“I’ll call when I know when I’m coming home. Take this,” I said and pulled a fifty euro bill out of my wallet. “The cupboards are bare, so take the kids out for pizza so you don’t have to waste time shopping. Thank you. You’re a lifesaver.”
In the car, I plugged in the hands-free and cursed when the cable got caught in my hair and the buttons of my winter coat. I looked up Arto Saarnio’s number. He answered after the first ring.
“Hello?”
“This is Detective Kallio. Good morning. I just got your message. Have you heard from your wife?”
“No! I’ve called all her friends and coworkers, but no one knows anything. This really isn’t like Riitta, but she’s been really mixed up since the killing at the studio and all the rest of it. I’m extremely worried.”
“Is her purse and wallet at home? What about her car? Her passport?”
“The car is gone, along with her wallet. Wait . . . I’ll check the safe.” I heard Saarnio set the phone down on the table. I’d called the landline. I was at the Turku Highway interchange when he finally returned.
“Her passport is here, and I don’t think anything’s missing from her closet, although I have to admit I don’t know all her belongings. Her toothbrush is here, along with her skin creams and nightgown. It’s like she didn’t come home from work at all. I heard on the news that Lulu Nightingale’s bodyguard was shot at the mall. Riitta’s disappearance couldn’t have anything to do with that, could it?”
15
I pulled off at a bus stop. Traffic was still light, so I threw a quick U-turn and headed back toward Olari. I would have plenty of time to run by West Man Productions to see if Riitta Saarnio’s green Renault Megane was in the parking lot. At the same time, I checked in with the department to make sure no one had heard anything new about her.
The industrial area was quiet, and the parking lot at the TV studio was almost empty. The only vehicles were a beat-up black van and behind it a passenger car, which turned out to be Riitta Saarnio’s. I rang the buzzer for West Man Productions, but no one answered. I tried Riitta Saarnio’s and Ilari Länsimies’s work numbers. Länsimies answered his cell phone, and his tone of voice told me I’d woken him.
“Riitta? She stayed at the studio yesterday after the show. I left pretty soon after we’d finished. The ratings were amazing, just like I said, well over a million. It was an all-time best for Surprise Guests.”
“Who comes to the studio first?”
“A cleaner comes every morning, around eight. Has something happened to Riitta?”
“We don’t know.”
“Arto called me during the night, but I didn’t take him seriously. I assumed Riitta took one of the guests home or stayed to watch tape.”
“How did she seem yesterday?”
Länsimies reported that the whole crew had been on edge because the previous show’s bad memories still weighed on everyone. They’d all been at the studio in the morning and then gone home to rest. They returned to the studio by five—so Riitta Saarnio could have visited the Big Apple in the meantime. But would she be able to make herself look like a man? When women dressed up as men, they looked younger than their true age.
I asked Länsimies who handled their property management, but he didn’t remember the name of the company.
“That’s Riitta’s department. I have three keycards to the building, so I’ve never needed their assistance. Can’t you wait until the cleaner shows up? I’ve got a meeting at eight, and I can’t cancel it. It may be Riitta took a sleeping pill and fell asleep on the sofa in the dressing room. Maybe she wanted to attract Arto’s attention. I understand they’ve been having . . . difficulties.” Länsimies laughed in a way I didn’t like. How much had he heard of my conversation with Riitta Saarnio on Wednesday?
“Try to remember the name of the property management company,” I said irritably. We could get the name of the company from the police property database, but I wanted Länsimies to have to do something at least. He promised to call me back when he found the information.
The studio door was steel. With a glass door, I could have broken in. Next to it was a narrow window, but it was too small for me to fit through. And the lock’s angle relative to the window made it so my arm wouldn’t have been able to reach it even if I did break the glass.
I didn’t feel like sitting around in my car, so I went to the station. Traffic was picking up, and the steady stream of headlights gradually began to dim in the brightening morning. Was Antti already awake? I selected his number on my speed dial but didn’t press the call button. He wasn’t his best early in the morning either. Instead I notified Arto Saarnio that I’d found his wife’s car.
