Life Deluxe (23 page)

She could hear Patrik continue to talk back out in the hall.

Finally, a cocky cop voice said, “Listen, buddy, calm down. We’re the ones who’ll decide if there’s something for us to find or not. And if you don’t quit it, we’re going to have to call for backup.”

Natalie’d heard enough. She left the kitchen. In the hall outside: she listened for the cops’ voices. She was several rooms away from them now.

She walked past Mom and Dad’s bedroom. It was empty. A six-foot-high headboard—like a canopy bed but without the canopy. The king-size bed was bedecked with a purple satin coverlet with the large Kranjic coat of arms embroidered on it.

The wall-to-wall carpeting muted her footsteps.

She walked past Mom’s bathroom, the den, her own bedroom. A bend. She walked past the guest room where Patrik was staying. The door to the library and Dad’s office was three yards away.

Now she could hear Patrik’s angry voice at a distance. Good—he was still arguing with the cops.

She opened the door to the office. The solid oak desk was covered in a large leather pad. On top of that was a pile of papers and a paperweight with the Kranjic coat of arms on it, a closed laptop, and a pencil stand—several of the pens had the Kranjic coat of arms on them. There was a real Persian carpet on the floor and decorative vases all around. On the bookshelf: books on finance, piles of paper, binders.

There was no time to be picky. Natalie moved toward her goal like a well-trained dog: the bookshelf. She grabbed as many binders as she could carry. Opened the door with her foot. Glanced back into the office one last time. There was one more thing she wanted to bring with her—an open binder on the desk. Dad must’ve been looking at it before he died.

She set down one of the binders she was carrying. Grabbed the binder on the desk. Total: she was able to carry seven binders if she balanced them on both arms at once. If there was time, she would come back and grab more.

She left the office. Walked down the hall.

She heard voices.

Cop voices.

Jerk voices.

Natalie opened the kitchen door. Walked out the back way to her car. Hoped that the cop fuckers didn’t see her.

She drove into the city. Called Louise to ask if she could stop by. Louise wasn’t home. She called Tove. Drove to her house with the binders.

She was back in her car again. She’d had a nap. Talked to Patrik, who guaranteed that there was nothing to worry about. He said all the important stuff was kept with Dad’s accountant, Mischa Bladman, at the offices of MB Accounting Consultant AB.

The cops’d cleared out Dad’s office. Natalie didn’t say anything about the binders she’d managed to take with her.

Now she was on her way to Södersjukhuset, the hospital that Stefanovic’d been moved to. It was conversation time.

She had plenty of time. Drove through the city. In by Norrtull. The Vanadis roundabout with lots of annoying pedestrian crosswalks where people ran straight out into the street. The city hadn’t been washed over with that familiar summer lull yet.

She drove Karlbergsvägen. Glanced down St. Eriksgatan. You could see all the way over the bridge to Kungsholmen, almost all the way to Fleminggatan. An unusually long view in her line of vision. A slice through the city. An artery that pumped life into Stockholm. Dad’s territory. Her territory.

She parked the Golf in a visitors’ parking lot below the hospital. Almost forgot to lock the car. Pressed the button on the key when she was twenty yards away. She heard the lock click.

The main entrance was large. She eyed the people. Old men with walkers, seven-year-olds with casts and their moms in tow, Somalian women draped in layers upon layers of fabric despite the sun that was shining outside. Natalie had no idea how she was going to get to the unit where Stefanovic was being cared for. She was afraid of getting lost.

But that wasn’t all. She was also afraid that she wasn’t going to be able to handle this. The meeting with Stefanovic wasn’t all. Stuff was happening constantly. The day before yesterday: she’d been called in
for questioning with the police regarding the murder. They wanted to know what she’d seen on the street when the bomb exploded. Yesterday: the funeral. Today: the panicked binder-rescue mission right under the cop fuckers’ noses. And every day since Dad’d been murdered: terrierlike journalists who wanted her to comment on the events. What the fuck did they think—that she was going to open up about her feelings to
them
?

