Bonereapers by Jeanne Matthews Page A

Eftevang had had any contact with WikiLeaks, but she didn’t want to kindle Aagaard’s suspicions if he didn’t know already. That really could get her in trouble. “Do you know where Eftevang was staying?”
    “In a room over the pub. It’s been padlocked by order of the police.”
    “How about the bartender? Did you interview him?”
    “Yes. He recalls that Fritjoe was there last night, drinking beer and preaching about the evils of American biotechnology until shortly after ten. He seemed sober when he left.”
    “Did he leave alone?”
    “The bartender couldn’t be sure.”
    “Could he give you the names of any of the customers the man was preaching to?”
    He grinned. “I’ve talked enough. It’s your turn now.”
    “I’m sorry to tell you, Brander, but I don’t know anything.”
    “You know whether Senator Sheridan and his Tillcorp cronies are, how do you say, circling the wagons.”
    “They are concerned about the possibility of unfavorable publicity.”
    “They should be. I’m going to pick up where Eftevang left off.” He flicked his cigarette against the edge of the table, raining ashes onto the floor. “The murder took place sometime after ten o’clock. Has anyone got an alibi?”
    “No one’s accounted for his time to me.”
    “Inspektor Ramberg will demand it. My sources tell me he’s persistent. Often at odds with the establishment, but effective. They say he’s a Sami from over the border in Finland.”
    “Sami. Is that the same as a Laplander?”
    “Lapp is no longer politically correct. The etymology of Lapp derives either from a word meaning ‘dumb and lazy’ or a patch of cloth used for mending. I’ve heard he got his job through Norway’s affirmative action program. ”
    Dinah felt a knee-jerk defensiveness. Her Seminole ancestors had been despised and persecuted at a different latitude, but she felt an instinctive solidarity with anyone whose tribe was dissed by the dominant culture, even if the only member of the tribe she’d met had the personality of an iceberg. “Inspector Ramberg impressed me as a very competent investigator.”
    “I don’t know. The Finns are a backward lot. Cold, stubborn, glum. But I’m told that Ramberg’s no respecter of pomp or power. Your senators won’t intimidate him.” He took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled with a smile of deep satisfaction. “Ramberg interrogated me at my hotel last night about the missing laser. Did he interrogate the senators?”
    “I don’t know. I think so.”
    “How did the female lawyer act? I’ll bet she yowled like a wet cat.”
    “I wasn’t present for any of the inspector’s other interviews.” Dinah didn’t doubt that Val would have questioned Ramberg’s authority to search the senators’ rooms. Following news of the murder, her first instinct had been to claim diplomatic immunity. Even if she had yowled a bit, Keyes’ inclination to cooperate had probably prevailed. In any case, the inspector had searched the Sheridans’ room while Erika was present—just before she vanished like a mirage. Dinah wondered if she had told the truth about not having any friends in Norway. “Do you know anything about Fata Morgana?”
    “Mrs. Sheridan’s musical alma mater, you mean?”
    “Yes. They were a few years before my time, but I’ve listened to some of their hits on golden oldie radio. They were good.”
    “They were a sensation despite the fact that they recorded only in English. Fata Morgana was the name of their first big hit and they took it for the band’s name.” He rested his cigarette in a saucer, closed his eyes, and erupted into song. “ That girl, whose kisses drive you to the brink ,” he drummed his fingers against the table, “ that girl spells danger and it’s closer, closer, closer, yeah, it’s closer than you think .” He picked up the cigarette between his thumb and index finger and squinched his eyes. “Erika Olsen was the inspiration for that song.