Partio threw the car into gear and turned towards Brahe Field. He glanced at his partner. “Ugly looking scratch. Where’d you get that?”
“Hard to say,” he said, pausing, “Must have nicked myself shaving.”
Partio smiled.
CHAPTER 22
NYHOLM’S TOWNHOUSE,
NORTH HELSINKI
THURSDAY, 11:33 P.M.
Jouko Nyholm was sitting on his sofa with a cognac in his hand. The flat screen TV was showing late night news. The customs inspector didn’t care about NATO relations; he just stared blankly at the screen.
His wife was out and about somewhere. Nyholm couldn’t decide whether to go to a bar or to sleep.
The living room was on the lower level. Though fifteen years ago the interior was stylish, it had deteriorated along with the owners’ marriage.
The door opened-was she home already? he wondered. It wasn’t like her. When the wife went out, it was usually for the evening, or even all night.
He glanced at the door, it was Kristiina. Laundry day, he thought before noticing her pained expression.
“What’s wrong?” Nyholm asked.
The girl’s blond hair was tangled, and her eyes puffy. She was still crying, but managed the words, “He’s dead.”
Nyholm rose and hesitated, wondering if he should hug her. He hadn’t done that for at least five years.
“Who’s dead?”
She sobbed, “Jerry… My boyfriend…”
She was still wearing her long, pale overcoat. Her hands rested limply against her hips. She began to sob again.
“There, there,” said Nyholm, but instead of hugging her, he laid his hand on her shoulder. He tried to remember how he used to comfort her when she was younger-he had taken her into his lap and combed his fingers through her soft, blond hair.
He helped her out of her jacket and hung it. “Slip off your shoes, let’s go into the kitchen.”
She did as she was told and shuffled over to the table.
Nyholm pulled up a brown wooden chair for her, and Kristiina sat stiffly. He took the chair on the end, and they sat side by side.
“I must look terrible,” she said, covering her face in her hands. The sobbing started again.
“Don’t… Please, don’t cry, Kristiina,” Nyholm said, not knowing what else to say. He got up and plodded over to the coffee table, downed the rest of his cognac, then refilled his glass from the bottle on the table. On a whim, he brought the bottle back into the kitchen, took a glass from the cupboard and poured a generous shot for his daughter.
He returned to the table and set the glass in front of her. “Have some of this. It’ll help.”
Nyholm didn’t think it would actually help, but when the burn of the alcohol hit her mouth, she’d think of something else for a moment.
“What is it?” she asked, then downed it without waiting, spluttering a little.
“What happened?” Nyholm asked.
Either the cognac or the sympathy worked: she calmed down, though her breathing was still intense.
“That lady cop came by today and told me Jerry was murdered… He was my boyfriend.”
“What was…or how did…uh, do you know why?”
Kristiina blew her nose. “They didn’t say…”
“Was Jerry’s last name Eriksson?” Nyholm asked.
Kristiina looked startled. “Yeah. Do you know him?”
“No, not really. But I knew who he was.”
“How? From work?”
Nyholm shook his head. “You should stay here tonight.” He paused before saying, “I know how hard this is for you… But, can I ask you a question?”
“What?”
“How’d the police know to notify you when the two of you weren’t married?”
“W-well, I went to file a missing persons report this morning.”
Damn, Nyholm thought.
“Have another cognac,” he said, and the daughter held out her glass. This time he poured her a double. Nyholm readily emptied his own and poured himself another stiff one.
He reflected on his predicament: only a miracle would keep the cops from figuring out their father-daughter relationship.
There would be questions, that much was certain. He’d have to frame his answers so the truth wouldn’t be revealed.
* * *
Suhonen was sitting on the edge of his hotel bed; Markkanen leaned back in the armchair.
