“I don’t know the details. I heard it on the news. He was found dead somewhere in North Helsinki earlier in the week.”
“Who did this?” Lindström stammered, scraping the money into the bag, as though it were in danger.
“That’s a good question,” Markkanen said stiffly. “I don’t know. I don’t know how it happened either.”
Lindström looked Markkanen in the eyes. “Does this have anything to do with…uhh, my businesses or did Jerry have issues of his own?”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you.”
“I don’t have any problems, at least not that I’m aware of.”
“Have we stepped on someone’s toes?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Lindström assured him.
“Then we shouldn’t have any problems, unless someone’s trying to come after us. Could Eriksson have pissed someone off…or conned ’em?”
“No, no. I don’t think so. He wouldn’t dare.”
“What about the Russians?” Markkanen asked. He didn’t know much about that part of the business, but it was safe to say that they were behind much of the trafficking and tax fraud, since the majority of their shipments ended up in Russia.
Lindström thought about it. “They’ve never said that we had any problems… No, no, no. Everything’s okay on that front.”
“Those crates that stayed in Finland aren’t…”
Lindström cackled. “Skimmed off the top? No, they’re part of the deal. It’s completely legitimate.”
Interesting racket, Markkanen thought. Apparently, Lindström was paid in kind for his part.
“Well, Eriksson could’ve had personal problems. In any case, we’ll have to keep our eyes open. If something happens, let me know right away. I’ll ask around.”
Lindström nodded, his forehead knit. “Okay…alright.”
Markkanen looked at Lindström, now a tense and worried man. Was this his Achilles heel, then? On the business end, Lindström was a tough cookie, but when it came to the rough stuff, he started to crack.
* * *
Suhonen’s unmarked Peugeot was sitting at a red light near Pasila Police Headquarters. He was waiting to turn onto Veturi Street toward Hartwall Arena, if only the light would change. The snow had made a mess of traffic.
His phone was charging on his lap. Two red dots flashed on the display, both in motion, albeit slowly. Suhonen had checked out a car from the police garage to find out where they were going. In the passenger’s seat lay an SLR camera with a telephoto lens.
The dot for Saarnikangas’ van had started to move about a minute before the one for Lydman’s Mazda. Suhonen had checked the phone tap, but there had been no activity. Unless their simultaneous departures were coincidental, Lydman and Saarnikangas were obviously using some other phone line or messaging system. Suhonen tried to remember if he had seen a computer in Saarnikangas’ apartment. He wasn’t sure.
It looked like Saarnikangas was getting onto Beltway One, heading west. Lydman had turned north onto Mannerheim Street. Soon, he’d be on the Hämeenlinna Highway.
The light turned green, and Suhonen made a right. Traffic was jammed up on the south side of the massive Hartwall Arena. He had a roof light in the glove box, but he didn’t want to use it.
Ten minutes later, Suhonen reached the north end of Veturi Street. The dots began to overlap at the end of Pakila, near Central Park. Suhonen knew there was a parking lot next to the warming house and trail access, but he doubted they’d be going for a hike or a ski. From Helsinki Central Park, one could hike, or in the winter, ski 600 miles of trails due north, all the way to the fells of Lapland.
The parking lot was busy enough not to attract attention, yet remote enough for a private meeting.
Suhonen guessed he was about ten minutes away.
* * *
As Lydman shifted his weight to his left, the wet gravel in the parking lot grated beneath the snow.
“Now listen,” he said, opening the zipper of his black coat.
“The answer is no,” Saarnikangas said. He kept his hands in the pockets of his army jacket.
About fifty cars were in the parking lot. Lydman’s Mazda and Saarnikangas’ van were on the eastern end, away from the others. Nearby were a small hockey arena and a huge hill that had been built from garbage and compost.
“You don’t even know what I’m gonna say.”
“Still, I ain’t agreeing to anything. Nothing.”
“Fuck, then it’s your time,” Lydman growled and slipped his right hand inside his jacket. “Here and now.”
Petrified, Saarnikangas took a step back. He didn’t doubt for a moment that Lydman was carrying.
“Should I do it right here or you wanna go lie in the ditch? That’d be easier for me.”
Saarnikangas looked around, but nobody had noticed his plight. Should he call for help?
“Listen, listen…” he stammered. “Take it easy, alright?”
“I’ll take it easy when you stop dicking around and start listening,” Lydman snarled. He kept his hand inside his jacket.
“Okay, okay.”
“Number one. Yesterday at the Corner Pub you said some cop had been asking about Eriksson. Has he or anyone else been in contact with you again?”
Saarnikangas shook his head. “No. I’ve been in my pad all day long. Nothing.”
“Good. The news said they found the body a couple days ago. If they knew something, they would’ve arrested you already. So they’re probably just looking for background info on Eriksson, and you just happened to be in his circle somewhat.”
“Somewhat,” Saarnikangas repeated.
“Number two,” Lydman continued. “There’s no reason to panic-this was planned so that nobody gets caught. If one of us happens to get arrested for some reason, the deal is that nobody will say a word. Nothing. Answer every question with ‘no comment.’”
“No comment.”
“What? You fucking with me?”
“No-o. Just practicing,” Saarnikangas forced a grin.
“The ditch is right over there.”
“There’s no need.”
“You know if this goes to court, the court records will show every word that was said in the interrogations and on the witness stand. Who said what and who didn’t comment. People read that stuff.”
Saarnikangas nodded.
Lydman went on. “Number three, and this is the last. Today at eight o’clock, you’re gonna meet someone at the Corner Pub. He has a job for you, and you’ll do it like a good boy.”
“Who?”
“His first name is Markus. He’s about six two and 220 pounds.”
Saarnikangas knew that, aside from the name, those features would fit about fifty percent of the customers.
“What is this job?”
“He’ll tell you then.”
“Oh, this again? I dunno. I don’t want to get mixed up in anything else. Ever since I cleaned up my act, everything’s gone to hell.”
Lydman looked at the miserable junkie.
“Listen, once you’ve taken care of this, you can join a monastery for all I care.”
Saarnikangas imagined a future of long, lonely days behind protective walls, but he wasn’t picturing a monastery.
He paused. “By the way, one more thing…”
* * *
As he entered the parking lot, Suhonen spotted Saarnikangas’ van and two men talking next to it. He swung the Peugeot behind an SUV about 200 feet off.
There was no time to waste. He grabbed the camera and a small plastic bag and got out of the car. The SUV provided enough cover that the men wouldn’t notice him. He dug a loose-fitting brown vest out of the bag and pulled it on. On the back, large block letters spelled out, “Bird Photographer.” The same text appeared on the front. The vest gave him an excuse to take photos just about anywhere.
Suhonen circled the SUV and pointed the camera towards Saarnikangas’ van. The image in the viewfinder was fuzzy until the automatic focus kicked in. The lighting was a bit dark, but the quality of the lens and the additional reflected light from the snow helped. He zoomed in and snapped a half-dozen photos on rapid-fire. Suhonen had a good perspective; their profiles were clear enough that he could easily recognize both Saarnikangas and Lydman.