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Essi navigated the deck with the same effortlessness, and in any other scenario, Raisa would be thinking how perfect they were for each other. Slick and polished and pressed.
“Larissa Parker, in the flesh,” Essi said, grinning playfully. “The baby of the family.”
Raisa snapped back to attention. “Raisa Susanto. FBI Agent Raisa Susanto.”
“Right, of course,” Essi said, waving aside the correction, the slim gold bangles on her wrist clacking together. “And you are the good Agent Callum Kilkenny.”
“Yes. May we have a few moments of your time, Ms. Halla?” Kilkenny asked.
“Of course,” Essi said, dropping onto one of the bench seats, still seeming very amused for no good reason. Raisa and Kilkenny took the one opposite of her. When she asked, “Should I have my lawyer?” it came out teasing.
“We’re not here in an official capacity,” Kilkenny said. “We just have a few questions for you.”
“What can I help you with, then?” Essi asked, one leg crossed over the other, forearms resting on her thigh, her posture open.
Not defensive.
“Can you tell us about your dealings with Isabel Parker?” Raisa asked.
“My dealings,” Essi repeated with a laugh. “Well, she killed my father.”
“Mikko Halla,” Raisa said, and Essi glanced at her sharply, seeming surprised. Raisa wouldn’t mention that Kilkenny had been the one to give her that information.
“Yes,” she said. “He wasn’t a confirmed kill for her, though.”
“So what makes you think Isabel was the one who was responsible?” Raisa asked.
“There was a cluster of deaths around us at the same time that have been connected to Isabel,” Essi said. “And my father’s suicide never made sense to me. The official story was that he killed himself in the garage, the ole carbon monoxide trick. But he didn’t drive. Ever. And he was a gun enthusiast who had about fifty options in his safe downstairs.”
“Did he have a history with suicidal ideation?” Raisa asked carefully.
Essi shook her head. “No. He was on trial at the time, so all the detectives thought I was an absolute idiot for suggesting there was foul play involved.”
“On trial? For what?”
“White-collar crimes that sound way sexier than they are,” Essi said, impish once more. “We were obscenely rich and, yes, okay, we were about to lose everything. But my father ... he didn’t reallydoshame.”
“What do you mean?” Kilkenny asked, and Raisa could tell that assessment had genuinely piqued his interest.
“Mmmm. Like, you know those Enron guys? Or is that too old a reference?” She eyed Kilkenny’s silver-flecked hair. “Okay, I’m guessing not too old. But you know the type. Business guys who have no conscience. He didn’t care what other people thought of him. If the government took all his money”—she held up a hand as if to interrupt them—“ill-gotten, I know, but still his at the time. If they took it, he wouldn’t kill himself in some what-will-the-neighbors-think move. He would just figure out a way to scam different people out of money. And if he got sent to jail, he would spend his life coming up with ways to become the kingpin there. There is no way he killed himself. It just wasn’t in his DNA.”
“Narcissistic personality disorder,” Kilkenny murmured.
“Oh yeah, bingo,” Essi said, pointing at Kilkenny. “That probably was exactly it.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but you don’t seem too torn up about it all,” Raisa said. “Yet you’ve launched a crusade against Isabel.”
“Oh, no, you’re absolutely right. I’m not torn up about it at all,” Essi said. “But do you think these shoes pay for themselves?”
She crossed and uncrossed her legs, kicking her feet out as she did so. “Did you hear the part where we were obscenely, disgustingly rich and then lost everything?”
“I think I’m missing a step,” Raisa said. The most money she’d ever had was the 10 percent she’d just put down on her bungalow. When she’d been a teenager, she’d lived off budget-brand cereal without milk, and life hadn’t really improved all that much while she’d gone to college and then pursued her PhD. Her paycheck from the FBI wasn’t going to cover red-bottomed shoes, either.
“Grief pays,” Essi said, shrugging again. “And outraged grief pays even better. Attention is our society’s current currency, and I command it in spades.”
Raisa tried to make sense of that as she thought about the middle-aged woman who’d lost her dog. “So you sell manufactured outrage and performative grief over the death of your father and you ...”
She trailed off.