“At least it’s bigger than a prison cell.” Markkanen admired the creamy interior of the Katajanokka Best Western. The traces of a cell could still be seen in the arch of the roof and the shape of the windows. The old pen was shut down in ’02, when new lodging for the inmates opened up twenty miles north. The new maximum security prison was supposed to be escape-proof, but that had already been proven wrong.
It was a fine testament to government bureaucracy that the new prison had been commissioned in 1977, but the construction wasn’t completed for another twenty-five years.
“I’ve spent some time here,” Suhonen explained. “Grim place…filthy…rundown, and you had to shit in a bucket…” Despite its reputation for modern technology, Finland still had prisons where each cell sported a plastic pail for nightly needs.
“C’mon, Suikkanen, when was the last time you felt comfortable in the slammer?” Markkanen smirked.
“…But at least now the peephole looks outward,” Suhonen went on. Though peepholes in the former cells had looked inward, the prisoners had often smeared the lenses with toothpaste.
Earlier that day, Suhonen had reserved a room at the hotel for just this type of situation. He had picked up the key card in the evening and tossed a gym bag of clothes into the room.
The pair had navigated a maze of courtyards and emerged at the Central Fire Station. From there, they had headed toward the Kallio Church. They had seen a half-dozen squad cars with flashing cherries, and had managed to board a downtown bus without incident.
From downtown, they had walked the half mile to the hotel. Although Suhonen had wanted to call Partio to talk about what happened, that wasn’t possible. He was particularly worried about Nieminen’s reaction to the knife at his throat. Suhonen wondered if he should have intervened earlier. The situation had escalated too far, but he couldn’t have anticipated all the potential risks. He wondered whether shit would hit the fan over the incident.
“Well, enough shitting around,” said Suhonen, wondering if there was another test in store. “You said there was an easy three grand for me to earn.”
Markkanen’s manner became serious.
“Right, a real simple job.”
“Shoot.”
“There’s a garage on Tehdas Street with a Mercedes inside. It belongs to someone who needs to learn to pay his debts.”
“Who?”
“I figured you’d know better than to ask a question like that.”
Suikkanen let out a nervous laugh and forced his lips into a smile. “I didn’t pass ninth grade.”
“The streets should’ve taught you.”
Suhonen looked annoyed. “So what about this garage?”
“You’re gonna put a pig’s head on the hood.”
Suhonen let out a genuine laugh. “What…?”
“A pig’s head.”
“Where am I gonna get that?”
Markkanen grinned. “For three grand, I think you can figure it out.”
“And just set it on the hood of the Mercedes, huh?”
Markkanen nodded.
Suhonen shook his head doubtfully. “Why don’t you do it yourself? What’s the catch?”
“A security camera by the garage door, plus another inside. There’s no way to avoid being taped.”
“And you can’t afford to be seen, even in a ski mask?”
“Exactly.”
“Tonight?”
“Yup.”
Suhonen still looked doubtful. “Without wheels, where am I gonna get a pig’s head at this hour?”
&nbs
p; Markkanen smiled. “I’ll sell you one for a grand.”
“Huh?”
“I need my cut, too.”
Suhonen gazed at the smiling Markkanen, wondering if there was a bigger fish behind the “Bogeyman.” The thug stood up, drawn to the minibar. He dug out a miniature whiskey bottle for himself and offered another to Suhonen.
“Not now.”
Markkanen took a glass from a tray above the minibar and emptied the bottle into it. He grinned and raised his glass.
“Welcome to the team.”
* * *
It was just past one in the morning, and the old 300-Series Beamer was exactly where Markkanen had said it would be: on Tehdas Street near the Russian Embassy. Suhonen tapped the plate number into his cellphone and slipped on a pair of gloves.
He lifted a hockey bag out of the trunk and glanced quickly inside just as a streetcar rumbled past. Only a few people were about, and nobody seemed interested in a man looking through his trunk. In the hockey bag was a black trash bag, and inside it, a wrinkled pig’s head. The stench was nauseating.
