Darling

by Sipila, Jarkko

  “Who’s the gunslinger girl?” Rautis asked, looking at Joutsamo.

  “Calamity Jane,” Suhonen said and Rautis chuckled.

  Joutsamo held her weapon. She noticed Rautis was missing a finger on one hand.

  “How’s it goin’?” Suhonen asked.

  “Bad,” Rautis replied, looking at the floor.

  Joutsamo thought they should go in to secure the apartment, but Suhonen kept chatting with the guy at the door.

  “Rautis,” Suhonen said, waiting for the guy to look up.

  Joutsamo could see tears in the guy’s eyes.

  Suhonen stepped in the door and Joutsamo followed. Rautis took a step back and Joutsamo shut the door behind her.

  “Siwa,” Suhonen began. “What the hell. Why?”

  “You know why,” Rautis said, lowering his gaze again.

  “I know you’re not on top of the world, nowhere near Mont Blanc…”

  “I was on Mont Blanc,” Rautis said, letting out a small laugh. “About five years ago, I went skiing in Chamonix, at the foot of Mont Blanc, and they have a lift that takes you pretty far up the mountain.”

  “But now you’re down low, and without a lift pass. Why the hell did you have to rob the Siwa store?”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Description.”

  “I shoulda had a hot dog taped on my hand in place of the missing finger,” Rautis said with a chuckle.

  “Maybe so.”

  “Debt,” Rautis said. “That was the only reason.”

  “And you can’t get the money anywhere else?”

  “No.”

  “How much do you owe?”

  “Four grand.”

  “Only four?” Suhonen asked. “In the old days you used to gamble ten grand on blackjack, and it didn’t even phase you.”

  “It did phase me, I just couldn’t show it,” Rautis said. “We’d win occasionally, but usually we’d end up in the red. No one can take the house down.”

  “How much did you get from the register in Siwa?”

  “Six hundred twenty.”

  “So you still owe three grand three hundred eighty,” Suhonen calculated.

  “No, four. I have a feeling I won’t be using any of the money in the living room now that you guys are here. I’m pissed. Siwa and a measly six hundred. It’s fuckin’ pitiful.”

  “What did he threaten you with?” Suhonen asked.

  “A finger for each grand,” Rautis said, glancing at his hands. “I would’ve only had five left. I could’ve decided which ones I wanted to keep; I probably would’ve given up the pinkies, and the middle finger of the hand that still has the index finger.”

  Joutsamo began to feel sorry for the guy. His motive was credible.

  Suhonen pulled his wallet out of his pocket and looked in it. Joutsamo could see several five-hundred-euro bills in it.

  “I’ll go have a chat with your debtor,” he said.

  “Wha…You’ll take care of him?”

  Joutsamo wondered where Suhonen had gotten so much cash but kept her mouth shut.

  “That depends on his attitude,” Suhonen said with a tense expression. “But I doubt he’ll come collecting the debt, at least not for your fingers.”

  “That would be great.”

  “Who is it?”

  “You know it’s a drug debt…” Rautis said, hesitantly.

  “Well, I’m not stupid.”

  “And you’ll go in there as a cop…”

  “Who said anything about a cop?”

  “Ah, Suikkanen,” Rautis said, getting the drift.

  “Who is it?”

  “Rantalainen.”

  “The Rantalainen?” Suhonen asked. “He’s still in prison.”

  “Yeah, he is. But he’s the one I owe.”

  This was interesting news. The guy serving a sentence for serious drug crimes was still doing business on the outside. The drug squad would be interested in this tidbit, no doubt.

  “But you didn’t hear it from me,” Rautis added quickly.

  “I never remember what I’ve heard from where, with my Alzheimers and all. But before I forget about my wallet, tell me who I need to go talk to. Rantalainen isn’t getting out any time soon and won’t be chopping any fingers. So who is it?”

  “You’ll help me, then?” Rautis pleaded, once again lifting his eyes.

  “I’ll do my best,” Suhonen said. “Give me a name, grab your toothbrush, and we’ll go to Pasila and take care of that Siwa incident.”

