“Do you remember if he had a cellphone? Did he call anyone during the trip?”
“I don’t think he called anyone,” Oinonen said. “But now that you mention it, he might have been fiddling with a cellphone. It’s also possible that it was an iPod or something. It was dark out and the back seat is even darker, so it was tough to see. But I do remember that he really wanted a receipt. He asked for one.”
“Okay,” Joutsamo said and jotted a note on her pad: Why receipt?
Joutsamo continued, “I’m going to have to ask you to come down to the station to make a formal statement. It doesn’t have to be right away, but we’ll let you know.”
“Awright, must be a pretty serious case?”
“I’ll let you know when you get here,” Joutsamo said, to arouse his curiosity. “And please, don’t mention this conversation to anyone.”
“Okay,” the man said, and the call ended.
Takamäki was at the door again. “Any progress?”
“Some. Apparently, at 9:30 P.M., Eriksson took a taxi from Helsinki Avenue to Oulunkylä, just over a mile from the crime scene.”
“A taxi?” Takamäki wondered. “Well, let’s go to my office. Suhonen’s waiting for us.”
Joutsamo was still thinking about the conversation. “Damn. I can’t remember if there are any security cameras in that area.”
“That wouldn’t help if he was in the taxi alone.”
“No, but it’s possible that Eriksson met the killer somewhere else before going to the garage. They could have met at Pirjo’s Tavern and gone from there. Maybe the security camera could’ve caught a glimpse of a potential suspect.”
“It’s worth a shot, but let’s go talk to Suhonen.”
* * *
Suhonen was perched on the window sill in Takamäki’s cramped office. As usual, he kept his leather jacket on. The detective lieutenant took his seat behind the desk, and Joutsamo sat in the chair by the door.
A bookshelf against the wall was filled with different colored folders, containing case files. A diploma on the wall proved that Takamäki had participated in an international FBI course on profiling. Mr. Kari Takamaki, it read. A couple missing dots over the “a,” but at least they hadn’t called him Ms.
Outside, the morning wind had ushered in another low-pressure system. Beneath the street lamps, the sleet was driven nearly sideways.
Takamäki showed them a letter-sized printout of a photograph. “Forensics found this in Eriksson’s apartment. It was taped to the bottom of a desk drawer.”
Joutsamo examined what appeared to be a photo of a note. In capital letters, someone had written, “JUHA S. 14,000 DUE NOV 15,” followed by a couple of exclamation points.
“In the same drawer, Forensics found what they believe to be a bag of amphetamines.”
“Was Eriksson dealing?” Joutsamo said, more thinking aloud than asking a question.
Takamäki glanced at Suhonen, who added, “And why would he hide the note in his own home? Was he worried that someone would raid his apartment?”
“All good questions,” Takamäki said.
“Were there any prints on the note? When can we get a handwriting analysis?” Joutsamo asked.
“Not sure,” Takamäki said. “Kannas will take care of it… Suhonen, tell Anna.”
Suhonen was still sitting on the windowsill. “This Juha S. is the informant who told me about the body.”
“Wow,” Joutsamo let go.
“Right,” Takamäki said.
“Let’s take him in,” Joutsamo said immediately.
“Good idea,” Takamäki said.
“Naah,” Suhonen stalled.
Joutsamo looked at Suhonen. “I don’t suppose Saarnikangas told you that he owed the victim almost fifteen grand?”
“No, he didn’t. Nor did he tell me where he heard about the body.”
“Right,” Joutsamo continued. “Maybe you should have asked him where he saw the body, not where he heard about it. Or maybe even where he killed him.”
“Looks like probable cause,” Takamäki said.
Suhonen raised his hand, gesturing for some quiet. “Then why would he tell me about it?”
“To throw us off track.”
“Naah,” Suhonen said again. “I know this guy a bit. I can’t say well, but still… In my view, he’s not a killer. He’s more like a pawn, though he’s not as dumb as most junkies. He’s a kind of survivor, who always gets out of trouble by squeezing through some crack.”