Suhonen smirked and grabbed the bag. He slammed the trunk shut, and circled the car for a few seconds before installing a tracking device. This car, too, would be tracked by satellite.
Suhonen hurried ahead-the walk was several hundred yards.
His black ski mask was still rolled up, looking like an ordinary knit hat. Suhonen had taken an old gray jacket from the closet and intentionally skipped the mirror. The hockey bag swung from his shoulder, and he hoped he wouldn’t run into any cruisers. If he were on patrol and saw a character looking like himself on the streets, he’d have some questions to ask.
Markkanen had given him directions. The courtyard gate wouldn’t be a problem since he had the code. He was to go through the gate, and the garage would be the third on the right. Suhonen entered the code and slipped inside. He left the gate only ajar enough, so that from the outside it looked closed.
From the street, the buildings in South Helsinki seemed closed off, but they had surprisingly spacious courtyards. The apartments circled the yard like fortress walls.
Suhonen pulled the ski mask over his face, he fumbled a little while, looking for the eye holes.
The courtyard was divided by fences. Lights gleamed from several of the windows. Only two dim yellow lamps hung from the wall, but darkness didn’t bother Suhonen. Markkanen had told him the security camera would be at the other end, on the roof of the row of garages. Suhonen kept his gaze down; no sense in showing the camera any more than was necessary.
The wooden double doors of the garage were painted red, and they opened outward from the middle. Suhonen wondered if there was an alarm. Even if there were, the security guards wouldn’t get there for several minutes.
The right-hand door had an old lock. It would’ve taken him less than thirty seconds to pick the lock, but the door felt a bit loose, so he took out some rigid double-bent wire and eased it between the doors. There was no deadbolt and the latch slipped easily aside. Opening the door took two seconds.
Suhonen crept inside, closed the door behind him and flicked on a small flashlight. The garage was larger than he had imagined: it held two cars. Another garage door opened into the same area, the parking spaces separated by chicken wire. The neighboring car was a maroon BMW, but Suhonen was interested in the silver-colored Mercedes that stood in front of him. It was a 500-Series luxury model, though several years old. Suhonen memorized the plate number.
He hesitated for a moment, then opened the hockey bag, hauled out the reeking pig’s head, and set it just behind the hood ornament. He smirked and picked up the empty bag from the floor.
The courtyard was empty and Suhonen eased the door shut behind him. He slipped back out through the gate and closed that as well.
Turning onto Tehdas Street, he headed back toward the Russian Embassy. The street was quiet, which suited him just fine. He’d put the hockey bag back where he found it, in the trunk of the Beamer.
* * *
Takamäki woke to a ringing phone. He saw that his wife had also been awakened from the way she rolled over. He glanced at the red numbers on his alarm clock: 2:02 A.M.
The phone was charging on the nightstand and he picked it up and got out of bed. It rang again before he made it out of the bedroom. The call was from an unknown number.
“Hello,” Takamäki answered, descending the stairs.
“Sorry for calling in the middle of the night,” said a man’s voice. “But it says here that I’m supposed to notify you.”
“About what?” asked Takamäki. He had walked into the hallway and was looking out the window. The ground was still white, but road conditions seemed to be improving. The townhouse complex was quiet.
“Right, sorry. This is Saarelainen from the Border Guard at the Helsinki Airport,” he introduced himself. “We have a man who just went through passport control, and we’ve been directed to notify you if he tries to leave the country.”
Takamäki was puzzled-he didn’t remember making such a request.
“Which one are we talking about?” Takamäki asked, as though he had made several of them.
“Ilari Petteri Lydman,” the official said and read off the birth date.
Takamäki wondered if Joutsamo had filed the request. Or maybe Suhonen.
“Where’s he going?”
“He’s on the 3:20 to Bangkok.”
Takamäki rubbed his face, his brain sluggish after having been wrenched from sleep. Lydman and Saarnikangas were somehow connected. Right, and it was Suhonen who suspected Lydman’s involvement in the murder.
