Cold Trail hh-4

by Jarkko Sipila

  “Goddammit,” Juha cried. “You just said what I was supposed to remember. Junk. You promised me a couple of packs. I need them.”

  “Once I have Repo.”

  “You don’t understand,” Saarnikangas said irritated . “I need it so I can pay this one guy. Plus a C-note.”

  “Money, too?” Suhonen said. He was sure that Saarnikangas was taking him for a ride . But he had a lousy hand, and it was best to check what Saarnikangas was holding. A few Subus and a C-note didn’t make much of a dent in the state budget. “Okay,” Suhonen said before the junkie could start elaborating.

  “Okay? Like Okay-Okay?”

  “Where are you?” Suhonen asked, his voice hard.

  * * *

  Sanna Römpötti and Anna Joutsamo were sitting in the second-story kebab joint at the Pasila train station.

  “How is it?” the reporter asked.

  “These always taste the same. Does this place belong to some bigger chain? Someone who supplies the lamb to all these restaurants?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Römpötti said, plastic-forking chunks of meat from a pita swimming in garlic sauce.

  “Listen,” Joutsamo said. “The food here isn’t the reason I wanted to meet you.”

  “Really?” Römpötti asked, although she had guessed what was on Joutsamo’s mind as soon as she called.

  “Repo,” Joutsamo said.

  “The escaped convict? What about him?”

  Joutsamo hesitated again. She knew that with Römpötti she didn’t have to say You didn’t hear this from me, but the situation was still delicate.

  “It’s the original conviction. I read all the papers and spoke with the lead investigator from the old case, and at least to me, it feels like it’s on really shaky ground.”

  “Innocent?” Römpötti asked directly.

  “I’m not saying that, but it sparks some questions.”

  “Like what?” Römpötti asked, pulling a pen and notebook from her bag.

  In ten minutes, Joutsamo repeated the same points she had brought up not long before at police station, and Römpötti jotted them down.

  “This is a big deal,” Römpötti said, once Joutsamo was finished.

  “Don’t you think? At least those are questions that should be raised.”

  “Yeah, especially since Fredberg, the current chief justice of the Supreme Court, was one of the members of the appeals court bench.”

  “Was he?” Joutsamo asked. Suhonen had brought her the copy of the verdict he had found in Repo’s cell, but Joutsamo hadn’t noticed Fredberg’s name.

  “Yes. For that TV interview I went through all of Fredberg’s life sentence convictions. Of course we didn’t analyze them the way you did. There were thirty of them, but I definitely remember the name Repo.”

  “I have the verdict. I’ll have to check it out.”

  “Just picture the headline, Supreme Court Chief Sentenced Innocent Man to Life.”

  “Immediate resignation,” Joutsamo nodded.

  “Most definitely. How’s the Repo case progressing, anyway?”

  “Haven’t found him yet, even though we’ve been working our butts off.”

  “Has he headed out of town?”

  Joutsamo considered a moment before answering. “We have strong indications that he’s here in the greater Helsinki area.”

  “What kinds of indications?” Römpötti fired back.

  “Hey, we gotta have some secrets, too,” Joutsamo chuckled. “No, it’s genuinely information that I can’t divulge without endangering the operation.”

  “Aww, I wouldn’t tell anyone except a million of my closest friends.”

  * * *

  Suhonen found a small space in front of a red stucco building on Korkeavuori Street and parallel-parked his Peugeot in it. His urge to piss had disappeared after he dropped by the burger joint at Kasarmi Square. He hadn’t ordered any more coffee.

  Suhonen got out of the car and waited for the number 10 tram to rumble past. He leapt across the road, trying to dodge the puddles. The double towers of the neo-Gothic Johannes Cathedral rose before him. Saarnikangas had told him he was inside the hundred-year-old church. What the hell, Suhonen thought. At least it was a change from the endless smoky bars.

  Suhonen leapt up two stairs at a time as he strode up to the double doors. The church was shaped like a cross, with the entrance at its foot. Suhonen had never been inside, but ten years ago at the station they had watched the televised service for the two officers who had been shot execution-style on Tehdas Street by an escaped Danish convict.