  CHAPTER 21

  SATURDAY, 5:50 P.M.

  HOTEL PASILA, HELSINKI

  Nea Lind leaned forward at the restaurant table—the same posture she had taken interviewing Korpivaara a few hours earlier. The hotel bar was less bleak than the interrogation room at the police station, but it was one of the coldest and dreariest as far as hotel bars went.

  A streetcar rumbled past the window. Besides Lind and Sanna Römpötti, only a handful of people were in the bar, each sitting alone or in pairs. No groups were there to create ambience or give others anything to whisper about. Sadly, the “easy listening” music designed to make up for the lack of conversation was the only sound scene in the bar.

  Lind didn’t want to talk with Römpötti at the station, so she asked her to meet in the hotel bar. Lind had a short conversation with Korpivaara after the hearing, but it was one-sided. She talked and Korpivaara sat looking somber and absent, not responding to Lind’s questions or reassurances.

  Lind slid the document in front of Römpötti and waited a minute while the reporter read the decision.

  “Fingerprints on the coffeemaker—that’s the biggest piece of evidence they have against Korpivaara,” Lind said in disbelief.

  “Your client has confessed,” Römpötti said, looking up.

  “That’s another thing I don’t get.”

  “Why?” Römpötti asked, taking a sip of her Bacardi coke. “What if he killed the girl?”

  “Did the police brainwash you? I don’t get it.”

  Römpötti didn’t say anything. The police had brainwashed many a reporter, but she didn’t feel she was one of them. She’d done plenty of stories about infractions by police officers. Besides, the police were just one source.

  “Why is Jorma Korpivaara’s case suddenly so important to you?”

  “I know the police are mistaken in this case.”

  “Stop shitting me and tell me the real reason,” Römpötti said.

  “I want to be on the side of justice; I want to know what really happened,” Lind said, looking at Römpötti.

  “Yeah, sure,” Römpötti said. “It’s the defense attorney’s job to side with the version of truth that will benefit the client. My job as a reporter is a little different: my truth is the truth, not the truth according to someone’s angle. And the more I listen to your version of the truth, the more skeptical I become.”

  “So you’ve talked with Takamäki or Joutsamo?”

  “No, with you.”

  Lind cast a curious glance at Römpötti, who emptied her rum glass.

  “One of my most important criteria in assessing someone’s credibility is their willingness to be open about their past and their motives. You haven’t been honest with me, not even just now when I gave you ample opportunity.”

  “What?”

  “Remember the three rules about dealing with the media—don’t lie, don’t lie, don’t lie. You broke all three.”

  Römpötti looked at Lind sternly, gulped down the rest of her drink, and stood up.

  “Don’t lie,” Lind said, weighing the words. “What are you, the holy defender of truth? You think freedom of the press gives you the right to stick your nose in everyone’s business?”

  “We don’t stick our noses in everyone’s business,” Römpötti said, standing by the table. “We only do it when it affects the general public.”

  “But you decide that threshold,” Lind said laughing. “That’s the same thing.”

/>   “Not really,” Römpötti began, but Lind interrupted her.

  “Don’t you understand that freedom of speech isn’t some godly right? Your television channel exists to make money for its owners, sometimes at the cost of other people’s suffering.”

  “You could see it like that, but you should consider what society would be like if we didn’t have freedom of the press,” Römpötti said soberly. “Freedom of speech is one of the most important basic human rights. How would equality before the law be possible without it?” the reporter asked, but didn’t stick around for the answer.

  * * *

  Takamäki sat alone in the Spanish-style Restaurant Sevilla in the Hotel Pasila and had noticed Römpötti and Lind at the bar. He had ordered a Frutti di Mare pizza and a mineral water. If he wasn’t driving, he would’ve had a beer.

  He had plenty of time to enjoy his meal, since Joutsamo would be tied up with Rautis’s arrest and its paperwork for a while. They agreed to meet at the police station around seven or eight.

  Takamäki saw Römpötti walking toward the front door, looking stern. When she stopped to put her coat on, Takamäki greeted her.

