Gun in hand, Suhonen’s voice went cold, “Now get the fuck outta here you little pussies. And don’t try this again.”
The knife man turned to run, but tripped on his own feet and crashed down a few steps away. His friends didn’t bother to stop and help him, and Suhonen was upon him before he could regain his footing. He threw the kid onto his back, pressed his knee into his chest, and put the gun barrel against his temple. “Next time I kill each and every one of you. Understand?”
The kid nodded.
“I didn’t hear you!”
“Yes! I understand!
“Good, you gonna quit this shit?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure about that?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, his voice shrill now.
Suhonen pressed the gun harder. “And you’ll go to school? Do a little studying and start your own business…that’s the way to make some real money.”
Suhonen stood up and let him go. The gun went back into his shoulder holster. He could have called it in and had a cruiser come for them, but it was already too late. He glanced around quickly: nobody watching from the windows.
Suhonen continued on his way. At no point had he identified himself as a police officer, but there was no doubt in his mind that this was just the sort of preventive work that a police officer should be doing.
THURSDAY,
DECEMBER 14
CHAPTER 16
THURSDAY, 8:30 A.M.
HELSINKI PRISON
A pudgy guard with a shaved head and wooden expression led Korpi to the entrance of his cell. Korpi was holding a small bag with some personal items, his prison-issue coveralls and bedclothes.
The third floor of the east wing, with its pale walls and potted plants, was more akin to a stalwart hospital than an ordinary prison. First built in 1881, Helsinki Prison was intended to project a sinister presence to the outside. That’s what it still did, but after several remodels, the inside of the complex had begun to appear progressively more accommodating. Or at least as accommodating as a prison well over a century old can appear.
“Here’s your cell,” drawled the guard. Though not an imposing presence, Rauli Salo had plenty of experience as a prison guard. He knew Korpi from the con’s previous stint, and he predicted what Korpi would say next.
Korpi stopped at the door and glanced inside. “This ain’t gonna work.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
Korpi had been quickly transferred from the new admissions block, where inmates sometimes spent weeks. Cell block three was in better shape than the others, but Korpi didn’t intend to share a cell. He turned to the guard. “Lifers get special rights. I want my own cell.”
“You think I have a say in that? It’s a question of space. Two guys per cell is the bare minimum. Most cells have three or four, plus construction noise. You oughta be thankful I got you this much. Cell doors are open till eight here, too. Lockdown’s at five on most blocks.”
Not convinced, Korpi took another look at the cell. Some girly pictures were hanging on the walls and a guitar was leaning against the windowsill. Whoever occupied the lower bunk was either at work or class. “Who’s got the bunk there?”
“Kaapo Nieminen. Mule. Doing a couple years for drug smuggling.”
“So you’re sticking me in a cell with some junkie. Fuck. Not gonna happen.”
“No other choice.”
Korpi looked at the guard in silence. “Well. Then you know how it’s gotta go.”
The guard shrugged his skinny shoulders. He knew all too well. By tomorrow morning at the latest, Nieminen would file for transfer to the protective ward under a barrage of threats from Korpi. And Korpi would keep going regardless of who they put in the cell with him. Salo couldn’t be bothered by it—there was no changing inmate hierarchies. Certain inmates would give the orders, and the gangsters could terrorize whoever they wanted. Korpi would be in the pen for a long time, so it paid to get along with him, which is precisely why Salo had tried to arrange things beforehand.
Korpi stepped inside and slammed the heavy steel door behind him. The doors weren’t locked during the day. Korpi tossed his bag onto the top bunk. He snatched the guitar by the neck and swung it hard against the metal frame of the bed. The instrument splintered in one hit. “Fucking junkie,” he hissed, as he emptied the man’s things onto the lower bunk.
Next up would be to find out which of his friends were on the block, and in that respect, this was a good place to be. Sometimes referred to as “Little Tallinn,” the Estonian inmates held court along the gable end. There would likely be some familiar faces over there.
In any case, he had a meeting with Martin in the afternoon. Korpi’s thoughts had crystallized overnight. He knew now what had gone wrong, and what he had to do.
* * *
At his computer, Takamäki was reading reports on last night’s events. A few robberies had occurred in the early part of the evening, but nothing very serious. It had been almost noon before he made it to the station. The rest of the team had the day off, which is why they had chosen the previous day for the Christmas party.
Takamäki registered a movement out of the corner of his eye. Suhonen had walked past the door.
“Suhonen,” Takamäki called after him.
Suhonen returned to the door with a smile. “Look who actually made it in.”
“Well, I’m supposed to be here. You have the day off, so what’s your excuse?”
“Just figured I’d go to the gym and check some emails. Those finance detectives invited me to play
on their hockey team, and I couldn’t remember when the game started.”
“You taking up hockey?”
“Sure. Back in Lahti I played till I was sixteen. Haven’t skated much since, but it’ll be interesting to see how it goes.”
“Pads and everything?”
“Seniors’ rules. No checking and no slap shots. Otherwise, everything’s the same. But I figured if I wore Kevlar under my pads I could be a bit more aggressive.”
