Against the Wall hh-1

by Jarkko Sipila

  The first group, all ten, were seventy-inchers. Markkanen remembered seeing in the newspaper that these top-end TVs had a suggested retail price of up to fifteen grand.

  The forklift driver transferred the TVs to the smaller truck.

  The TVs in the second rack were all fifty-inchers, and Jormanainen wrote something down in his pad.

  The forklift driver knew his stuff, and the truck filled quickly to capacity with thirty-five sets. The bald guy hopped into the driver’s seat and drove off. The guy in the windbreaker backed up a second identical truck into the building. They emptied the rest of the container into it. All together, the container had held 20 seventy- and 40 fifty-inchers.

  The forklift driver filled the semi with rubber gloves from the loading dock. The first phase of the operation had taken twenty minutes.

  Just as quickly, they unloaded the second semi and packed it full of rubber gloves. Baldie and the guy in the windbreaker had both driven off with their second loads. Once the semi was gone, Jormanainen sent helmet-hair packing and pulled a fat stack of cash out of the breast pocket of his jacket.

  He looked at his list. In total, there were 115 televisions.

  “Okay,” he said. “By my count, we had 45 seventy-inch units and 70 fifty-inch units. The price was eight grand a piece for the seventy-inchers, and the fifty-inchers are four grand apiece.”

  Markkanen nodded and did the math in his head: the seventy-inchers would come to 360,000, and the fifty-inchers would be 280,000. So all together, 640,000 euros.

  Jormanainen glanced at Markkanen. “But we could just agree that there were only 35 seventy-inchers and 60 fifty-inchers.”

  “And?” Markkanen asked.

  “A little bonus for you and me. I’ll buy ’em from you-off the record-for half price.”

  “A scam on a scam, huh?” Markkanen grinned.

  “Whatever, but we have to account for the side deal separately. Nobody really knows exactly how many units were in those crates, just as long as the numbers match up roughly.”

  Markkanen nodded. “And your pals didn’t count ’em?”

  “No, they’re from Kotka. They don’t teach math over there. Quite a bunch, by the way. I told ’em to dress normal today-nothing goofy or anything like that. And what do they do? Come here looking like the cast of Sopranos…”

  He looked back at his notepad and counted, “35 times 8…then 60 times 4…so 280 plus 240 makes 520.”

  “I thought they didn’t teach math in Kotka.”

  “I’m from the ’burbs,” the man smiled. “So let’s settle the official part first.”

  He took out a wad of money. Bundles of purple five-hundred-euro notes were bound together with rubber bands. “Each bundle’s ten grand, so twenty bills in each.”

  Markkanen nodded and kept a tally as Jormanainen counted off the bills. After about ten minutes of counting, Jormanainen evened up the stack and handed it to Markkanen.

  “Okay?”

  “Okay,” Markkanen said, shoving the bundles of cash into his breast pocket. The pocket strained at the seams.

  “Now for Santa’s share. Ten seventy-inchers at four grand a pop, and ten fifty-inchers at two grand each. According to my suburban math, that makes sixty Gs, right?”

  Markkanen nodded and Jormanainen counted off sixty thousand more.

  “We good?”

  “Yup,” Markkanen answered.

  “That’s it then,” Jormanainen said. Without another word, he was on his way.

  Markkanen waited a couple minutes and checked his gun again. The foursome could be waiting outside the warehouse door.

  He checked around the warehouse one more time. There was no sign that they had even been there. He turned off the lights and opened the front door warily. Nobody. Markkanen locked the door and circled around to his car.

  He grabbed a plastic bag from the passenger foot well, thrust Lindström’s money inside, and kept his own share in his pocket.

  After driving through the gate he got out to lock it up. That took thirty seconds.

  He glanced at his watch: 11:59 A.M. Thanks to Jormanainen’s shrewdness, his hourly wages were much more than he expected. With sixty grand on top of the ten he’d get from Lindström, the job had turned out to be pretty lucrative. A construction worker would have to work a few years to earn the same pay.