  The church was bigger than it had looked on TV. The dark, ornate pews, heavy candelabras, and stained glass made the interior gloomy, even though the walls were pale. Five people appeared to be sitting in the hall. Four were at the front; one sat further back. Suhonen immediately recognized Saarnikangas’s matted hair. The junkie was sitting near the central aisle.

  Suhonen sat down next to him.

  “Are you seeking redemption?” Suhonen whispered. “I am the way and the path.”

  Saarnikangas’s eyes were tired. “Who’re you, Jesus Crystal?”

  “Listen, Juha,” Suhonen said gravely. “If you want to check yourself into a clinic, I can get you in. Seriously.”

  Saarnikangas looked at Suhonen. “I don’t think I’m feeling it… I tried once, but I cut out mid-treatment. It’s not for me.”

  “Are you sure?” Suhonen asked. He didn’t want to moralize and preach about a better life, because it wouldn’t do any good. Juha Saarnikangas had an alternative, but the motivation had to come from himself, no one else. Suhonen knew a lot of junkies and crooks who had made it, but many more who had died.

  “Check out that altarpiece,” Saarnikangas asked. “Do you know who painted it?”

  Suhonen shook his head.

  “Ever heard of Eero Järnefelt?”

  “Not on my list of APBs.”

  “Funny,” Saarnikangas said, without smiling. “That was originally supposed to be Albert Edelfelt’s painting Bethlehem, but he crossed swords with Melander, the architect. The architect won, and Edelfelt’s work ended up a couple of years later in a church in Vaasa as an altarpiece titled The Shepherd Kneels.”

  Saarnikangas looked at the tall , narrow painting of three men and a horse gazing up at the Lord standing amid the clouds.

  “How do you know all that?” Suhonen asked.

  Juha disregarded Suhonen’s question. His eyes remained on the painting. “This heavenly vision is oil on canvas and the theme was taken from the New Testament, Acts of the Apostles. The guy who’s on his ass, blocking the light with his hand, is Saul. Old Saul here persecuted Jesus’ apostles and wanted to imprison them.” Saarnikangas’s tone turned biblical. “And suddenly there shined round about him a light from heaven: And he fell to the earth, and heard a voice saying unto him, Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me? And he said, Who art thou, Lord? And the Lord said, I am Jesus whom thou persecutest. But arise, and go into the city, and it shall be told thee what thou must do.”

  Juha turned his gaze to Suhonen. “Saul became the Apostle Paul.”

  Suhonen didn’t reply.

  “Art history, at the university. My short-term memory is shot, but stuff like this I remember.” Saarnikangas attempted a grin, but the expression was sad. “Well, in any case, even though it’s a Järnefelt, for practical purposes it’s a copy of a painting by Vincenzo Camuccini from a church in Rome.”

  Saarnikangas fell silent. Suhonen didn’t have anything to say, either. The few others in the church were still sitting quietly, and no one else had entered.

  “Well,” Juha said, running his hand through his filthy hair. “I’m not here to waste your time. We had a deal.”

  Saarnikangas held out his hand, and Suhonen slipped him two packs of Subutex with a hundred-euro bill rubber-banded around them.

  “Da Vinci’s The Last Supper,” Saarnikangas said quietly. “Lord, who is it? Lord, is it I?”

>   Suhonen looked at the altarpiece.

  “Hietalahti Shore Drive 17, the A entrance,” Saarnikangas whispered. “Third floor. The door says Mäkinen. It’s an old servant’s apartment, a little studio. You might want to check it out. He might be armed.”

  Suhonen stood, but Saarnikangas stayed sitting in the pew.

  Saarnikangas kept his gaze down until he was certain that the undercover cop in the leather jacket had exited the church.

  Juha rose, stepped into the aisle, and moved closer to the altar. There was a man in a gray coat sitting in the seventh row, and Saarnikangas sat down next to him. There was a large shoulder bag at the man’s feet.

  “Thank you,” Repo said quietly. “Is this going to cause problems for you?”

  “No worries.”

  “What if the cop comes back?”