Takamäki was a bit surprised. Had the man’s new relationship taken its toll? Takamäki had also played hockey as a kid. Maybe he could give it a shot again too. “How was Salmela?”
“Drunk as a skunk. We chatted and one of us cried. He was still taking it pretty hard, so it was good I went to see him. Ended up just crashing on the couch. What about you guys?”
“I hung it up at around midnight, but some people don’t know when to stop. Once Kannas and Nykänen got to reminiscing there was no end to the chase stories.”
Suhonen chuckled. The team had once rented a cabin for the weekend, and Kannas had brought a handful of Matchbox cars in order to better illustrate his best pursuits from the last twenty years.
* * *
Counselor Martin was sitting on the opposite side of a wooden table from Korpi. Between the two men stood a glass partition about sixteen inches high to prevent visitors from smuggling contraband to the inmates. The prison also had separate rooms partitioned off with thick plexi-glass walls and telephones for communication.
With the exception of a lone guard, nobody else was in the room. The guard kept his distance, since conversations between lawyers and clients were confidential. Martin had known of a case in which the police had illegally eavesdropped on prison conversations between a lawyer and his client, who had been convicted of financial crimes. But today, he considered the risk of audio surveillance to be insignificant. The NBI agents at fault had gotten a slap on the wrist from the parliamentary ombudsman, whose job it was to ensure that public officials observed the law. A repeat performance would undoubtedly lead to formal charges.
Martin and Korpi had been conversing for nearly half an hour.
“You’re sure this is what you want,” said Martin, his voice tense and worried. He felt reluctant to get mixed up in Korpi’s affairs.
“You’ll do just as I tell you.”
“It could influence the handling of your case in appeals c
ourt.”
“Appeals ain’t gonna change anything, didn’t I just tell you that? The cops got ’em in their pocket just like district. The more I think about it, the more sure I am I got convicted on my record. Had nothin’ to do with this case.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying all along.”
Korpi leveled a piercing gaze at his lawyer. He had seen glimpses of the man’s weakness before, and now it was showing again.
“You said your piece yesterday in court. Now you’ll do what I say. You get in touch with Guerrilla and tell him what he has to do.”
Martin nodded. Maybe this once, he thought. He was only delivering a message, nothing criminal, just a bit unsettling. In a way, he understood Korpi, understood his anger. But he had to get something in return.
“Alright, it’s a deal. I’ll do it. But then this
is over.”
“What?”
“Using the old coke thing to blackmail me.”
Korpi laughed. He hadn’t even begun yet, but there was little point in telling Martin that. “Sure. It’s a deal.”
“Deal?”
“Yup. Oh yeah…and if you happen to need a little pick-me-up, just ask Guerrilla. But no phones. Same goes for the meeting—make sure the cops don’t find out.” He lowered his voice a little. “Shoot him an anonymous text saying, ‘Wanna catch a hockey game?’ An hour after he texts back, he’ll be at the McDonald’s by the ice arena.”
Martin didn’t respond. His face was expressionless. Obviously, the police were on the right track if Korpi’s gang used these kinds of spy tactics to throw them off the trail. “Okay,” he said finally.
“Good. The cops were probably out celebrating their victory last night, but at least one of them will be clearheaded enough to notice if someone’s talking openly about the case.”
“Right. So…you still want to go over this appeals form?”
“No,” said Korpi as he stood up. He gestured to the guard, and as the man shuffled over, he said to Martin, “Send it straight to the court once you get it ready.”
The guard approached. Korpi looked up, “I’d like some lunch now.”
“Fine,” said the guard. “Cabbage rolls today.”
“My favorite.”
Martin watched his client being escorted from the room. A steak dinner would hit the spot, he decided. With a couple of cold beers. But before he did anything else he would send that text. As soon as he got his phone back at the gate, anyhow. Yeah, and a new SIM card would be a good idea.
CHAPTER 17
THURSDAY, 1:50 P.M.
JOUTSAMO’S APARTMENT, HELSINKI
Joutsamo lay idly on the sofa of her two-room apartment. She had on an extra-large green T-shirt, baggy black shorts and a blanket draped over her legs. It was almost two in the afternoon. The worst of her headache had succumbed to ibuprofen, a sandwich and a soft drink, but her mood was still listless. Her only consolation was that she hadn’t planned to get anything done today anyway, since it was the day after the Christmas party. So there was no reason to feel bad about being idle.
But there was one thing she had managed to do. She had sent a happy-name-day text to a friend of hers who had moved to London. A very cute friend by the name of Jouko.
The television was off—nothing of interest was on in the afternoon anyway. Something from Madonna was playing on the radio in the background. On top of the bookcase was a picture of Joutsamo’s parents. With the two of them seeming to stare at her, she didn’t care to look in that direction at the moment.
The evening had gone on right up until the last call at 3:30 at the Zetor Bar. Luckily, Nykänen and Kannas had been in the mood to dance. The more she danced, the less she drank.
