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impatient, I didn’t start asking him questions about the investigation, which he had led. The case was closed after all. That definitely wouldn’t be a good way to start out our new working relationship.
    The meeting turned out long and muggy, since Ström was in no rush to get home and there was no breeze outside. He and his wife had divorced four years earlier, and their kids, Jani and Jenna, stayed over at Ström’s studio apartment every other weekend, but they were with his ex-wife this weekend.
    After the meeting I felt reasonably up to speed on all of the open cases and the approaches Ström had taken. The previous night there had been a run-in between a Finnish gang and a Somali gang in downtown Espoo. I had felt pretty important as I assigned Puupponen and Wang to investigate. This was the third clash between the gangs, and we needed to defuse the state of war before there were more confrontations and tensions amplified. From what Wang said, I got the idea that Ström had been firmly on the Finnish gang’s side. Ström held an obvious disgust for any and all immigrants, unless they were white and brought home gold medals.
    Despite all his prejudices, Ström had a sharp eye for policing. And while his analysis of the details could be skewed at times, he usually had a good grasp of the overall picture. Ström seemed to want to show me that he had handled leadership of the unit better than I ever could, so he explained his investigative methods in extensive detail. In another mood he could just as easily have concealed information.
    “Do you have your car?” he asked when we finally wrapped up after his third cup of coffee and about tenth smoke break.
    I nodded.
    “Could you drop me off at the train station? I’m headed into the city.”
    “Of course.” I took his request for a ride as a sort of attempt at an olive branch, which seemed to come from Ström in the most surprising situations.
    Once we had closed up our offices and got to my car, I tried to reciprocate. “What are you up to tonight?” I asked as I accelerated out of the parking garage.
    “I thought I’d start getting shitfaced at Planet Hollywood. Hirvonen is probably already waiting there,” Ström said, referring to his drinking buddy. Hirvonen worked in the crime lab. “I can take it a little easier on the weekends now that I’m not in charge of anything. What about you? Is your old man watching the offspring?”
    “As you know, her name is Iida. Iida Viktoria Sarkela. I took care of her for a year, and now it’s Antti’s turn.”
    “Ah. The boys and I were sure a feminazi like you would never birth a boy.”
    “Shut your face or you’re walking the rest of the way,” I said, though not angrily. Ström’s nastiness about my feminist tendencies gave me some latitude to toss back my own sexist comments when I felt like it. The fact that Ström was making fun of Antti taking paternity leave was no surprise. Even my own parents had been confused. Antti considered his leave, which would last at least until Christmas, as a much-needed breather from university politics.
    We were both satisfied with how our family life was set up, so why the hell did I feel so restless?
     

     
    The people I had met on Rödskär wouldn’t leave me in peace, even on the weekend. On Saturday my in-laws came by to celebrate Iida’s first birthday. Antti’s mother brought a copy of a magazine I didn’t usually read.
    “When you were on Rödskär, you met Tapio Holma, the opera singer. There’s an article about him in here.”
    The title was “How to Survive Life at a Turning Point.” There were three interviews: a businessman who had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer; a female priest whose only child had died in an accident; and Tapio Holma, an opera singer who had lost his voice.
     
    Tapio Holma, 42, won the Timo Mustakallio singing competition sixteen years ago. His career as a schoolteacher fell by the wayside when the opera stages of German