“So you’re saying he’s not capable of murder?” Joutsamo asked.
“Everyone’s capable of murder in the right circumstances. Still, it seems to me that if Saarnikangas were in debt, he’d try to resolve it somehow, not bury it by shooting the guy.”
Joutsamo shook her head. “Seems to me we should take him in and interrogate him. If, like you say, he’s some kind of low-class junkie, then he’ll talk within a few days.”
Takamäki turned back to Suhonen.
“I think we should wait for more details from Forensics. The DNA evidence and what not,” Suhonen said. “I agree that Juha knows more about this case than he told me. I could try to get it out of him.”
“I disagree.” Joutsamo said.
“With what exactly?” Takamäki asked.
Joutsamo looked at Suhonen for a moment.
“Alright. This case started with your intel, so let’s see where you can go with it. Let’s try Suhonen’s way, for now at least. But we definitely shouldn’t tell Saarnikangas that we know about the debt,” Joutsamo said.
“Of course. I thought maybe we should use some old-fashioned police work, but blended with a little modern technology?”
“What do you mean?” Takamäki asked.
“Well, a phone tap and a GPS tail.”
“A tracking device?”
Suhonen nodded.
Police tracking devices could be easily attached to any automobile. Every twenty seconds or so, it sent out a signal with its location, which was picked up by police computers, or even a field officer’s cellphone. Narcotics had used them with great success. The cops no longer needed five units to follow a suspect’s vehicle. Instead, its location arrived automatically. Narcotics had made an art of planting the devices inconspicuously; it only took about twenty seconds, and the device was nearly invisible.
The tracking device could also be built into any interchangeable car part. A Finnish company had developed the technology, and now foreign police departments and various intelligence organizations had taken a keen interest in it. Everything related to the device had been declared a state secret in Finland.
“We’d know where he was at all times. He drives an old Fiat van. Let’s watch and listen before we arrest him and show our hand. If Saarnikangas is actually the culprit, I don’t think he did it because of the debt.”
“Anna?” Takamäki turned to her.
“So he drives an old van, huh? According to Kannas, the tire tracks they found were from a van, and they were worn out… But your way is fine with me. It’s not like we have to hurry to prevent a crime or anything. But when you plant the tracking device, check out those tires.”
“Okay,” Takamäki said. “Phone tap and tracking device.”
“And the tires,” Suhonen added.
CHAPTER 11
MATINKYLÄ, ESPOO
WEDNESDAY, 3:05 P.M.
Markus Markkanen was lounging on the sofa in front of a blaring TV. The sports channel was showing a rerun of an NHL hockey game, but he wasn’t watching, just staring past the screen.
His “ex”-wife Riikka was in the kitchen making coffee.
“Want some?” Riikka called.
There was no answer.
“Hey,” Riikka called again. “Coffee or not?”
“I don’t think so,” Markkanen drawled.
He turned his blank stare toward the kitchen. Riikka was measuring coffee into the filter. A shapely woman in her thirties, her perky breasts seemed to stand at atte
ntion beneath her white T-shirt. Markus and Riikka had been together, or, more accurately, had been drinking together in the same circles since the late nineties. They quickly took to one another, and Riikka had gotten pregnant unexpectedly. Eetu was born in 2000.
Although Markus had spent a year in prison, the marriage had endured. A few years ago, it had ended in name only, but the relationship had continued. They told the boy that his daddy had gone to workabroad for the year. The last few years had been better, thanks to money. Since he had been working for Lindström, they had much more of it. Money didn’t just soothe the family; for them, it actually created happiness.
“Maybe I will have some,” Markkanen said, sitting up on the sofa. He was wearing gray wind pants and a black T-shirt. He surfed through the channels absent-mindedly, but couldn’t seem to find anything interesting. Eetu had gone to a friend’s house after school.