Unit 43.

She walked slowly down the corridor. A guy who looked to be around twenty-five was sitting outside one of the rooms. Natalie didn’t recognize him, but she recognized the style—track pants, a zippered sweater that said
BUDO NORD
on it, plus-size muscles, and distrustful eyes. He had to be one of Dad’s employees.

She nodded at the guy. He rose and opened the door for her. Natalie stepped inside.

A bright room. Windows looking out over the water, Årstaviken. Flower print curtains and furniture in light colors. Textured wallpaper, linoleum floor, and one hundred percent hospital feeling.

Stefanovic was sitting propped up by pillows in the bed that stood against one of the walls.

Goran, Marko, Milorad, Bogdan were sitting in chairs. One chair was empty.

Stefanovic’s face looked pale. Other than that, she couldn’t see any traces from the explosion. She almost couldn’t look at him—everything reminded her too much of Dad.

“Dobrodošao.”

Stefanovic remained where he was. The other men rose, kissing her on the cheeks, one by one.

Natalie sat down in the empty seat.

Stefanovic propped himself up even taller against the pillows and said, in Serbian, “Good, everyone’s here. We can begin.”

He turned to Natalie. “It’d be good if you’d turn off your cell phone.”

Natalie met his pale eyes. “It hasn’t been on for a long time. The journalist assholes, you know.”

“I understand.”

He looked dead serious.

“I appreciate that we could all get together so soon. First of all, I
want to say that I’ve heard from many sources that yesterday was very dignified. An important manifestation for us. Many powerful people were present. Dmitrij Kostic, Ivan Hasdic, Nemanja Ravic. Magnus Berthold, Joakim Sjöström, and Diddi Korkis, to name a few. I am happy for your sake, Natalie.”

Stefanovic’s spiel was weird—he was talking more about the guests than the actual ceremony. But Natalie didn’t say anything. Let him finish.

“And now we have to deal with the reality at hand. Two things. First of all, we have to save Kum’s assets. The Economic Crimes Bureau has visited the Kranjic family at home and also demanded the bookkeeping material from the accounting firm. If it wasn’t for my condition, I would’ve dealt with the binders days ago, but it’s too late now. The companies are probably going to be getting some pretty unfortunate letters from the tax man pretty soon. Natalie, I want to tell you that you should expect to get the same demands directed at the estate. There are accounts in several countries that we have to look into and secure. I have a suggestion for an estate manager for you.

“We are getting into formation,” Stefanovic went on, “readying ourselves to face every mommyfucker who thinks we’re down for the count. I promise you, the little punks out there think we’re going to lie down and die just because Kum Rado is gone. I’m assuming you’ve all already been called in for questioning with the police. They’ve been here anyway, and I got the distinct sense that they don’t want to investigate this properly. You know, the cops aren’t doing shit. They don’t want to find the murderer. No—they’re happy that Kum is gone and see their interrogations as a way to press us for information. And they want a war to break out in this city in order to make us all weaker.”

Natalie was listening. The men discussed the issues that Stefanovic’d raised. Goran and the others offered their opinions. Discussed plans. Talked alliances. Analyzed: who was a friend and who was an enemy.

And throughout, Natalie couldn’t help but note: Stefanovic was laying down the law like a little mini-boss there in his bed. Seemed like he thought he was the new Dad.

They name-dropped gangs, ghettos, prisons. They talked about deliveries of amphetamines, bouncer companies, and foreign weapons dealers. They discussed the companies briefly. Delegated tasks. Hoped that Mischa Bladman’d managed to save as much material as possible. She still didn’t say anything about the binders she’d hidden away.

Natalie was familiar with most of what they were talking about. But some things were news to her. She let the men talk. Played ignorant. Listened.

Learned.

They ended the meeting an hour later.