  “Howdy.”

  Römpötti turned and said hello, her voice obviously chilled from the previous conversation.

  “What’s up?” the detective asked.

  “Not much,” the reporter replied. “It’s been a long day and I thought I’d go home.”

  “Good decision.”

  Römpötti seemed to ponder something and turned to Takamäki.

  “Listen, Kari.”

  “Yes?”

  “You should probably be aware of something concerning the Korpivaara case.”

  “What?” Takamäki asked, with piqued interest. Sometimes it worked this way—the reporters knew something the police weren’t aware of.

  “Lind over there,” Römpötti said, nodding toward the bar. “She was Korpivaara’s girlfriend when they were teenagers. And her father once beat Korpivaara to a pulp because of the relationship.”

  “Wow.”

  “The incident was never reported to the police; it was reported to the hospital as a motorcycle accident.”

  “That’s pretty interesting.”

  “I think so, too. The statute of limitations has passed, but in case you’re wondering about Lind’s motive to defend the case, well, there you have it. Korpivaara never quite recovered from the incident, either.”

  Takamäki thought back to a moment during the hearing when Lind had denied that her client was guilty, and Korpivaara made her change her mind.

  “So that’s what’s up today,” Römpötti said and left.

  The reporter walked out the door, wondering if she had given out her information too easily. She could’ve used it get some tidbit in return. On the other hand, she had lost interest in the case after she realized Lind was concealing essential information about her past. She could no longer trust anything Lind had to say.

  After Römpötti left, Nea Lind came to Takamӓki’s table and asked if she could sit down.

  “Why not,” Takamäki replied.

  “So, do you come here often?” Lind joked.

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” Takamäki said with a smile. “Our police station doesn’t have a cafeteria, so we usually eat at one of the canteens nearby.”

  “The word ‘canteen’ cheapens this place.”

  “As far as the police are concerned, Restaurant Kӓmp is one, too.”

  “What did Römpötti want?” Lind asked.

  Takamäki figured Lind would be curious after she saw him talking to Römpötti.

  “She said she’d had a long day and was going home.”

  “I could say the same,” Lind said, relief in her eyes.

  Takamäki kept his face stern. The waitress came with his pizza, and he waited for her to get out of earshot before continuing, “She also told me that you and Korpivaara have a past. Is that true?” Takamäki asked. He purposely left out the details.

  “What did she say?” Lind pressed.

  “That you and Korpivaara have a past.”

  “What do you mean?” Lind asked nervously.

  The woman’s reaction told Takamäki that Römpötti’s information was accurate.

  “You used to date.”

  While Lind pondered the comment, Takamäki grabbed his fork and knife.

  “Well,” Lind began reluctantly. “We knew each other when we were young, but dating is too strong a term. We were teenagers.”

  She hadn’t told Römpötti this shared past, but maybe she should have. Somehow she had thought the reporter would chase an interesting story without asking too many questions. On the other hand, if the past relationship didn’t keep her from defending Korpivaara, it didn’t keep her from talking about it in the media.

  Takamäki recalled the anonymous phone call from Lind’s former colleague, who considered Lind dishonest and manipulating. He cut a piece of the pizza and stuffed it in his mouth. He wanted Lind to continue without having to ask questions. And she did.

  “But it doesn’t disqualify me from the case, if that’s what you’re wondering. Defending someone you know, or used to know, doesn’t violate any professional ethics or laws.”

  “Your motive makes no difference to me,” Takamäki said, swallowing the pizza. “Go right ahead and defend Korpivaara to the best of your ability. I’m just wondering if the relationship might’ve blurred your view of the case. Römpötti told me about the beating. You trying to make up for what your father did?”

  “I’m not…” Lind said tensely. “If the police are trying to prevent…” She was interrupted by the phone ringing in her pocket. She pulled it out and answered.

  Takamäki ate his pizza in silence. The attorney listened to the person on the phone, asking quick questions and making short comments: “Who? Where? Are you telling me the truth? Yes, I want to meet right away… Okay.”

