MARI LEHTONEN’S APARTMENT, ALPPILA, EAST HELSINKI
“Laura, put your coat on! It’s cold out there,” shouted Mari Lehtonen from the kitchen as her daughter tied her shoes. Twelve-year-old Laura had on jeans and a college sweatshirt. Summer had turned to autumn just the previous night. The thermometer in the kitchen window of their two-bedroom flat read forty-six degrees Fahrenheit. Gray clouds skirted swiftly over the gray apartment building opposite theirs.
“Yup,” said the blond-haired girl as she grabbed her backpack off the floor. “Bye.”
Before Mari Lehtonen could make it to the entryway to check, the girl was out the door. Her parka was still hanging from the hook next to the door.
“Figures,” she laughed. Laura was a quiet and kind girl. Perhaps this was just how her teen rebellion would manifest itself.
Mari went back to the kitchen and sat down at a smallish dining table where the morning paper was spread out. Dark hair fell across her narrow face and reached her thin shoulders. She took a gulp of coffee from a mug that read “Mom’s Joe,” followed by a smiley face. Laura had painted the mug herself and given it as a gift the previous Christmas.
Mari and Laura shared an apartment on Porvoo Street. The interior was neat and clean, with a feminine décor. When Laura was six, Mari had divorced her husband for the usual reasons: alcoholism and the threat of violence. Anton had actually never hit them, but she had always suspected that it was just a matter of time. Life was unpleasant then and Mari had taken the necessary action.
Fear of violence had made her think about what she’d do when the first blow came. She loathed the thought of resorting to a kitchen knife. Best to throw the drunk out before it was too late. The divorce hadn’t been easy, but a couple prior house calls to the police were enough to convince the judge to grant Mari sole custody. This had aggravated the situation to the point of threats and harassment. Finally, she had had enough and sought a restraining order on him, and he had relented. As far as Mari knew, Anton Teittinen had no idea where his ex-wife and daughter were now living.
Mari picked up the front page of the Helsingin Sanomat with an article about a company that was starting labor negotiations to eliminate 170 positions. She read only the headline and a couple of the first paragraphs. The article was written solely from the perspective of the firm, with employee comments made to sound like a lot of rabble-rousing. Mari knew what it was like to be fired. After earning an associate’s degree in business, she had landed a job at the Jyväskylä Savings and Loan; but during the banking crisis of the ’90s, she had been laid off and moved to Helsinki. Now she was thirty-seven and working in the finance department of a mid-sized office supply retailer. The job was alright and the pay adequate for rent and hobbies.
Perhaps Alppila was not the best neighborhood for a girl on the cusp of puberty, but at least life here was better than their previous situation. Once a vast cow pasture, Alppila was now largely an industrial district filled with working class apartments. It drew its name from the rugged bedrock prevalent in the area-a cheeky comparison to the Alps. They liked the area, as the school was nearby and there was plenty to do. Laura attended theater classes twice a week. Mari also liked the location because her office in Vallila was only a few hundred yards away. The cultural delights of Helsinki were almost as close.
Mari took a bite of a ham-on-rye sandwich with a single leaf of lettuce. She paged through the paper and made it to the Metro section before her phone rang. The number belonged to her boss, Essi Saari. “Hi,” said Mari into the receiver.
“Where are you?” asked Saari, in a voice half anxious, half angry.
“Still at home.”
“You forget?”
Shit, she thought, remembering the meeting invitation she’d received the previous afternoon. One of the higher-ups had been demanding some report and Saari had asked Mari to help. Saari wasn’t much for computers, so Mari was supposed to have run the report.
“Yeah…” said Mari as she walked back into the kitchen. “I’m sorry.”
“Well…it’s alright. We still have time. Have your coffee, but let’s get started as soon as you get here.”
“Gimme fifteen minutes,” she said, knowing full well it would take her longer with dressing and makeup.
With no time to sit, Mari raised her mug to her lips. That’s when she noticed a small article: “Young Man Gunned Down in Alppila.” Police were asking for information from potential eyewitnesses about a youth who’d been killed on Porvoo Street. Mari checked the address to be sure she hadn’t read it wrong. She hadn’t. It was the building just across from them.
Her thoughts stopped and a stream of images flickered through her memory. She shook her head faintly, tore out the article and hurried into the bathroom.
* * *
“What exactly did you see?” asked Essi Saari. The finance director was sitting at her computer in her sleek modern office, dressed in a white-and considering her weight-excessively tight pantsuit. Mari had shown her boss the newspaper clipping and mentioned to her that she had seen something.
“I saw a dark car and a man. It’s like the picture is engrained in my head. License plate and all.”
“I know you’ve got a good head for numbers, but…”
“But the police are asking for eyewitnesses.”
“Come on. It’s not like you saw the murder.”
“But they’re asking for information on the car. Shouldn’t I…”
This time it was Saari’s turn to interrupt. “Not a chance. No point getting mixed up in these kinds of things. The cops have their DNAs and phone taps. That’s how you solve murders. There’s really no point in getting involved. You’ve already had enough
problems, given your ex and all. You’d wind up testifying in court, you know.”
“But shouldn’t I at least…”
“No,” said Saari. “Should we get that report done now? Getting to be crunch time here.”
“Alright, let me see it. You just tell me what you want me to run.”
* * *
Half a dozen officers had already sampled the coffee Joutsamo had made. As usual, she’d made tea for herself. Suhonen yawned while Kulta sipped his coffee.
The meeting was supposed to have started at nine o’clock sharp, but Takamäki was late.
“So did you get drafted to play in the Elite League yet?” Joutsamo asked Suhonen, as he smothered a seemingly endless yawn.
Suhonen smirked. He regretted telling his colleagues that he had begun playing hockey again.
“Yup, by the Blues after their flop last season,” Suhonen laughed.
“You played quite a bit when you were younger, didn’t you?” asked Kulta.
“In Lahti till I was sixteen.”
“Why’d you quit?”
“Uhh,” Suhonen stretched and took a sip of coffee. “If I said I just got more interested in other things, I’d be lying. Truth is, I just wasn’t good enough,” Suhonen lied.
“So why are you back on the ice now?” said Joutsamo, genuinely interested.
Suhonen smiled. “I already bought the Harley. Can’t change the wife, since I don’t have one, and I can’t complain much about my job, but I gotta do something about this imminent midlife crisis, right? I guess senior hockey is macho enough for me.”
Joutsamo laughed. With the killer behind bars and the case all but closed, the mood was light. Locating the driver would only be a bonus, though a big one, of course. But that didn’t put on much additional pressure. Risto Korpi, on the other hand, was a stressful target, one that they knew would take a lot of work and time to connect to the shooting. None of Korpi’s goons would squeak, so the case would come down to phone taps or some other technological means. Provided Korpi was found, his apartment could be wired. Then it was just a matter of time before his tongue slipped. Incriminating evidence might surface by accident as well. Something significant could come up in a Narcotics operation.