  “I can handle him,” Saarnikangas said. “He’s not too bright. I made a reference to that Leonardo da Vinci painting The Last Supper and said, ‘Lord, who is it? Lord, is it I?’”

  Repo gave a slightly perplexed look at the long-haired junkie, who was smiling smugly. “And?”

  “Well, who am I referring to with that quote?”

  “Judas Iscariot?” Repo guessed.

  Saarnikangas pursed his lips. “Agh, you don’t get it either. It was Simon Peter, the most faithful disciple.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Repo said coldly.

  “Look, I gave the cop a clue, but because he’s so dumb he didn’t understand that I’m not betraying you. So he deserves to be betrayed,” Saarnikangas said with a smile.

  “If you say so,” Repo replied coolly. “It is what it is. Thanks for the pad. I needed the sleep. I won’t forget you.”

  “Whatever it is you’ve decided to do, do it soon,” Saarnikangas said, eyeing Repo’s shoulder bag. “Those cops aren’t kidding around.”

  Repo didn’t get it, but began humming a hymn: “Now is the moment of truth, guide us as we seek the path to purity.”

  Saarnikangas put a hand to Repo’s lips before any of the others could turn around.

  * * *

  Hietalahti Shore Drive 17 wasn’t the easiest place to stake out. Suhonen had parked his Peugeot so that he could see the A entrance, which was located next to a bookstore. The main door of the yellow-stucco, seven-story structure was decorated with three large ornamental circles. The building’s southern windows had a direct view of the shipyards and the terminal for the Tallinn ferries.

  Suhonen had no idea as to whether the building had a basement. It probably did, because the uppermost floor looked like it had been added on to the original 1930s structure. The problem with basements was that they usually provided easy access from stairwell to stairwell, meaning you could use any of the building’s exits, and Suhonen had no idea if the building had doors leading to an interior courtyard.

  Red marquees hung over the bookstore windows. Lights appeared to be on inside, even though it was coming up on 9 p.m. Evidently someone was working late.

  Suhonen had called in the information on Repo’s potential whereabouts to Takamäki, who had decided to call in SWAT assistance. It would take a little while for them to get ready, and Suhonen had been sent to the scene to keep an eye on things. There were several lit windows on the third floor, so he couldn’t deduce anything that way.

  Turunen, head of the SWAT team, called Suhonen’s cell and asked what the status was.

  “There have been a few dog-walkers, but that’s about it. You want me to go in and check things out?”

  “Yeah,” Turunen said. “Check if the main door is locked, and how we can get past it. But no further, okay?”

  “Yup,” Suhonen replied, getting out of the car. He dug a couple pieces of gum from his jacket pocket and tossed them in his mouth.

  It was getting colder, either that or it just seemed colder near the shore.

  Suhonen got to the main door and glanced up and down the street. Empty. The stairwell lights were off, so no one was exiting the building, either. Suhonen tried the door and immediately noticed that it had some give. He pulled out his ATM card and shoved it into the crack. The card pressed in the tongue of the lock, and a few seconds later the door was open.

  Suhonen spat his gum out into his palm and pressed it into the hinge side of the doorjamb. He let the door close carefully. It didn’t go far enough for the lock to click into place. The SWAT guys would be able to open it with a tug.

  In the lobby, Suhonen paused to think. The streetlamps were shining in enough that he didn’t need to turn the hallway lights on yet. The corridor to the elevator was maybe twenty feet long, and the stairs rose to the right of the old-fashioned wire-cage elevator . On the left there was a door leading to the courtyard or the basement.

  Suhonen looked at the name board-there really was an apartment on the third floor occupied by a Mäkinen. At least Saarnikangas hadn’t been totally lying. Numerous companies also appeared to be in the building.

  The undercover detective decided to punch on the stairwell lights and headed toward the stairs. He opened his leather jacket and instinctively checked his Glock. No point waiting in the corridor.

  He chose the stairs; they rounded the elevator in a semicircle up to the second floor. Halfway up was a window to the backyard with streetlight shining through it. Suhonen stopped on the second floor for a moment. All was quiet.

