“Hello,” Snellman said, extending his hand. His handshake was limp.
“Hello,” the lieutenant answered. He had run into Snellman several times at various seminars, but never actually had the chance to get to know him.
“I’m glad we’re able to cooperate with other agencies like this,” Snellman remarked, and gestured for Takamäki to sit at the conference table. A thermos of hot coffee and a couple of cups were waiting. “With drug cases it’s just not very common, and we don’t have much expertise in violence.”
Takamäki knew that the Helsinki Police and Customs had had their fair share of conflicts in drug investigations. Snellman poured Takamäki a cup of coffee without asking.
“So,” Snellman began. “On the phone you mentioned a Jerry Eriksson and wanted some information on his connections to Customs. What kind of a character is this guy?”
Takamäki liked the fact that his host cut right to the chase. He tasted his coffee. It was fresh, clearly better than police coffee.
“Eriksson’s been connected to a serious crime,” Takamäki hedged. “I can’t go into details yet, but we have some information indicating that he might have connections to Customs.”
“It was my understanding that he’s a criminal, not a civil servant?”
Takamäki nodded, sipping his coffee, “Yeah, from the underworld.”
“So not from the upper crust like us,” Snellman grunted. “We searched our various databases-and we have plenty-but we got no hits. Bad news, in other words.”
“Tough to say whether that’s bad news or good news.”
“Seems to me that the real question is whether or not Eriksson is one of our informants.”
“Yeah. That’s one way to put it.”
“You should’ve put it that way right from the start, so I’d know where you’re coming from,” Snellman grumbled, and picked up a stack of papers on the table. “Never mind. After we got off the phone, I took a look at our confidential intelligence reports from the last month. These include the names of some informants, but not all.”
Takamäki waited in anticipation.
Snellman continued, “Jerry Eriksson isn’t mentioned here. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that he couldn’t have a connection to Customs somehow. Our undercover guys have contacts that are never put down on paper. Probably not much different from your agency.”
Takamäki was surprised that Customs would document any of their informants on paper. Never in his life would Suhonen write down the name of an informant in any report. He wouldn’t even write reports.
“Understood. Can I read those reports?”
Snellman shook his broad head. “No can do. We can’t give any of these out. Even to a trusted colleague in law enforcement, it’s just too risky. But like I said, Eriksson’s name doesn’t appear here.”
“Could he have used another name?” Takamäki suggested.
“Say the name and I’ll tell you if it’s here.”
“Is there a way to dig deeper?”
“Is it that important?” Snellman seemed interested. “We can certainly send out a message to everyone asking for any information about this Jerry Eriksson. His last name is common enough that we’d probably get plenty of bad leads. One thing’s for sure, though, a couple hundred agents on the ground will wonder what this is all about.”
Takamäki sipped his coffee. This didn’t sound promising. “You’re right. That might jeopardize the investigation.”
“How important is this, really?”
“Important enough for me to come here,” he said carefully.
Snellman seemed helpful-maybe he could reveal a little more. “We’re dealing with a murder, and any connection to Customs could constitute a motive. We know that Eriksson has a history of fraud, but we don’t know what he’s been up to lately.”
Snellman put the pieces together quickly. “So Eriksson was murdered because he was an informant of ours.”
Takamäki nodded. “But that’s an unconfirmed rumor.”
“Bad news, whether it’s true or not. I mean the connection to Customs.”
Snellman stood, picked up the intercom off the table and pushed a button. Takamäki was amazed that these still existed.
A crackly voice answered, “Nyholm.”
“You should be here already,” Snellman growled.
“Right,” the voice on the other end said.
Takamäki looked at Snellman quizzically.
“Jouko Nyholm, one of our inspectors. Actually, he could be a senior inspector by now, but to me he’ll always be an inspector. Do you know him?”
Takamäki shook his head.
“Well, at any rate, he’s a competent man. Knows almost everything about our intelligence operations. I can tell him to ask some of our key agents about this Eriksson. Discreetly, of course.”
“Good.”
They waited for Nyholm for a minute, during which Takamäki got a chance to admire the cushy surroundings that Customs enjoyed. Snellman took notice, and said that it paid to be part of the Finance Ministry. Customs brought money to the state, the opposite of the impoverished Ministry of Interior, which oversaw law enforcement. In Snellman’s view, being profitable should count for something.
Nyholm knocked on the door and stepped inside.
Takamäki took note of his shabby appearance. The man stood hunched over, as if apologizing in advance.
“Nyholm, this is Detective Lieutenant Takamäki from Homicide,” Snellman said, and continued on without bothering with handshakes. “They’re working on a case that may involve us.”
Nyholm fished a pen and notepad out of the breast pocket of his blazer.
“That’s smart. It’s good that you take notes,” the boss sneered.
Nyholm still didn’t say anything, just stood waiting for instructions. Takamäki was amazed by this attitude, even if Snellman wasn’t the easiest of bosses.
“According to their intel, an individual by the name of Jerry Eriksson could be connected to the case.”
Takamäki detected a slight tick when Snellman mentioned the name.
“Jerry Eriksson?” Nyholm repeated calmly.
“You heard me,” Snellman barked, then rattled off Eriksson’s social security number. Nyholm confirmed it before Snellman continued, “Find out if any of our undercover agents have heard of this guy.”
CHAPTER 9
HELSINKI PRISON
WEDNESDAY, 1:20 P.M.
Eero Salmela knew of him, but didn’t know him. Tattooed flames wrapped around the man’s neck and his left ear was studded with four earrings, linked by a jeweled chain.
Tapani Larsson usually wore a black, skin-tight T-shirt and black Adidas sweatpants. Now, with the autumn wind howling over the perimeter wall and through the yard, his muscular build was hidden beneath a hooded sweatshirt. His clothes were plain-gang symbols were banned in prison.
Clouds raced across the sky toward the east.
About twenty inmates were circling the yard. For the past four laps, Larsson and two of his cronies had been closely following Salmela, who was walking alone. In the middle of the yard, a single bench press sat unoccupied.
Three days of rain had turned the track into mud, and Salmela’s cheap prison-issue shoes were heavy with it.
Salmela knew that Larsson had been doing time since last summer for extortion. He’d probably be in for a few years. It was wise to stay away from gang leaders like him.
Though walking around in a circle wasn’t exactly fun, it was one of the only permitted outdoor activities. Salmela had been counting his steps, but had lost track a while back. Counting the days left in your sentence was futile. Numbers had no place in prison.
“You’re Salmela, right?”
Salmela was startled by the voice behind him, and he stopped. Larsson and the two goons had caught up to him.
Salmela could see from Larsson’s body language that he meant no harm, at least for now. If they were intending to cut him down, they wouldn’t do it here in front of the guards and the surveillance cameras. He would have been more nervous if Larsson wasn’t present. Gang leaders never got their hands dirty for that sort of thing.