  Satisfied, Markkanen turned on the radio and drove off.

  * * *

  Anna Joutsamo poked her head into Takamäki’s office. “It’s on the radio now too.”

  “Yup,” Takamäki nodded. “A couple of Römpötti’s cohorts have already called.”

  “What’d you tell ’em?”

  “Same thing I told Römpötti. No comment. I can’t deny it, since I’d be lying in their faces, but I can’t admit it either.”

  Joutsamo scratched her head. “But if you don’t deny it, they’ll consider it an admission.”

  Takamäki had Römpötti’s article pulled up on his screen. The headline was striking: “Helsinki VCU Investigates Underworld Hit.” The article itself was quite short: “The Helsinki Violent Crimes Unit is investigating a murder that occurred earlier this week. A body was discovered in northern Helsinki. Detective Lieutenant Kari Takamäki of the Helsinki VCU declined to comment. The murder appears to have resulted from a dispute between two criminal organizations.”

  Based on the article, Römpötti didn’t seem to know much about the investigation. On the other hand, she could be protecting her source by being intentionally vague.

  A number of VCU detectives, Forensics, the Financial Crimes Unit officers, and the staff of the medical examiner’s office all knew something about the case. Who in the world had squealed? And with all the talk that flies in the police cafeteria, who would ever know? It was a pity, but nothing to cry about.

  Takamäki wasn’t interested in how much Römpötti or anyone else knew about the case. Now he was focused on how to use the media for the benefit of the investigation.

  “Any ideas?” Takamäki asked. Joutsamo leaned against the door frame and shrugged.

  “Alright. I think we should release a photo of Eriksson and ask the public to notify the police if they have any information. Let’s say he was murdered, but no other details. Römpötti used ‘northern Helsinki’ and that’s close enough,” Takamäki said.

  “But a name and a photo?” Joutsamo hesitated.

  “Yup, otherwise it’ll be too ambiguous. That should also allow us to find out more about Eriksson’s circle of friends and recent activities.”

  “But if the media has a name, they’ll dig up his record.”

  “Does that matter?”

  “Probably not, since we didn’t get any leads from the fraud cases anyway.”

  “Maybe the media guys will dig up something else,” Takamäki said. “I’ll send out a press release at three. Before then, make sure a police chaplain or somebody from our team goes to visit his family, as well as the girl who filed the report…what was her name again?”

  “Kristiina Nyholm.”

  Takamäki reflected for a moment.

  “What is it?” Joutsamo asked.

  “It’s a long shot, but find out if this Kristiina is related to Jouko Nyholm from Customs.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  Takamäki looked Joutsamo in the eyes. “Just the last name…that’s all.”

  * * *

  Markkanen had been driving for about a half an hour, when his phone alerted him to an incoming text. The message was from Lydman, and concise: “3.”

  Markkanen cursed.

  He had heard the news on the radio. There was no reason to panic, but Lydman seemed ruffled. The message meant that Markkanen should call Lydman on his #3 phone, which had a new prepaid SIM card and a brand new number. Any calls made with it would be secure, since the cops couldn’t tap it in real-time.

  A sign reading “The Baron” in cursive directed him to a gas station, actually more of a tourist trap. Markkanen d
idn’t need any of their coffee, gas, food, books, magazines, playgrounds, or tourist trash, nor any of their other services. He pulled the Beamer into a snowy parking space and stepped out to get his phones from the trunk. He had some half-dozen cellphones, and the same number of SIM cards. He had written a number on the back of them for times like this when he needed a secure line himself. Lindström also had a few more secure phones in his apartment.

  Switching phones was the criminal’s way of combating the Finnish police, who easily obtained warrants for phone taps. Beyond listening for illicit activity, the police also used cellphones to link criminals with each other by monitoring who they called. The cops listened in on criminals, and continually extended their knowledge of crime networks by finding new links.

  Markkanen, too, was using a brand-new SIM card with a completely new phone number. This way, both of them eliminated the chance that the police could listen in.