  He climbed up to the third floor. Mäkinen’s apartment was immediately to the left of the stairs. Suhonen continued past the elevator door, climbed a couple of steps higher, and paused to listen.

  He decided to take a closer look at the apartment. He crept up to Mäkinen’s door and carefully cracked the mail slot. He could hear muffled speech inside. Evidently there was an inner door that was almost shut. Nevertheless, Suhonen was able to make out that it was human voices, not a radio or TV. He tried to think who Repo might be with-if he was in the apartment at all, that is.

  Suhonen silently closed the mail slot and retreated back to the stairwell.

  His cell phone began to ring! Goddammit, Suhonen silently swore. The sound would definitely carry into the apartment. He pulled his phone out from his jacket pocket and quickly descended the stairs.

  “Hello,” Suhonen answered. He punched on the stairwell lights at the second-floor landing, because someone talking on the phone in the light was probably less suspicious than someone talking in the dark.

  “What’s the situation?” asked Turunen.

  “Where are you?” Suhonen asked.

  “A minute away.”

  “Main door’s open. Come on in.”

  “What kind of lock’s on the door?”

  Suhonen was confused by the question. “I just said it was open.”

  “No, I mean the apartment door,” Turunen said. “I know you didn’t stay outside or in the lobby to wait.”

  Suhonen chuckled. “Normal residential. You’ll have no trouble getting in the door with your gear. It’s on the third floor, immediately to the left of the stairs. Door says Mäkinen. There are at least two people inside the apartment.”

  “Listened through the mail slot, huh?”

  “No, I levitated myself inside.”

  “All right, we’re pulling up outside now.”

  “I see you guys,” replied Suhonen, who by now had made it down to the main door.

  The SWAT team was traveling in two vans. Three men in masks and helmets jumped out of the first one, and four from the second. One grabbed a big shield, and another a metal pipe meant for smashing locks. The others raised what looked like ski goggles from their necks to their eyes.

  “Flashbangs?” Turunen asked one of the men, who nodded in response. A flashbang was a light-and-noise grenade intended to stun the target for a few seconds. Turunen put on a mask, too.

  “You want one?” he asked Suhonen.

  Suhonen shook his head.

  “Well, here’s a radio for you at least,” Turunen said, handing him a headset.

  Onl
y about thirty seconds had passed since the cars had parked, and the police were already filing in the main door.

  “How certain are we that Repo is in there?”

  “Uncertain, but possible.”

  “So it might be some civilian’s apartment.”

  Suhonen nodded. The SWAT leader’s comment was a clear reference to the earlier pointless raid near the Kallio fire station. “I didn’t call you in, Takamäki did.”

  Turunen clicked on his headset. “Change of plans: no flashbangs. Otherwise entry as planned.”

  The police climbed the stairs, treading lightly. None of their gear clinked or clanked. Suhonen and Turunen brought up the rear and had just reached the second floor when the point man, “Jack Bauer” Saarinen, whispered into the headset: “Ready.”

  “Okay, let’s go in,” Turunen ordered.

  Suhonen heard a dull crash as the pipe crushed the lock. Then came the shouts: “Police! Don’t move! Keep your hands visible!”

  Suhonen had made it almost up to the third floor when an announcement arrived in his ear, “Apartment has been cleared. Three men in custody inside.”

  Three of the SWAT officers withdrew from the apartment as Suhonen entered. The entryway was small, it contained nothing but a coat rack. The room itself was furnished with a bed and a dining table. The apartment was clearly the sort that was rented out for a day or two.

  Three men were lying on the floor in handcuffs, guarded by three members of the SWAT squad. Suhonen nodded at the lead SWAT man. Then he looked at the men on the floor, one at a time. The first had a greaser-style haircut, sideburns, and ʼ50s clothes. It was Jorma Raitio, the guy from Järvenpää that Nykänen had mentioned during the meeting and whose phone the NBI had been tapping.

  The second man was wearing a black sweater and army pants. His face was so lean that he could well be in the military. Suhonen didn’t recognize him, but somehow he got the feeling the guy wasn’t Finnish.