“Thank you, Detective Kallio! Why didn’t I think to go check? But shouldn’t someone go inside? What if Riitta had some sort of medical emergency . . .”
“I’m trying to get the name of the property management company right now. If that doesn’t work, we’ll get a member of the crew to come over.”
“What about Ilari?” When I told him about Länsimies’s meeting, Saarnio gave a deep sigh. “I have an important negotiation today too, but nothing is more important than finding my wife. Wait . . . I’m sure that Riitta has a spare keycard here somewhere. Just a minute . . .”
I turned into the police station parking lot. The road was slick with ice, and my wheels started sliding during the turn. I only managed to right the car at the last second to avoid hitting a woman with a stroller.
“Detective, are you still there? I have the keycard. I could go over to the studio right now to check.”
It was almost eight o’clock, and the unit meeting was supposed to start at eight thirty. I told Saarnio I’d come with him and then called Puupponen to tell him that plans had changed. Driving back to West Man Productions, I felt like environmental enemy number one. It was insane to burn this much gasoline.
I was only there a couple of minutes before Arto Saarnio, who appeared to have left immediately. His face showed that he hadn’t slept, and his stubble was longer than usual and seemed to have more gray in it than before. I put on a pair of disposable gloves before opening the door and handed another pair to Saarnio. He gave me a serious look and then pulled on the gloves.
The keycard opened the door with no trouble. I turned on the light in the hallway and yelled, “This is the police. Is anyone here?” No answer.
“Riitta!” Arto Saarnio called, but the silence held. It was like a thick, invisible poison gas, and I found it difficult to breathe. The doors of the dressing rooms were all half-open, and a strong smell of aftershave wafted from one of them. I continued to the combined office and conference room, where I’d talked with Riitta Saarnio the time before. I turned on the light, and Arto Saarnio followed me through the door.
His wife was there, lying collapsed on the table.
“Keep your distance,” I told him. At first, he hesitated, but then he took a step back. I approached Riitta Saarnio and took her wrist. Her arm was stiff and cold. She had obviously been deceased for several hours. I tried to find a pulse even though I knew it was futile. Riitta Saarnio’s face was turned away from me, so I walked around the chair to get a look at it. Her grimace was one of agony and rage, like an animal caught in a trap. Was I imagining it or was there a smell of bitter almond coming from around her mouth?
“Is she . . .” Arto Saarnio couldn’t finish the sentence.
“I’m sorry, but she’s dead. No, don’t touch her yet! Maybe it would be best for you to leave the room.”
Saarnio did as commanded. Then I called the station and asked them to send Forensics. That was when I noticed the letter. It was on the floor next to the body, as if it had fallen there during Saarnio’s final furious struggle against death. I bent down to look at it and, to my surprise, saw my own name.
Please deliver this to Detective Maria Kallio.
I killed Lulu Nightingale and her bodyguard, who tried to blackmail me. I thought my husband was Lulu Nightingal
e’s client, and I couldn’t stand the idea. The bodyguard must have seen when I put the poison in Lulu’s glass. I’m taking my own life the same way I did Lulu’s. I’m sorry.
The letter was written on a computer and printed on West Man Productions letterhead. The signature was easy to read, and her name was even printed below it.
I left the letter on the floor. After the photographer had been here I could have a closer look. The room was cold, as if the heating had been turned off. The computer was turned off, and all the piles of paper were in order. A glass, apparently the one Riitta Saarnio had drunk the poison from, had rolled under the line of cabinets, but there was no sign of a poison bottle. I realized it would be best for me to leave too, in order to avoid contaminating the scene, because I wasn’t wearing shoe covers.
I found Arto Saarnio in the hall. He stood still, his face empty. His phone was in his hand, but he wasn’t talking into it.
