Suhonen was at a loss. It was obvious Markkanen was after Lindström’s money. But what would be the best course of action? Suhonen didn’t have enough evidence yet to arrest him for incitement. He would actually need to carry out the attack.
* * *
The enormous Skull escorted Salmela to Larsson’s cell door, then stood guard outside. Larsson had been resting on the bottom bunk, but now he sat up. He was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, and his tattooed biceps bulged in full view.
Various pin-up girls decorated the walls. Salmela recognized the blonde: she had appeared in a few low-budget domestic porn flicks. He remembered hearing that Larsson had dated this Sara at one point. In any case, he was glad he’d remembered it. It’d be a bad idea to crack jokes about the guy’s girlfriend.
“So what’d Markkanen want?”
“He said he wants to use Korpela again. Apparently everything’s under control, no worries.”
The gangster sneered. “Yeah, right. The dick fucks it up, then refuses to pay for it.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
“What did he offer?”
“Same as before, but I thought…”
“You thought?” Larsson snapped. “You ain’t supposed to think, just deliver the damn message.”
Salmela continued, unruffled. “I thought the old rate was low, so I got thirty percent more.”
Larsson broke out laughing. “Damn good thinking.” But his expression hardened immediately. “Who is it?”
“Wasn’t sure if I should ask, but I did anyway. A forty-something small-timer from Lahti…goes by Suikkanen.”
Larsson’s face tightened. “Suikkanen? Fuck me, I know that guy.”
Salmela was dumbfounded. Had Suhonen tried to infiltrate the Skulls as Suikkanen? He stayed quiet, waiting to see if Larsson would say anything more.
Spit flew from the gangster’s mouth. “That Suikkanen’s a fucking cop. He’s an undercover pig.”
Larsson turned to a narrow bookshelf and slid out a paperback with a red cover. He shook some photos out of the pages and riffled through them. When he found the right one, he handed it to Salmela. “Look for yourself.”
The photograph showed the front of the Pasila Headquarters. Suhonen was descending the stairs at the entrance, chatting with another man. Salmela recognized him as Lieutenant Takamäki.
“The one with the leather jacket is Suikkanen,” Larsson continued. “He landed me in here last summer.”
“Don’t know him.”
Larsson’s gaze was hard. “Good. Better stay away from him.”
“Anyway, back to Markkanen. I said we would…or you would contact him by phone. If he’s asked about his brother, the answer is yes. If about his sister, then it’s a no.”
“Hell yeah, we’ll do it,” Larsson said, and whistled. The hall guard stepped inside. “Get word to Korpela that we’ll take Markkanen’s job. Tell him to do it right…that Suikkanen’s a cop. But don’t tell Markkanen that we know that—he could be in with them. We might have to bump him, too… Also, get Korpela on the phone. I want to talk to Tony myself.”
Interesting, Salmela thought. The Skulls had stashed away an illegal cellphone, which Larsson could use to stay in touch with the outside.
“Anything else?” Salmela asked.
“No,” Larsson said. “Get lost.”
Salmela got up and stepped into the corridor. His cell block was one level up. The doors to the stairwells weren’t locked during the day. Now he had to warn his old friend Suhonen about the Skulls’ plan. He’d need phone authorization immediately, or he’d have to get word out some other way.
As he climbed the staircase, a blue-uniformed guard approached from the opposite direction. Salmela had just squeezed past the lout when he heard a voice from behind, “Hey, Salmela…”
Suddenly, he felt a crushing impact in his right leg. The pain in his knee shot through his entire body, and his leg buckled beneath him. Salmela tumbled onto his side and hit the stairs.
The guard was still standing a bit further down. “Raitio wanted to send his regards to you and your knee.”
Salmela caught sight of a raised hand. It came down hard, then everything went black.
The nightstick hit Salmela just above his left ear.
The guard glanced around. The stairwell was quiet, no witnesses. He pulled out his radio andreported that an inmate had either been assaulted or fallen down the stairs. Unable to haul the unconscious victim to the infirmary alone, he requested assistance.
A dreary voice on the other end asked if there was any sign of the perpetrator. The guard said no; he had just found the victim in the stairwell.
A thin stream of blood trickled out of Salmela’s ear and ran down his neck.
* * *
Markus Markkanen passed the Helsinki Ice Arena and stayed right at the Y intersection. Behind the arena were the Olympic Stadium, host of the 1952 summer games, and a smaller soccer stadium. He was satisfied. Someone had called him to ask about his brother, so Suikkanen’s fate was sealed. Lindström had taken the bait, as had Suikkanen.
His stomach growled and he glanced at the dashboard clock—he could go for some food. He took a right turn onto Urheilu Street, then a quick left. A former gas station had become a McDonald’s years earlier.
There was a line for the drive-thru, so Markkanen swung the Beamer into a parking space in front of a hedge. He’d get his food quicker if he went inside. Maybe he’d eat in, too.
The rock ’n’ roll themed interior was actually kind of fun; it reminded him of his youthful fascination with James Dean.
Markkanen was already at the door when one of his phones rang. It was his wife.
“Hey,” he answered softly. “How’s it going?”