She felt tired. Dizzy. Confused. That she’d even been invited to participate in this meeting—a new feeling. At the same time: Stefanovic’s attitude was strange.

Goran followed her down to the car.

He spoke Swedish now. “How are you, honey?”

“Fine,” she lied. “It was good that I was allowed to be here for this.”

“I was the one who thought that was best.”

“Thank you. I’m being questioned by the police again soon.”

“Okay. In that case, I want you to think about a few things.”

“What?”

Goran told her how he thought she should behave. Not answer unnecessary questions. Not speculate with any theories of her own. “You can’t help them find Kum’s killer anyway.”

Then he suggested that she record all the interrogations on her iPhone from now on.

Natalie thought that sounded strange.

Goran said. “No, it’s not strange. If they don’t do their job and find your father’s murderer, we might have to take this into our own hands.”

She promised to think it over.

“It was important that you were there today,” Goran said. “You’re the daughter.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re Rado’s daughter. You’re the heiress. I heard what Kum said in the hospital. Do you understand? I heard.”

“Yes. We’ll have to talk about that some other time.”

“Absolutely. And hey, you should get another cell phone number. And when you’ve done that, could you please inform me of the number? Do it through Patrik. Don’t call.”

“I understand. I won’t call.”

“And one more thing.”

Natalie wondered what he would say next. She was so tired right now.

“Do you and your mom have a good sense of the estate’s assets?”

“I don’t really have such a good sense of it, but I heard what Stefanovic said. I haven’t had the energy to deal with it. But we’re going to hire a lawyer who can deal with the tax authorities.”

“I don’t just mean because of the tax authorities. There are a lot of other sticky fingers out there.”

Goran walked toward her. His gray temples almost looked white in the sunlight.

He kissed her on both cheeks.

“Try to find out what’s in the estate. That’s my advice to you.”

Natalie nodded. Was too tired to wonder what he meant. All she wanted to do was go home and sleep.

“So, is everything okay?”

Natalie didn’t know what to say.

Today: the most important preparation of all. Or really: the time of preparations’d passed—it was starting now.

Two days ago: Jorge’d been given the time by the Finn, who’d been given it by the insider.

Plus: Jorge had his own plan. There were pro opportunities out there. Soon one of his bros was gating out: JW. A
vato
in the know. Had continued working his business inside the walls. Advanced shit. Money transferring, dough kneading, zillion-zero-adding. To put it simply: laundry. JW would be able to take their booty and make magic happen. Total makeover: instead of paper—digits in accounts. Tied to the finest credit cards. Miles from the Finn’s dank Södertälje hideouts.

A new life. For real.

Obsessed with the daydream: the delivery of the year. Summer paychecks plus bonuses, the extra withdrawals from the ATMs before the citywide vacation month kicked in, the tourist invasion of the city—everyone needed cash. And cash had to be transported to Stockholm’s ATM machines. What’s more: the insider’d given the Finn new leads: they had a new unloading routine, they had new GPS transmitters, they might have additional flow from the vault. The dude seemed like he was the fucking CEO of the security company or something.

It was starting now.

Like, shit, IT WAS STARTING NOW.

Jorge, Mahmud, Tom, Sergio: on their way out to the helicopter base.

Tom: a star—he’d done ill research,
à la
Al Qaeda preproduction.

Three questions.

The fence: Tom’d done some math. Asked around. Read up on other robberies. The Finn was right: an angle grinder was a bad idea. But according to Tom: they’d be able to bust through the gate if they had a vehicle that was big and heavy enough. Suggestion: wheel loader,
dumper, or motor grader. Tom’d even test-driven through a gate at a construction site with a wheel loader. It wasn’t as hefty as the sliding gate at Tomteboda, but still. It oughta work.

They made up their minds. Jorge informed the Finn. The dude agreed, it was a good suggestion. The only hitch: they probably wouldn’t be able to bring the vehicle back with them after—risk of DNA traces was a big no-no. Jorge thought:
Tom’ll probably come up with something
.