“Forensics will be here soon. Let’s go sit in there for now.” I motioned to the dressing room where Lulu Nightingale’s body had been found. Had the previous night’s guest known which room he was in? I pulled two chairs up to the table.
“How did Riitta die?” Saarnio finally asked. I didn’t reply, and he seemed to understand my silence. When I asked when he’d last seen his wife, he had to think.
“Wednesday morning,” he finally said. “When I came home in the evening, she was already asleep. We have separate bedrooms. And yesterday morning I took the eight o’clock flight to Stockholm. Riitta was still sleeping when I left.”
I’d spoken to Riitta Saarnio myself Wednesday morning, so I probably knew more about her state of mind than her husband. On Wednesdays Riitta had her French conversation course. We’d have to call her girlfriend who went with her—and Anna-Maija Mustajoki.
“I told her about Oksana on Tuesday night, and she completely lost it. It’s understandable, but I had to do it. I thought it might be a new beginning for us. I loved my wife,” Saarnio said wistfully. “She’s been dealing with depression for a long time. I thought her doctors had finally found the right medicine, but telling her about Oksana was definitely the wrong medicine.”
“So your wife had mental health problems?”
Saarnio looked at me again, and the expression in his eyes was focused and thoughtful. “If you believe depression is a mental health problem. That’s what caused her lack of sexual desire too. And I didn’t help the situation at all by cheating on her. When I told her the truth, she seemed to have this hysterical fear that my misadventures would end up in the papers. She said she could accept everything else, but not that her private life might be dragged out into public.”
“How long has your wife been depressed, Arto?” I’d done it unconsciously, but calling him by his first name felt natural now.
“Ever since she lost her previous job. She was sure she’d never find work again because she was over fifty. Ilari’s production company really was a lifesaver, although I don’t like the man himself that much. But he and Riitta got along, and Riitta got to do what she’s really good at.”
Saarnio’s phone rang, and he answered. Even though he appeared calm, I knew it was just the initial stage of shock. His brain still couldn’t comprehend what he already knew and what he confirmed calmly over the phone.
“Yes, it’s true. All of my meetings for today are canceled. Move everything tomorrow as well. We’ve found Riitta . . . she’s dead.” Saarnio paused, and I could hear the intense torrent of words his announcement caused. He listened without reaction. “Don’t tell anyone who doesn’t absolutely need to know. Just say I’m unwell. I don’t know much yet, not even the cause of death. And . . .”
It was my phone’s turn to ring, and I recognized Ilari Länsimies’s number.
“Hi, it’s Ilari. I have the name and number of the property company.”
“We don’t need it anymore.”
“So you’ve found Riitta? That’s good. I can leave for my mee—”
I curtly cut him off.
“I got a keycard from Arto Saarnio. I found Riitta in her office, dead. Naturally we’ll want to interview you and the other members of the staff as soon as possible.”
For once Länsimies shut up. Thirty seconds passed before he replied. “Dead? What the hell? I heard yesterday that Lulu Nightingale’s bodyguard was shot too. Is the Russian mafia going after all of us? God, do I need a bodyguard now? Or a gun . . .”
The doorbell rang. I told Länsimies the police would contact him later in the day, hung up, and then went to the door. The forensics team marched in with Mikkola in the lead, and I gave them the necessary instructions.
“This place has been busy lately,” said the photographer, Kerminen. He’d been at the studio the previous week. “Is this program so bad that someone dies after every episode?”
I put on proper protective clothing and went back into Riitta Saarnio’s office. Saarnio was wearing dark clothing—black trousers, low-heeled lace-up shoes, and a thick blazer. I remembered the description of the Big Apple shooter. Could a man’s overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat make her look like a man?
It would be easy if the solution was right here: Riitta Saarnio as the murderer and a suicide note admitting what she’d done. A handwriting expert would have to verify that the signature was Saarnio’s, and a linguist would need to compare the language in the suicide note to that which Saarnio used in her other letters. That was complicated, however, because a person in an abnormal mental state might use completely different language than she would normally. Sometimes handwriting changed too.