“How are you?” she said, sounding a bit tense.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. We’ve been swimming, swimming, and swimming, but…”
“But what?”
She hesitated a moment. “This is a little strange. Lindström called and asked me the same kind of questions you might ask. How’s it going and what not.”
Damn, Markkanen thought. What was Lindström doing calling his wife?
“What did he want?”
“Nothing, really. He was very friendly. Asked me if we needed any money or anything. Just to chat.”
“Did he ask where you were?”
“Well, uhh…yes.”
Markkanen groaned. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”
“Well, of course I told him. What else could I say?”
“Stupid.”
“Don’t get mad, Markus. It just slipped out somehow.”
“Well, pack your stuff and leave town.”
“To go where?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you go to Tampere. I’ll meet you there tomorrow, if I can make it. Check in at the Hotel Ilves.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Markkanen hung up and considered what this meant. Lindström shouldn’t have any reason to talk to Riikka.
His hunger had faded, and he walked back to the car.
Fucking Lindström.
CHAPTER 25
PASILA POLICE HEADQUARTERS
FRIDAY, 2:40 P.M.
Suhonen walked into Takamäki’s office. The lieutenant was seated at his computer.
“You have a sec?” Suhonen asked, closing the door behind him.
Takamäki looked up when he heard the door close. Apparently this was something important or sensitive.
“I was about to head over to Customs, but it can wait. Go ahead.”
“I have a situation… It’s a little complicated.”
“How so?”
Suhonen told him about going undercover to meet Markkanen, and his orders to rob Lindström at his apartment in an hour. Takamäki listened quietly.
“What do you think I should do?” Suhonen asked finally.
“You know you can’t go through with it.”
“It could mean a breakthrough,” Suhonen said. “We’re already pretty far along.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Sometimes we end up in situations where the law is unclear, and the lawyers are no help either. But this situation is obvious, armed robbery is way past the gray area. Think what could happen if something went wrong.”
Suhonen nodded. “Well, yeah. In principle, I agree. It is very risky.”
Takamäki thought aloud. “Too risky. Do we have any other options?”
“What do you mean?”
“I was thinking we could fake it, but that’s pretty damn difficult as well, since Lindström is a potential suspect here. If the target was an outsider, we could consider it.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Suhonen said.
“Let’s look at the benefits. What would we gain if you carried out the robbery? You might get a little closer to Markkanen’s inner circle, find out more about the case, but I don’t see a direct benefit to the investigation. You wouldn’t find a smoking gun.”
“Probably not. Still, the relationship between the two is interesting. Markkanen knows where Lindström keeps his money, yet he doesn’t want to do the job himself. He’d rather pay someone on the outside to do it. Obviously, he wants to maintain a relationship with the guy,” Suhonen pointed out.
“And when you combine that with Eriksson’s murder, it starts to look like some kind of love-hate triangle.”
“Markkanen mentioned that Lindström owed him money,” Suhonen recalled. “Maybe Lindström told him to kill Eriksson, and now the guy’s refusing to pay.”
“Or maybe Markkanen’s been playing games behind the boss’s back and, for one reason or another, took Eriksson out of the picture.”
“Or another possibility is that Eriksson and Markkanen were partners, in which case Lindström could’ve ordered the hit,” Suhonen said.
The men stared at each other in silence.
“Then again, Eriksson might have no connection to them whatsoever,” Suhonen added. “We don’t know for sure. This is pure speculation.”
“Never assume,” Takamäki smiled. “But we’re in no hurry. Let’s just go about our business, and the case will unravel when someone slips up.”
Suhonen glanced at the clock on the wall. “Right, no hurry. I’m supposed to be robbing one of our primary suspects in an hour. Oh, and Markkanen mentioned that Lindström does business with the Russians. If someone’s digging through his background, that tidbit might be helpful.”
“Not sure if anyone’s had a chance to do that yet,” Takamäki said. “Joutsamo, Kohonen, and Kulta apprehended Saarnikangas earlier. He didn’t have many warm words for you, or so I heard.”
“No surprise there,” Suhonen said quietly.
Takamäki turned back to the computer. “I have to send off this email. But about that robbery. Maybe it makes sense for you to go there just to observe, but stay out of the apartment. If Markkanen asks you about it later, just make up some excuse.”
“Yeah, that’s probably the best move.”
* * *
Markus Markkanen was livid. What had possessed the old man to call his wife? He wanted immediate answers. He was driving down Kapteeni Street, having just passed the neo-Gothic red-brick façade of St. John’s Church. A bus up ahead was moving slowly, but he had no room to pass on the crowded, narrow street. Flanked by stone apartment buildings with quaint shops and cafés, Kapteeni Street led south toward Lindström’s apartment.
Damn buses.
One of his phones rang. It was Lindström’s line.
The bus inched forward, and Markkanen took a deep breath before answering.
“Hel-lo,” he said, putting too much emphasis on the last syllable.
“Is this a bad time?”
“No. Go ahead.”
“We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here. Is four okay?”
Markkanen was on Vuorimies. He could be there in just a couple minutes, but four o’clock would be even better.”
“Four’s good. I should make it by then.”
“Good,” Lindström said. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Everything’s okay.”