  Markkanen installed one of the new SIM cards into an old Nokia 3310. The battery was dead, so he got back in the car and plugged it into the cigarette lighter. He found the number to Lydman’s #3 phone in his notes and dialed. It rang three times before Lydman answered.

  “Fuck,” said an icy voice.

  “What’s up?”

  “You been listening to the radio or surfing the Web?”

  “I heard it on the radio,” Markkanen said coolly.

  “Fuck.”

  “You’re like a broken hip-hop record. What’s your problem?”

  “They found Eriksson!”

  Markkanen watched a family get out of their car. The kids were jumping around, elated to be outside.

  “So what? We’re ready for it. Nothing to worry about. If someone goes down for this, it’ll be your buddy. There’s nothing for us to worry about. You know, we’ve set the stage. The note about the debt and what not. So, take it easy…”

  “I ain’t worried about Juha, but that Korpela is another story.”

  “The Skull?”

  "Yeah him. He threatened me with the scissors. He thinks he’s gonna get life and we’re to blame.”

  Tony Korpela was a lunatic who had done time for a brutal scissor murder. But Lydman had used one word that Markkanen didn’t like.

  “What do you mean we?” he menaced. If Lydman had done his job correctly, the Skulls shouldn’t know anything about him.

  “Yes, we. Korpela said he checked around and found out that this extends beyond me. He mentioned your name.”

  “You didn’t tell him?”

  “No.”

  Liar, Markkanen thought, but understood Lydman’s concern. The Skulls were good at keeping their end of the bargain, but if things went bad, you’d likely wind up on the wrong end of it.

  “What did he say exactly?”

  “I didn’t tape it!” Lydman snapped, then calmed down. “He cussed like the devil and said that we didn’t keep our end of the deal. He wished you and me the best in hell, blustered on about revenge, then demanded more money.”

  “How much?”

  “Hundred grand.”

  “No!”

  “Apparently that’s the standard penalty for contract violation,” Lydman said.

  “Really.”

  Lydman paused. “So, you gonna pay?”

  “Where would I get that kind of money?” he said, glancing at the plastic bag on the floor.

  It contained many times that sum. He thought of another alternative: he had seventy grand in his pocket…maybe he could scrape together another thirty, but… Shit!

  Eriksson had been asking for it-he had become too arrogant. Markkanen could have tolerated his crowing and the fact that the kid had passed him up in Lindström’s organization, but the blackmail was the last straw. Somehow, the brat had figured out that Markkanen was embezzling money from Lindström, and had threatened to rat on him. In the end, the decision had been easy-Eriksson had stepped, or rather, had tried to step on the wrong toes.

  Markkanen had lured Lydman into the scheme by claiming that Eriksson was a Customs nark. Markkanen was amused that in the end, Eriksson did actually have a Customs connection. Lydman had an in with the Skulls, and had arranged the hit for twenty-five grand. Lydman had also found a convenient sacrificial lamb for the murder: Juha Saarnikangas, who had been brought in to dispose of the body. If Eriksson vanished for good, they’d be in the clear. And if Saarnikangas failed, he would take the heat. The hit man wouldn’t talk, Lydman wouldn’t talk, and neither would he.

  Now the hit man was worried for no good reason, unless he was just trying to rake in more money. Or was Lydman trying to stiff him? He wouldn’t dare.

  “Listen,” Markkanen said. “It’s water under the bridge. Nothing’s changed, so take it easy.”

  “Are you gonna pay him?”

  “I can negotiate with them.”

  Lydman laughed. “Good luck with that.”

  Markkanen considered his options. He didn’t want to irritate or provoke Lydman. The man was trustworthy, but unpredictable in his own way. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.”

  “Good… I’m going to Thailand for a couple weeks.”

  “What?”

  “I bought a last-minute ticket…leaving tomorrow night… Maybe things will settle down.”

  Stupid, Markkanen thought. Running scared. He answered in a calm voice, “Okay, that might be a good idea, but first set up a meeting between Saarnikangas and me. I still need him.”

  “For what?”

  “It’s better if you don’t know,” Markkanen said.

  “Guess so.”