Arto Saarnio still sat in the dressing room. I asked him to make sure I could reach him later in the day. Once the letter had been tested for fingerprints and copied, I wanted him to see it.
“Do you have anyone you can ask to be with you? Would you like us to notify your children?”
“I’ll inform them myself.” The Saarnios’ daughter, Soila, lived in Brussels, and their son worked in Oulu. “Aleksi can probably fly home. Can you even tell whether Riitta was killed or if she . . . or maybe it was a sudden illness?”
“Not at this stage.”
I shook Saarnio’s hand and then walked out into the dazzling spring sunshine, which revealed just how dirty my car windows were. That seemed like a minor issue at the moment. I now had a second body on my hands, Oksana Petrenko was missing, and there was no guarantee that Sulonen would recover. Were the mafia pimps really so skilled and powerful that they could stage Riitta Saarnio’s suicide? I stopped at a traffic signal and made a quick call to the department’s public relations officer to arrange a press conference for one o’clock. Arto Saarnio was about to find himself in the headlines again.
Someone honked behind me. I hadn’t realized the light had changed. My lack of sleep was having an effect on me, as was the shock. Riitta Saarnio’s wasn’t the first body I’d found, but you never get used to it. Still, now wasn’t the time for emotional reactions. I had to act.
Focusing on driving, I managed to get to the police station parking garage in one piece.
My team was waiting for me in the conference room. I began by telling them about Pamela Lahtela coming in to the station the previous night and Riitta Saarnio’s death, then reminded them that it would be premature to shut off any avenue of investigation. Puupponen stared at me dumbfounded, and Koivu’s yawning stopped dead when he heard about Mrs. Saarnio’s fate. Sorrow flashed in his eyes. Only Ursula understood my reference to the man in the fur-collared jacket.
“What news do we have about Sulonen?”
“Sulonen’s condition is the same,” Koivu said.
“They’re keeping him unconscious, and they can’t be sure how severe the brain damage is. Sulonen’s pal Pate confirmed that Sulonen crashes at his place sometimes. He claimed that Sulonen never would have killed Lulu in a million years since he was so crazy about her. Apparently Sulonen was trying to solve Lulu’s murder himself because he didn’t trust the police. Which suggests that S
ulonen found out something important enough for someone to want him silenced,” Puupponen said.
“I’ve been trying to trace Lulu’s other cell phone, but it’s turned off and calls just go to voice mail. We’ll have the warrant for full access today.” Puustjärvi looked satisfied.
“Keep going with that. Ursula, what about Lulu’s customers? Anything new?” Ursula smiled, but it was cruel.
“I’m starting to believe we’re looking at two or three separate crimes. Sulonen would have been a rich man if he’d started extorting Lulu’s clients. If buying sexual services becomes illegal, we’re going to have an interesting new criminal group on our hands, made up of regular dads, corporate executives, and politicians. Apparently rather a lot of them are willing to risk their reputations and their marriages to follow their little soldier’s orders. And some of them are awfully obedient.”
“Did Sulonen try to blackmail anyone?”
“He contacted a few of Lulu’s regulars, apparently trying to cover his back. He asked for money or he’d go to the press. Three different men told me the same thing. I asked why they didn’t file a police report, but they were all afraid of publicity. Maybe they should have thought about what they were getting into earlier,” Ursula said in a moralizing tone that was rare for her.
Puupponen had compiled a summary of the interviews from the mall. He said he’d even managed to sleep for two hours in the department lounge. His freckles glowed against his pale skin, which was stretched tight across his cheeks. He sipped an energy drink as he talked.
“The reports of the figure on the third floor all line up. Unfortunately, no one got a close look at him, and no one saw the actual shooting. Petri started looking at the security camera footage yesterday and will finish up today.” Puupponen motioned to Puustjärvi, who was leaning back in his chair and seemed to be sleeping but perked up when he heard his name.
The Nightingale Murder Page 24