializes in asbestos removal and industrial waste disposal.”
    When the borders were redrawn at the end of the war, Russia annexed a part of Karelia that was previously Finnish territory. Stalag 309, where my grandpa supposedly collaborated with the Nazis and participated in Holocaust, is also in that region.
    “Was Iisa born Finnish or Russian?” I ask.
    “She was a Finn, from Helsinki. She took her husband’s name when they got married.”
    “Did Filippov know about you and Iisa?”
    “I didn’t think so, until today. She said he didn’t.”
    “If your version of events is true and Filippov is the killer, why are you alive? Why didn’t he murder you along with Iisa? Killing you as well would have been more expedient.”
    He chugs whiskey, frightened. “Obviously, he wanted to frame me. If I go to jail for the murder, he gets off scot-free.”
    A member of the forensics team comes in. “We turned the body over. Want to take a look?”
    I thank Saar for his cooperation and tell the uniforms to take him first to the Pasila station for processing, then to the hospital for examination.
    Milo and I go back to the bedroom. A digital Nikon D200 and a Sony video camera are on tripods. Fingerprint dust covers surfaces. Scales and tape measures are scattered about. I check Iisa’s phone and find a text message Saar sent her yesterday morning, asking her to meet him here at seven thirty a.m. this morning. Her sent messages confirm the tryst. I’ll reserve judgment about Saar’s guilt or innocence. So far, I’ve found no evidence that he’s been less than forthright.
    The victim is on her stomach. Her reverse shows no signs of violence. I ask Milo, “See anything noteworthy?”
    He shakes his head. “No. We’re done here.”
    “Then let’s go talk to Ivan Filippov,” I say.

6
    A lutheran pastor, Henri Oksanen, often accompanies police to give the bad news to family members of the departed. I give him a call, he agrees to join us. Milo and I pick him up. We start out at just after noon and drive through heavy snow to Filippov Construction, in an industrial park in the Helsinki suburb of Vantaa.
    The business is in a large, corrugated-metal building. We walk in. Construction tools and materials line shelves and lie on the floor: everything from jackhammers to face masks and other protective clothing necessary for asbestos removal and industrial waste disposal. A gorgeous secretary greets us from behind a battered metal desk. She’s a dead ringer for the 1950s soft-porn and pinup star Bettie Page.