The first novel in Arne Dahl’s gripping Intercrime series—considered one of Sweden’s best— Misterioso is a piercingly dark and absorbing detective thriller.   After dismantling a bloody hostage situation at a bank outside Stockholm, Detective Paul Hjelm is dropped into an elite task-force assembled to find an elusive murderer with a sophisticated method. The killer breaks into the homes of Sweden’s high-profile business leaders at night, places two bullets in their heads with deadly precision, then removes the bullets from the walls—a ritual enacted to a rare bootleg recording of Thelonious Monk’s jazz classic “Misterioso.” As Hjlem and the rest of the team follow one lead after another, they must navigate the murky underworld of the Russian mafia, penetrate the secret society of Sweden’s wealthiest denizens, and battle one of the country’s most persistent ills: a deep-rooted xenophobia that affects both the police and the perpetrator. “Absorbing. . . . A dark, tense thriller.” — Newark Star-Ledger   “Terrific. . . . Full of twists and turns, blind alleys and sudden assaults, procedural hassles and stakeouts. ” — Providence Journal   “Thoughtfully haunting and sometimes beautifully written, the first of Hjelm’s cases to be translated into English is likely to resonate with readers of the Stieg Larsson trilogy.” — Austin American-Statesman “Mystery devotees who loved Mankell’s Kurt Wallander, and crime-fiction ‘lifers’ who still treasure Sjowall’s and Wahloo’s Martin Beck, will want to add Paul Hjelm to their short lists of international favorites.” — Booklist   “A truly fine crime novel.” — The Advocate (Baton Rouge)   “[A] superb police procedural. . . . Dahl has created a brilliant character and a terrific story, and should that not be enough, this is a classic cop-shop tale of the old school.” — The Globe and Mail (Toronto)   “Most of the fun of  Misterioso  comes from the follow-the-power, follow-the-money games played by Hjelm and his associates. And while Dahl clearly sees detective fiction as having the ability to tackle hard-hitting issues of the day, the mystery’s solution isn’t lacking in good old-fashioned puzzle intrigue, either.” — The Portland Mercury   “A unique and wonderful book. It is part mystery, part police procedural, part existential philosophy, and part comedy. There is something so distinctive about this book that it resists categorization. . . . There is not a dull moment. It seems like the Scandinavians are having a true renaissance in crime writing and Arne Dahl is right at the top.” —MostlyFiction.com   “An exciting debut. . . . Fans of hard-boiled detective and Swedish novels will enjoy this.” — Library Journal Arne Dahl is an award-winning crime novelist and literary critic. He lives in Sweden. 1   Something was forcing its way through the winter.   He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something. Maybe a warming breeze, a flicker of light smack in the middle of the mass of gray clouds, or possibly just the fact that he heard a splash rather than a crunch when he stepped in the puddle that all winter long had encircled his personal parking space—the one that still bore his name.   He paused for a moment and squinted up at the morning cloud cover. It looked the same as usual, hovering there like a virtual ceiling of security above the bank, bidding him welcome.   The same silence as always.   A short distance away was the little town, undisturbed, send­ing up only one sign of life: fine tendrils of smoke from chim­neys. He heard the repetitive cheeping of the marsh tit and saw it peek from its nest just under the eaves. Then he locked the car and strode the few yards to the small, modest door of the employees’ entrance. He took out his even more modest key ring and one by one opened the three deadbolts.   Inside the bank office it smelled like an ordinary Monday, a bit stuffy from the weekend, but Lisbet would soon air it out when she arrived second, as usual, bringing her flood of cheer­ful chatter.   He himself was always the first to arrive; that was the rou­tine.   Everything was exactly the same as always.   That was what he told himself several times: Everything is exactly the same as always.   He may have said it once too often.   He stood at his teller’s window and pulled out the drawer. He took out an oblong gilded case and cautiously weighed one of the long, bristled darts in his hand. His special weapon. Not many people, even among the initiated, really knew how a dart was supposed to look. His darts were long—specially designed to four and three-quarters inches, almost two and three quarters of which were a long point that always surprised his opponents, and very short, bristly flights. He picked up the three darts and slipped around the divid­ing wall into the office interior. There was the board. Without looking down, he took up position with the tips of his toes on the little black throw line exactly seven feet nine and one-quarter inc