Behind God's Back by Harri Nykänen

Sometimes he would get seriously blitzed. One night that week at his cottage, he had sat at the shore singing “Jambalaya” for a good half-hour straight, sounding like a bear with bronchitis. At one point he had mixed up the words and bellowed about “Polish piroshki down the bayou.”
    If Eli was feeling blue, he’d switch from “Jambalaya” to “The Death of the Farmer’s Lass”: “Before them lay the bog, rough boards bridged the mire…”
    I had listened to “Jambalaya” non-stop until he passed out on the granite boulder. The loyal little brother that I was, I kept sitting there at his side, even after it started to rain. He woke up soaking wet and chilled to the bone.
    â€œUp for a beer at the Sea Horse?” Eli suggested.
    â€œNot tonight. I just got off work an hour ago.”
    â€œHave you guys got anything yet?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWell, I won’t twist your arm. Some other time.”
    â€œWe found the killer’s car,” I said, watching Eli’s expression.
    â€œGood. Solve the case.”
    â€œIt was stolen in Tallinn.”
    â€œPretty clever.”
    â€œIt was owned by an Estonian investment company called Baltic Invest.”
    Incredulity played across Eli’s face until he realized I was serious. It was clear that this was news to him. “Are you shitting me?”
    â€œThey reported it stolen a couple of weeks ago.”
    â€œQuite the coincidence. You don’t think I have anything to do with it, do you?”
    â€œHard to imagine that you would. But I have to admit, I don’t believe it’s a coincidence.”
    Eli stopped and looked at me, perplexed. “What could Baltic Invest have to do with Jacobson’s murder?”
    â€œYou told me that he didn’t make all of his payments. Maybe the company sent a killer to remind him that they weren’t the ones to screw around with.”
    â€œBaltic Invest is not Assassination Ltd. And like I said, we have collateral. Jacobson even put up his house. Believe me, it has to be a coincidence,” Eli insisted, but he looked like he didn’t even believe it himself.
    Eli glared at me and I glared at him. Then we parted in opposite directions. After a few yards, I glanced back. Eli was just disappearing behind some bushes, turning into the park. I had the distinct impression that we hadn’t seen the last of Eli’s business affairs.
    I had brought Jacobson’s computer home. Ethel had given me the password, so I was able to access both the saved documents and email. The laptop was pretty new and didn’t contain many files. Jacobson had written some ordinary business letters, plus a few to his daughter in Israel. I felt like I was breaking the bounds of propriety when I read them, but they didn’t contain anything of interest in terms of the investigation. The biggest surprise was that Jacobson was writing his memoirs.The structure was a straightforward chronology, starting from his youth and approaching the present day. The final entries talked about the 1960s and how he met his future wife. They had been introduced to each other in the lobby of a movie theatre. The name of the film had been Exodus .
    The style was ponderous and swelled from catalogue-style reportage to sentimental syrup. It was hard to imagine a publisher being interested in it. He was probably writing it for his children and grandchildren.
    Jacobson’s email correspondence had been brisk, but most of it had to do with the company. I read a few messages that had been sent to clients; they were almost imploring. They appealed to long-lasting business relationships and reminded the clients how conscientiously their wishes had always been taken into consideration. The company must have been doing poorly and Jacobson must have been desperate; there’s no other way he ever would have written those emails. He must have been ashamed.
    I kept