“My friend Salmela called. He’s pretty trashed. Gotta make sure he doesn’t do something stupid.”
“Okay,” said Takamäki, and the others wished him luck. Joutsamo got up and planted a wet kiss on Suhonen’s shaggy cheek.
“What’s that for?” he asked.
“I dunno,” she said, smiling. “Just felt like it.”
Suhonen shook his head with a grin. He slipped on his jacket and stepped out of the bar. The air was crisp and cold in contrast with the smoky confines of the karaoke bar. He coughed a few times to clear his lungs and decided the weather was nice enough to walk the one-mile-plus to Salmela’s apartment on Helsinki Avenue.
He kept up a brisk pace as he turned up the hill toward the Hakaniemi bridge. Of course, he could have taken a taxi too, but a little walk might help him work off a few beers, or at least seem to. Salmela hadn’t seemed suicidal at all-more lonely than anything. Maybe the verdict had stirred up old memories of his son.
The streets were quiet. A few cars were about at this hour, but almost nobody on foot.
Suhonen had gone to Tomi’s funeral in October. The proceedings had been spartan, and Tomi’s mother hadn’t come. Suhonen wasn’t sure if Salmela had talked about it with his ex at all. It was really none of his business.
At any rate, right now Salmela needed Suhonen’s company more than his comrades at the bar did.
Suhonen decided to take a shortcut through a small park. Four- and five-story stone buildings flanked the park on all sides. A couple of street lights were burned out.
Suhonen noticed the movement a few tenths of a second before he heard the voice. “Hey man, you got a smoke?”
Three youngsters in dark hooded sweatshirts with stocking caps pulled low over their foreheads appeared from behind some bushes. Suhonen stopped about six feet short of the boys, “Sorry, not at the moment.”
The kid in the middle had a thin face and straggly hair, about eighteen years old. He slipped a knife out of his belt and held it up. “Then gimme your money.”
“Everything you got,” said the one on the left. “So we don’t have to kick your ass.”
“Okay, okay…take it easy. It’s all yours,” Suhonen said, raising his right hand in capitulation. “It’s right up here in my breast pocket. Just let me get it out.”
Suhonen chattered on in hopes of keeping the knife man at bay. He considered his options at the same time. Not many…he was in too much of a hurry.
He opened the zipper of his jacket pocket with his right hand, his eyes locked on the knife man. Suhonen’s unexpected calmness was beginning to make the kid nervous. “Cough it up you son-of-a-bitch,” he hissed, thrusting at the air with his knife. “I’ll cut your eyes out!”
Really, thought Suhonen, still fumbling in his pocket. “Just a sec here, let me find it,” he said, wrapping his fingers round his Glock. He pulled it out and leveled it at the knife man.
Gun in hand, Suhonen’s voice went cold, “Now get the fuck outta here you little pussies. And don’t try this again.”
The knife man turned to run, but tripped on his own feet and crashed down a few steps away. His friends didn’t bother to stop and help him, and Suhonen was upon him before he could regain his footing. He threw the kid onto his back, pressed his knee into his chest, and put the gun barrel against his temple. “Next time I kill each and every one of you. Understand?”
The kid nodded.
“I didn’t hear you!”
“Yes! I understand!
“Good, you gonna quit this shit?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure about that?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, his voice shrill now.
Suhonen pressed the gun harder. “And you’ll go to school? Do a little studying and start your own business…that’s the way to make some real money.”
Suhonen stood up and let him go. The gun went back into his shoulder holster. He could have called it in and had a cruiser come for them, but it was already too late. He glanced around quickly: nobody watching from the windows.
Suhonen continued on his way. At no point had he identified himself as a police officer, but there was no doubt in his mind that this was just the sort of preventive work that a police officer should be doing.
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 14
CHAPTER 16
THURSDAY, 8:30 A.M.
HELSINKI PRISON
A pudgy guard with a shaved head and wooden expression led Korpi to the entrance of his cell. Korpi was holding a small bag with some personal items, his prison-issue coveralls and bedclothes.
The third floor of the east wing, with its pale walls and potted plants, was more akin to a stalwart hospital than an ordinary prison. First built in 1881, Helsinki Prison was intended to project a sinister presence to the outside. That’s what it still did, but after several remodels, the inside of the complex had begun to appear progressively more accommodating. Or at least as accommodating as a prison well over a century old can appear.
“Here’s your cell,” drawled the guard. Though not an imposing presence, Rauli Salo had plenty of experience as a prison guard. He knew Korpi from the con’s previous stint, and he predicted what Korpi would say next.
Korpi stopped at the door and glanced inside. “This ain’t gonna work.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
Korpi had been quickly transferred from the new admissions block, where inmates sometimes spent weeks. Cell block three was in better shape than the others, but Korpi didn’t intend to share a cell. He turned to the guard. “Lifers get special rights. I want my own cell.”
“You think I have a say in that? It’s a question of space. Two guys per cell is the bare minimum. Most cells have three or four, plus construction noise. You oughta be thankful I got you this much. Cell doors are open till eight here, too. Lockdown’s at five on most blocks.”
Not convinced, Korpi took another look at the cell. Some girly pictures were hanging on the walls and a guitar was leaning against the windowsill. Whoever occupied the lower bunk was either at work or class. “Who’s got the bunk there?”
“Kaapo Nieminen. Mule. Doing a couple years for drug smuggling.”
“So you’re sticking me in a cell with some junkie. Fuck. Not gonna happen.”
“No other choice.”
Korpi looked at the guard in silence. “Well. Then you know how it’s gotta go.”
The guard shrugged his skinny shoulders. He knew all too well. By tomorrow morning at the latest, Nieminen would file for transfer to the protective ward under a barrage of threats from Korpi. And Korpi would keep going regardless of who they put in the cell with him. Salo couldn’t be bothered by it-there was no changing inmate hierarchies. Certain inmates would give the orders, and the gangsters could terrorize whoever they wanted. Korpi would be in the pen for a long time, so it paid to get along with him, which is precisely why Salo had tried to arrange things beforehand.
Korpi stepped inside and slammed the heavy steel door behind him. The doors weren’t locked during the day. Korpi tossed his bag onto the top bunk. He snatched the guitar by the neck and swung it hard against the metal frame of the bed. The instrument splintered in one hit. “Fucking junkie,” he hissed, as he emptied the man’s things onto the lower bunk.
Next up would be to find out which of his friends were on the block, and in that respect, this was a good place to be. Sometimes referred to as “Little Tallinn,” the Estonian inmates held court along the gable end. There would likely be some familiar faces over there.
In any case, he had a meeting with Martin in the afternoon. Korpi’s thoughts had crystallized overnight. He knew now what had gone wrong, and what he had to do.
* * *
At his computer, Takamäki was reading reports on last night’s events. A few robberies had occurred in the early part of the evening, but nothing very serious. It had been almost noon before he made it to the station. The rest of the team had the day off, which is why they had chosen the previous day for the Christmas party.