“You have anything going on today?” Riikka wondered.
“A meeting at four.”
“With Lindström?”
“Yeah,” Markkanen grumbled. She knew his line of work, but they didn’t talk about the details.
“Why do you let him boss you around?”
“He doesn’t boss me around,” Markkanen snapped.
“Does too. Come here, go there, take care of this, do that. For all that you do, you should be able to run his business yourself.”
“Do you remember who paid our bills when I was doing time?” Markkanen asked, though he knew very well that she remembered.
Riikka fell silent, and they listened quietly as the coffeemaker gurgled. Markkanen had always suspected that Riikka had paid Lindström back with something other than legal tender. They had never talked about that, though. And never would. If something had happened, it was in the past.
“Listen,” Riikka said, sliding onto the sofa next to him. “I need some money.”
He wanted to ask what she needed it for this time, but he dug out his wallet and counted out three hundred.
“That enough?”
“Yeah,” Riikka said. “It’s a really gorgeous blouse.”
Markkanen laughed silently when she kissed him on the cheek. He’d have to remember to shave before leaving.
“You know, we should go on a vacation somewhere warm,” Riikka suggested.
“Again?”
“Yeah, it’s so depressingly dark and cold here.”
Markkanen stood up. Riikka remained sitting.
“Where you going?”
“To get some coffee.”
His cellphone rang in the hallway, and he had to rummage through the pockets of his jacket to find it.
“Hello,” Markkanen answered.
The caller was Lindström. He sounded angry. “Where are you?”
“Why?”
“You were supposed to be here at three.”
“You said four.”
“Shut up! Get over here now.”
“Okay,” Markkanen replied.
Riikka watched him from the sofa, gloating. “No…he doesn’t boss me around. No, no…”
“Shut up,” Markkanen said, pulling his jacket on. About to leave, he called out, “Remember to take Eetu to hockey practice tonight.”
The ice rink was only minutes away from home, but still too far for the kid to walk with a heavy hockey bag.
* * *
It was almost four o’clock and Suhonen was standing at the turnoff onto Vuolukivi Street in the Pihlajamäki neighborhood. Pale, sixties-style four- and eight-story towers loomed overhead.
Rocky Pihlajamäki was the first Helsinki suburb built in the sixties to be officially preserved by the city. The Finnish Historical Board had also requested protection for it, though Suhonen wondered why. The Historical Board had also worked to preserve the “Sausage House,” a monstrosity of a building just across the street from the Helsinki Railway Station, named for the sausage-shaped ring encircling the second floor. For the people of Helsinki, the Sausage House is an institution. For visitors, it’s a curiosity.
Suhonen’s cellphone buzzed. Raija again. This time he decided to answer it. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if she wanted to meet.
“Hi,” Suhonen said, trying to sound as friendly as possible.
“Hi,” she said back. “Why don’t you answer your phone?”
“Been busy at work. You know the drill.”
“Yeah. I know,” she answered coolly.
Raija was quiet for a moment and Suhonen wondered if she was calling to complain or just to chat.
“Listen, I just called because I left that teapot of mine at your place. I want it back.”
“Huh?”
“You know, the one I bought last spring. I forgot it in the rush.”
“Oh yeah? That’s what you’re calling about?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. I’ll just bring it to your office when I get a chance,” he said, feeling his temper flare. “Sorry, gotta go. More work.”
He hit “End Call” and watched as a couple of pot-bellied men lumbered into a local bar. A gaudy sign in the window advertised free karaoke and billiards. Suhonen felt like joining them. He didn’t care for karaoke, but billiards and beer would be just fine. It would soften his stale mood.
But there was no time now. He had gotten ahold of Saarnikangas on the phone, and they had arranged to meet in Pihlajamäki. Did Juha live around here nowadays? He wasn’t sure. Last he knew, the guy had lived in Itäkeskus, near the infamous shopping mall. He was now three miles northeast of there, next to the Lahti Highway.