  “But go talk to him in person; his phone could be tapped. Tell him to be at the Corner Pub at eight o’clock tonight.”

  “The Corner Pub at eight,” Lydman repeated. “Okay, I’ll do it, but then I’m gonna be gone a couple weeks. In the meantime, clear things up with the Skulls. This is your mess.”

  “Of course,” Markkanen assured him. He asked for a number for the hit man, and Lydman gave it to him, but pointed out that the line wasn’t secure. Lydman said that he and Korpela used a special code in case the phones were tapped. Markkanen was to suggest a meeting at the Ruskeasuo Teboil, but it would actually take place in the parking lot of the Tali bowling alley.

  Markkanen hung up and started the car. He’d have time to think on the way to Helsinki.

  Before hitting the road, he called his wife. He directed her to take Eetu, and leave town for a few days. She was confused at first, but then she agreed. She was to take all the money out of hiding, pick up the boy from school and sign in at the Turku Caribia Spa-Hotel under her maiden name. At least the boy would have something to do there. Markkanen promised to be in touch by Sunday evening at the latest.

  Taking risks with the Skulls was a bad idea.

  * * *

  Suhonen was sitting in the police cafeteria, forking macaroni casserole into his mouth. The lunch room was half-full and Suhonen was alone at a table for four. He had eaten a salad for starters, and was glad to have something healthy under his belt.

  Takamäki had ordered him to arrest Saarnikangas, but he was in no hurry. According to the tracking device, Juha’s van was still parked in Pihlajamäki, and Lydman’s Mazda hadn’t moved either. Of course, they could have walked or taken a taxi somewhere, but more than likely, both were relaxing at home. Neither was the type to ride the bus.

  The casserole was good, or maybe he was just hungry.

  He should really bring Saarnikangas in after lunch. Lydman could wait till after Juha’s interrogations. Suhonen figured Saarnikangas wouldn’t talk, though. The guy was a survivor who knew better than to squeal on his employers. On the other hand, Saarnikangas wouldn’t do life for no reason.

  His phone rang on his belt.

  He pulled it out and swallowed a mouthful of macaroni. It was the warden of the Helsinki Prison.

  “Hey, Ainola here,” the man rasped. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Never a spare minute around here, but go ahead.”

>   “Heard the latest news. You guys got a pretty tough case over there, huh?” It was more a statement than a question.

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m calling about. Some of our guards heard from the inmates that this Eriksson could have been a Customs informant.”

  “Okay,” Suhonen remarked. As a formality, he asked, “How reliable is this?”

  “Just a rumor, but I thought it might be useful.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” Suhonen replied and took another bite of macaroni.

  Ainola paused for a moment. “There’s something else. The guy you visited earlier in the week… Eero Salmela?”

  “What about him?” Suhonen mumbled.

  “Are you eating?”

  “Yeah-go on.”

  “This might not be anything, but if you’re interested in the guy, you should know his connections. His drug-running partner Jorma Raitio ended up in the infirmary. Supposedly, he fell down the stairs, but the doctor suspected his knee was busted with a pipe.”

  “Badly?”

  “It’ll need a few surgeries, and even then it might not fully recover. But here’s the interesting thing. According to the same rumors, the Skulls were behind the assault, and Salmela ordered it.”

  Suhonen put his fork down. “So Salmela hired out a hit?”

  “Yeah. In his defense, Raitio probably threatened him first.”

  What in the world had Salmela gotten mixed up in now? He was a thief, but he shouldn’t have anything to do with the Skulls. Suhonen thought about Salmela’s words back at the prison, about someone else getting his back.

  “How well does he get along with the Skulls?”

  “Not sure. Well enough that they carried out his hit.”

  CHAPTER 19

  PASILA POLICE HEADQUARTERS

  THURSDAY, 1:20 P.M.

  Anna Joutsamo stepped into Lieutenant Takamäki’s office, but lingered just inside the doorway.

  “Yes?” Takamäki looked up from his desk.

  “Suhonen’s sitting there at his desk reading emails.”