Why was Lydman going to Thailand? Had he planned the trip in advance or was he on the run?
“So,” the border guard continued. “What should we do? Let him on the plane?”
“Does Lydman know he’s been flagged?”
“No. The official at passport control let him through, then notified us. He won’t go anywhere from the transit hall, especially since there aren’t any other departures before the Bangkok flight.”
Takamäki was still thinking. Thailand wasn’t a problem per se, since extradiction of criminals back to Finland was easy. On the other hand, Lydman could get to just about any place in the world from the Bangkok airport. That could pose a problem, especially if he held a second passport.
“Uhh,” Takamäki hesitated. “I’ll have to consult with my investigators. Can you give me your number, and I’ll call you back?”
The border guard gave him the number. As soon as the call ended, Takamäki made another. This number was on speed dial, and the phone rang three times before someone answered.
“Suhonen,” drawled a groggy voice.
“Did I wake you?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good. I was just woken up, too. Did you file a request with the Border Guard to have them notify me if Lydman leaves the country?”
“Yeah… Uhh, yes,” Suhonen said, a little more clearly now. “I forgot to tell you last night.”
“On what basis?” Takamäki asked, though he knew the question was useless.
“I thought Lydman might be a key player. By the way, I filed the same request for Saarnikangas. Is Lydman going somewhere?”
“Yeah. The 3:20 flight to Bangkok.”
He heard a muffled rustling on the other end. Takamäki guessed that Suhonen was looking at the clock on his phone.
“So he’s waiting to board his flight right now,” Takamäki offered.
Suhonen figured the lieutenant wanted his input on whether Lydman should be let on the plane or not. He was torn: Lydman’s significance to the case had lessened now that they had Markkanen in their sights. On the other hand, Lydman was about to fly halfway around the world, and wouldn’t be missed if he was sitting in jail instead. They could keep him a while before word got out.
“I think we should bring him in.”
“Do we have grounds for that?”
“Well, he’s been seen with Saarnika
ngas a couple times in the past few days, so at least Joutsamo can question him about that.”
“Should we bring Saarnikangas in at the same time?”
Suhonen thought for a second. “That’s an option, of course, but maybe not yet. Let’s see what happens tomorrow, at least.”
“How’d it go last night? Anything new?”
“Not really. Just trying to make heads or tails of it all,” Suhonen replied with a smirk.
“Listen, Suhonen. Up till now this has been your case, but we need to talk about how to move forward.”
“Yeah,” Suhonen said. “Of course, of course.”
“Especially now that we’re arresting Lydman. At this point, he’ll be charged with murder, right?”
“Yeah, looks like accessory to murder to me,” Suhonen said. “That’ll give us some ammo for the interrogations.”
“Okay, I’ll ask the Border Guard to take him into custody, and we’ll bring him to Pasila in the morning. We’ll have a meeting first thing at nine, then.”
“Alright.”
“Well,” Takamäki smirked. “Try to get a few winks over there in the middle of that Kallio ruckus.”
“I’ll try.” Suhonen hung up and buried his head in the lush Hotel Katajanokka pillows.
FRIDAY NOVEMBER 28
CHAPTER 23
LINDSTRÖM’S APARTMENT,
TEHDAS STREET, HELSINKI
FRIDAY, 8:40 A.M.
Kalevi Lindström heard the doorbell ring. He set his coffee down on the table and strolled to the door in his robe. He still had to do his morning workout. The trainer wasn’t due till nine, but maybe she was early.
He looked out the peephole, recognized the man standing outside and opened the door warily.
“Morning,” said the sixty-something man. His gray suit matched his hair. Von Marzen lived upstairs.
The man’s expression was dour. “I have something to tell you, neighbor.”
He spoke decent Finnish, but with a German accent. Lindström knew he had moved to Finland in the eighties and didn’t start studying Finnish until then.
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