Saarnikangas’ dirty Fiat sat in the parking lot. Suhonen had swung by the van and installed the tracking device. It hadn’t taken more than twenty-five seconds. While he was at it, he had checked the brand on the tires.
According to the DMV, the van was owned by one Krister Vuori. The man was doing three years in Helsinki Prison for drug trafficking.
Suhonen’s second phone-the prepaid one-rang.
“Well?”
“Where are you?” Juha asked.
“Out front.”
“Come on in. Stairwell B in the long building. Third floor; the door says Teräsvuori.”
Suhonen strode through the quiet yard and entered the stairway. The spiral stairs were built into the side of the building and surrounded by glass walls. Suhonen dashed up the stairs two at a time and, reaching the third floor, rang the doorbell.
Saarnikangas was already at the door, and he opened it quickly. Suhonen suspected he had been lurking behind the door, peering out the peephole. A black Metallica T-shirt and tattered jeans were draped over his skinny frame. His hair was tangled as usual.
Suhonen stepped past him into the studio, which opened up from the hallway to the left. A beat-up mattress lay on the floor surrounded by a cluttered pile of paperbacks. Next to the balcony door, a TV sat on the floor and a plastic patio table served as a dining table.
“Nice pad,” Suhonen said.
“Practical,” Juha remarked. “Not mine, of course.”
“What’s new with Krister?”
“You mean Vuori?” Juha laughed, but his voice was pinched. The junkie paced around the room, unable to stand still. “Do you know him?”
“I know of him, yeah.”
“He’s doing time. He left this pad and the van in my care. Apparently, the city hasn’t figured out that the tenant is in the slammer, so I’ve been able to live here.”
“Quit bouncing around and sit down,” said Suhonen, pointing to a white plastic chair. Juha obeyed like a scared puppy. Suhonen remained standing, about six feet off.
“About Eriksson.”
“What about him?”
“What do you really know?”
Saarnikangas continued to fidget in the chair.
“Exactly what I told you before. Nothing more. I heard some rumors, so I told you.”
“You’re in deep shit.”
“How so?”
“If you don’t talk.”
“What t
he hell are you talking about?” Saarnikangas raised his voice and folded his thin arms across his chest. “I told you everything. I don’t know anything more. You have the body, so it’s your job to figure out who did it.”
“How do you know we have the body?” Suhonen asked with a grim expression.
Juha’s chin dropped open for half a second. “Don’t you?”
“I haven’t said anything about that. You seem to know.”
“Stop trying to confuse me. How many times have I helped you cops out… Shiiit…”
“Enough swearing. Pretty soon you’ll be helping out in the prison cafeteria.”
“Goddamnit,” Saarnikangas said, starting to stand up.
“Sit,” Suhonen said calmly and Juha obeyed. “Listen to me. We did find the body, and the police are looking for someone to skin. We have to find the killer, and fast. The case is hot, and we’ll find every single morsel of evidence. Now’s your chance to help us out, not to mention yourself.”
Saarnikangas squirmed in his chair. “But… I honestly don’t know anything more about it.”
“Do you have a gun?”
“Huh?”
“Do you have a gun?” Suhonen repeated.
“No,” he answered hesitantly.
“Good to know.”
“Why?”
“Well, we won’t have to send the Bear Squad to bring you in when we figure out your role in this case.”
The Helsinki SWAT team was nicknamed the “Bear Squad.” The unit had been formed to protect foreign dignitaries for the 1975 US-Soviet summit in Helsinki. The police had chosen a bear as its symbol because in a confrontation, the team would swat like a bear.
“Don’t start…”
“I’m serious. You’ll be in deep shit if you don’t talk now. If you don’t have anything to say, then find something out. I’ll call you tonight.” He turned away.
“Suhonen,” Juha said. The detective stopped.
“What?”
“About the swearing. You know where the word ‘hell’ comes from?”
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