She wondered if she should force herself to get up and clean. A fitting punishment for such overindulgence. Cleaning was too much to ask, but she got up nonetheless—if only because she was bored of lying down—and padded into the kitchen nook. She poured some water into the teapot and rubbed her weary face. She didn’t need to look in the mirror to see how terrible she looked. Maybe she should take a shower and force herself outdoors. All she could see from the kitchen window was the greenish flank of the neighboring building, but at least it wasn’t raining. According to the thermometer, it was twenty-five degrees. That would perk her up.
The tea water was just beginning to hiss when Joutsamo heard the phone ring. But where in the hell was it? She followed the ringing to the left-hand pocket of her overcoat, which still reeked of cigarette smoke, peeked at the caller ID, and answered with a smile.
“Well, hi,” she said before clearing her throat. The deepness of her own voice startled her.
“Hi,” said a perky woman’s voice on the other end. The caller was Sanna Römpötti. “How’s it going? By your voice I’d say not so well.”
“Well, I’m fine now. The team had a Christmas party.”
“I hope I didn’t wake you?”
“No,” said Joutsamo. The teapot began to whistle and she returned to the kitchen with the phone on
her ear.
“Quiet day at the press room here. I thought I’d lure you out for a beer…er… lunch.”
“I’m thinking probably not…” said Joutsamo, perhaps a bit too emphatically.
“Just wanted to congratulate you on the Korpi case. Well done.”
“Well, it wasn’t really all that complicated. Muuri did a good job on the prosecution.”
Römpötti paused for a moment. “What else
is new?”
Joutsamo looked at her bubbling teapot. “Figured I’d have a cup of tea.”
The reporter laughed on the other end. “OK, get better. We’ll talk later.”
“Bye,” said Joutsamo. She set the phone down on the table and took a packet of tea out of the cupboard, and a teacup from the drying rack. Her apartment didn’t have a dishwasher.
Joutsamo was pouring steaming water into the cup when the phone rang again. She paid no attention to the screen, assuming Römpötti had thought of some hangover joke.
“Yeah?” she answered.
A second’s pause passed. “Is this Joutsamo?” asked a woman’s voice. Joutsamo recognized Mari immediately, and her fear.
“Yeah, it’s me. Sorry, I thought you were someone else.”
“OK, uhh…” said Lehtonen, trailing off.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s really not that serious, but I thought maybe you could help.”
“Of course. How?”
“Well, yesterday my ex-husband called to harass me out about that court case, and now this afternoon when Laura came home from school, the lock was all gummed up with some kind of glue.”
“I see,” said Joutsamo. She felt sharper already. “What did he say on the phone?”
“Called me stupid for talking to the police. You know, the kind of things exes say when they’re drunk.”
Joutsamo knew the type. “Are you at home now?”
“Yes. The locksmith changed the lock, so we’re okay on that front, but I just wondered if you could do something about Anton so he doesn’t start with his harassment again.”
“Can’t really take him to jail for it, but I can sure look into it. How’d Laura react?”
“Kind of confused. She didn’t really understand because I haven’t told her everything.”
Joutsamo gazed out the window. Her head was already beginning to clear. “We’ll try to do something about it.”
“Just try. That’s all I ask.”
Immediately after hanging up the phone, Joutsamo dialed Takamäki’s number.
CHAPTER 18
THURSDAY, 3:30 P.M.
KALLIO NEIGHBORHOOD, HELSINKI
Suhonen sat down in the front seat of a gray Peugeot parked at the intersection of Vaasa and Fleming, and took a folded piece of office paper out of the breast pocket of his coat. It was a mug shot printout of forty-year-old Anton Teittinen, Mari Lehtonen’s ex-husband, his dark hair hanging over his forehe
ad, eyes glowering at the camera from beneath his brows. His bloated face was serious enough without the scowl. The photo had been snapped a year ago, after Teittinen was arrested for a bar brawl. A search of his record had turned up several other petty crimes.
Suhonen was out in the field alone. He had begun his search for Teittinen at the man’s home address. No luck knocking on the apartment door. He had listened through the mail slot, but heard nothing. Back outside, Suhonen had checked to see if any lights were on. The man could be hiding out in the dark apartment, of course, but that was unlikely.
He could be at work, but that was also unlikely. The police had his phone number, so in principle, Suhonen could have called and tried to set up a meeting, but that wouldn’t have been as effective—the encounter should come as a complete surprise to Teittinen.
Suhonen started the car, drove a couple blocks and turned onto Helsinki Avenue. Not finding a single parking space, he pulled the car up to a bus stop.
He got out and walked the remaining distance to the Corner Pub. The pavement was slick and the cold seemed to be tightening its grip. It felt about ten degrees below freezing.
The stench of smoke hit him at the door, even with only a third of the seats in the pub occupied. A few tables boasted groups of three and four, while others were occupied by just one man and a beer. Suhonen’s eyes quickly took in the room. The hands on the clock showed half past three.
Teittinen was sitting alone at a corner table reading a daily. Nothing on Suhonen’s face betrayed the fact that he had found his quarry.
The bartender stood behind the bar with an inquiring look.
“Coffee,” said Suhonen.
The man didn’t say anything, just took out a cup and filled it. “One euro.”
Helsinki Homicide: Nothing but the Truth Page 13