The conversation ended. Markkanen pulled up to the corner of Tehdas Street and waited for the cross traffic. Within twenty seconds, he had decided to call Suikkanen. The robbery would have to wait for another day.
He had just stepped on the gas when he caught a glimpse of a familiar figure rounding the corner. The man wore a leather jacket and a black beanie cap on his head, which, at least a week ago, had been bald. It was Korpela, the Skull. What was he doing here?
Markkanen made a split-second decision. He crossed the intersection and swung a U-turn. Tony Korpela had disappeared around the corner.
The blue Beamer coasted back to the intersection and Markkanen could see the Skull about a hundred fifty feet up on the right.
He continued on slowly, as if looking for a parking space. Korpela was about sixty feet ahead when Markkanen’s heart sank. Damn, what if he’s going inside!
Markkanen was crawling along about fifty feet from the door to Lindström’s staircase when a blue taxi pulled up to his back bumper. Afraid it might honk and attract Korpela’s attention, he flicked on his right blinker and pulled over as far as possible. He missed the driver’s-side mirror of a parked Nissan by about two inches. The taxi zoomed past, but Markkanen kept his eyes on Korpela. The man punched in the door code and disappeared inside.
Markkanen shook his head and switched off his blinker. He hit the gas and sped on towards the South Harbor. Now he had to set up a meeting with Suikkanen. The man’s task had just changed.
CHAPTER 26
BOARD OF CUSTOMS, EROTTAJA
FRIDAY, 3:30 P.M.
Jouko Nyholm’s foot tapped out an irregular rhythm on the wooden floor. Should he leave? Snellman had told him to stick around because that bastard from Homicide had come for a visit. Takamäki and Snellman had been talking for ten minutes already.
He thought for a moment, then started typing an email. His fingers couldn’t find the keys, and he constantly had to make corrections. In the email, he requested a surprise inspection of a toilet paper shipment on the M/S Gambrini, scheduled to arrive in the next few days.
“According to some recent intelligence, the cargo bound for Russia on the M/S Gambrini is not toilet paper, it’s washing machines. Please take appropriate action,” Nyholm wrote.
He read through the memo one more time. The sentence was sloppy, but the message was clear. He clicked the mouse and off it went to the Customs surveillance manager at the Kotka harbor.
That’s it, no more, Nyholm thought.
In his desk drawer was a Customs-issued 9mm Glock. It could end this whole mess.
* * *
Takamäki and Snellman were sitting at the large conference table in Snellman’s office. Snellman had ordered sweet rolls, but neither was in the mood for pastries.
“It’s an interesting link, that’s for sure,” Snellman said.
Takamäki had just explained Eriksson’s connection to Nyholm’s daughter.
“But on the other hand,” he went on, “none of us are responsible for the decisions of our adult children. Fortunately.”
“No, of course not,” the lieutenant answered.
“So,” the assistant director said, standing up. He stepped behind his desk. “I guess our only choice is to ask Nyholm himself.”
“Don’t…” Takamäki started to say, but Snellman had already pushed the button for the intercom. He told Nyholm to come over.
“I’m not so sure this is a good idea right now,” Takamäki said.
“We need answers, don’t we?” Snellman grumbled. “If your suspicions prove misguided, you can rule him out. But Nyholm could know something useful about the victim.”
Takamäki didn’t believe that for a second. Had he known something, Nyholm would have told them about it a couple
of days ago when first asked to look into Eriksson’s connections to Customs. Snellman seemed to have some sort of power over Nyholm—maybe it was worth a shot.
They heard a cautious knock on the door.
“Come in,” Snellman roared.
Takamäki noticed immediately that something was wrong. Nyholm’s hair was messed up, and he was trembling. One hand was concealed behind his back.
“What’s wrong?” Snellman asked, puzzled.
“Nothing,” he answered, wiping his nose with his left hand. His right was still behind his back.
Snellman glanced at Takamäki, who looked equally perplexed.
“Well, listen, Jouko,” Snellman said in a gentler tone. “The police have discovered that your daughter was dating this Jerry Eriksson, the guy who was murdered. Do you have anything to say about that?”
Nyholm remained standing, but looked a little calmer.
“Sure, I knew that…of course.”
“Well, why didn’t you mention it when you were looking into Eriksson’s background?” Snellman said quietly.
Takamäki had a sudden image of an exchange between a father and son, who’d been caught stealing apples.
“I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I just couldn’t. It…it…”
Snellman’s gaze hardened. “Just spit it out, Nyholm,” he snapped. “We don’t have all day to listen to your blubbering.”
Nyholm’s expression went cold, and he slowly drew his hand from behind his back. It was holding a black pistol.
Both Takamäki and Snellman flinched.
“Shit Nyholm! What are you doing?” Snellman bellowed.
Nyholm raised the gun and pointed it at the men seated at the table. “Stay where you are. Don’t move.”
Takamäki felt like getting up, but decided it was better to obey. His own gun was back at Police Headquarters, locked in the bottom drawer of his desk.
Nyholm pressed the gun against his own temple. His expression was stoic.
Helsinki Homicide: Against the Wall Page 20