  Lind hung up. “Sorry, I have to go do your job,” she said with a smirk as she stood up.

  Takamäki nodded and cut himself another piece of pizza. He especially enjoyed the crisp, thin crust.

  CHAPTER 22

  SATURDAY, 7:55 P.M.

  HӒMEENLINNA FREEWAY, HELSINKI

  Driving on the freeway, Suhonen called to ask his Narcotics buddy Toukola for background information on Sergei Makarov because he didn’t recognize the name. When Toukola told him Makarov used to be called Pekka Pispala, Suhonen remembered the guy and his face. That wasn’t his real name, either; his given name was Mikael Mehtola.

  Changing aliases was common in the world of criminals. Under a fresh name you could at least attempt to start over—and hopefully trick your debtors and the authorities. Sometimes crooks would change nationalities, but Makarov was still a Finn, despite the Russian name. According to rumors from prison, Mehtola-Pispala-Makarov’s name choice was inspired by a YouTube video where Soviet national hockey team’s trio Makarov-Krutov-Larionov had their opponents spinning.

  The Narcotics officer also confirmed what Rautis had said: Makarov was connected to Rantalainen, who was after Rautis’s money. Suhonen was about to hang up the phone, when Toukola told him that Makarov also was connected to another guy that Suhonen had asked about recently, Jaakko Niskala. Suhonen recalled that he’d met Niskala at the Alamo Bar in North Haaga and that Niskala’s fingerprints were found on Laura Vatanen’s doorframe.

  Suhonen found out that Makarov lived on Kanteletar Street in the Kannelmӓki neighborhood. Toukola wanted Suhonen to let him know if he got anything out of Makarov, and especially Rantalainen. Narcotics wanted to know about anything that would help keep the latter in prison longer.

  Suhonen drove north on the Hämeenlinna Freeway and passed under the Ring I Beltway bridge. It would’ve been quicker to take Ring I, but Suhonen wanted to check on the Kannelmӓki strip mall situation. He wondered why Niskala’s name would reappear so unexpectedly but decided it was just a coincidence. It made sense that the two-bit criminals of the Alamo B
ar in Haaga would have connections to Makarov, who lived in nearby Kannelmӓki.

  Joutsamo was at the station interrogating Rautis, who’d confess to the Siwa store robbery. The money was found in his apartment, along with a replica gun used in the robbery.

  Suhonen had left his unmarked police car at the station and taken an old Peugeot from the garage. The license plates would connect the car to a leasing company, unlike his other vehicle, which had plates connecting them to the police. He’d left the Twins baseball cap in the locker at the station.

  Suhonen had promised to help Rautis—not out of pity, but because in the past the guy had given him good leads in a few cocaine deals. The bitter Rautis wanted to get back at his old buddies for kicking him out of their circle.

  Suhonen got Makarov’s phone number from Rautis, and Toukola said he’d get permissions to track the location of the phone. It would take a few hours. They didn’t have enough to go on yet to get a warrant for a phone tap.

  Suhonen parked the car by the strip mall. He’d take a look in the local bar first. Mehtola-Pispala-Makarov would likely not be at home on Kanteletar Street on a Saturday night.

  * * *

  One of the streetlamps was burned out, and the apartment building’s front yard was dim. The snowy pavement radiated cold, and Lind made a mental note to switch to winter boots. She passed a dark patch of woods and sped up her steps. She spotted the letter E on the cube light over the door.

  The attorney had taken a taxi from Pasila to Nӓyttelijӓ Street. The caller said she lived in stairwell E, which was the one farthest away from the street. Laura Vatanen’s apartment was in the middle.

  Lind found the name on the directory outside the front door and pressed the button. The lock buzzed after a few seconds. Lind turned on the stairwell light, stepped past a baby stroller, and walked up two floors.

  The brown door bore the same name as the directory: Rentola-Lammi. Lind rang the doorbell, and the door opened as wide as the safety chain allowed. A blonde girl who looked to be sixteen or seventeen peered through the opening with round eyes.