“And…”
“And with the depression and all, I was absolutely convinced that the body was this Laukka. Anyway, I was only a middle-man between Oslo and Vantaa-between the two, they were taking care of the DNA and the other formalities. So I was chatting with a friend at the National Bureau of Investigation records department last Friday and I asked about him. Well, she just called me back to say that they’ve received a communiqué through the Foreign Ministry about this guy. Sometime between Friday night and Saturday morning, Mr. Laukka got into a drug-induced brawl in Nice, punched a cop in the face, and is sitting in a jail in Southern France.”
“So the corpse in Oslo…”
“Is not him.”
Suhonen snickered. “No way. Who is it, then?”
Joutsamo shrugged. “No clue, but yet another example of why you should never assume.” The foursome had made a hobby of repeating their Lieutenant’s favorite phrase.
“Laukka sounds like a good candidate for the police academy,” Suhonen chuckled. “Hey, come take a look at this photo.”
She walked over to Suhonen’s desk and he stepped aside.
“You know these guys?”
Joutsamo sat down in his chair. He stood behind her and detected the sweet scent of her perfume, which conjured visions of spring.
“That one’s been running with the Skulls. Thinks his dad is some Argentinean. Was it Gomez?”
“Gonzales. He’s the darker one. What about buzz cut here?”
Joutsamo turned and looked up from the chair. “Should I know who he is?”
Kulta came up from behind to look over their shoulders.
“No. I don’t know either,” said Suhonen.
Kulta smirked. “That’s twice already today.”
Joutsamo ignored the comment. “Doesn’t look like a local. Based on his features and clothing, I’d bet he’s Estonian or Russian. Toomas might know.”
“Not familiar to me either,” Kulta said, though nobody had asked. “I’d also suggest you get in touch with Toomas.”
“Alright, I’ll do that.”
Toomas Indres was an Estonian policeman who had been with the Helsinki VCU on an exchange program. He had returned to Tallinn six months ago.
Joutsamo stood up and Suhonen stepped back. Kulta returned to his desk.
“When was that photo taken?” Joutsamo asked.
“Half an hour ago in the Velodrome parking lot.”
“Of course,” Joutsamo smiled. By the way, did you hear about today’s sentencing in the Skulls’ extortion case?”
“Not yet. Do tell.”
“Alanen got three years and two months and Lintula two years and ten months. Captain Karila himself came to congratulate us on a job well done.”
Suhonen scratched his head at the captain’s visit. “Oh really? I wonder which leadership program taught him to do that.”
“He even brought coffee and cookies. There’s probably some left in the conference room.”
“That’s okay,” said Suhonen. “We worked hard on that case-glad they were convicted.”
Alanen and Lintula were Skull prospects who had extorted protection money from a north Helsinki pizzeria owner. Key evidence had been obtained by planting a hidden camera in the restaurant. Obtaining the terrified proprietor’s consent for the camera had been the most difficult part of the case.
“Yep, they’ll be off the streets for a while,” Joutsamo remarked.
“True. But what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”
Joutsamo grinned. “I think I’ll make myself stronger with a jog tonight.”
Suhonen felt a pang of guilt. He, too, should take better care of himself, but jogging was not his thing. At least he managed to play hockey with some other cops a couple of times a week.
“You going alone?”
“Yeah. You live alone, you jog alone.”
Both of them were single. Though they had had many relationships, most had broken down due to the demands of their work. Or it could be that both just preferred the single life. That way, they answered to nobody.
“Why don’t you come along?”
“You asking me on a date?”
“No, a jog.”
Suhonen paused. “Aaah, maybe not; I probably couldn’t keep up.”
Joutsamo shrugged. “You got that right.”
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 21
CHAPTER 2
WEDNESDAY, 11:20 A.M.
PUOTINHARJU SHOPPING CENTER, EAST HELSINKI
A white Fiat Ducato van sat in the parking lot of the Puotinharju Shopping Center. The van, which was caked with dirt and rust, was pointed toward downtown Helsinki. Outside the driver’s side window were the streets of Itäkeskus, and on the passenger’s side lay the crumbling mall.
Juha Saarnikangas tapped out the rhythm to “L.A. Woman” on the steering wheel. The old Ducato’s radio was defunct, but he had an iPod and a couple of tiny speakers on the passenger seat. He gazed out the windows, looking for familiar faces, but saw none. Many passersby carried umbrellas. Saarnikangas hadn’t followed the weather reports, but apparently showers were in the forecast. Though the windshield of the van was dirty, it was still dry.
“Drivin’ down your freeways, midnight alleys roam…” sang Morrison. Saarnikangas didn’t know that the mall he was parked next to was built in the same year that The Doors were founded. Then, Puotinharju had been Finland’s largest shopping center, and the pride of a burgeoning East Helsinki.
Saarnikangas was wearing a green military coat. His dark, greasy hair reached his shoulders. The man’s face was thin, his skin pale and pock-marked. But having kicked a heroin addiction, he was in better shape now than he had been for years.
His gaze was fixed on a group of about a half-dozen black men, who were slowly climbing the stairs to the second floor of the mall, where a mosque was located.
He pulled out his cell phone and glanced at the time: 11:22. He’d give the guy three more minutes before leaving, and wouldn’t take his calls anymore.
The man had promised Saarnikangas twenty euros just to listen to a proposal. Free money was enough of a reason, but it wasn’t the only one. Was this guy in as bad of shape as word on the street would have it? The fact that he was willing to pay for a meeting wasn’t a good sign.
A knock on the passenger side window startled Saarnikangas. He hadn’t noticed the man approaching-he must have snuck up from the rear.
The Ducato didn’t have power locks, but if it did, they would have been broken. Saarnikangas leaned over, lifted the passenger side lock, and snatched his music system off the seat. He shut off the music.
“Hey,” said the forty-something man. His hair was short, his cheeks sunken. The lambswool collar of his brown leather jacket was dirty.
The rugged-faced Eero Salmela seemed initially like his former self, but then Saarnikangas looked in his eyes: blurry and full of fear.
“They let you out of the hospital?” said Saarnikangas, smiling with his mouth carefully closed. Heroin had ruined his teeth. He also wanted to be cautious. He knew that a year ago, while in prison, Salmela had taken an iron pipe to the head, and had done a long stretch in the medical ward before returning to his cellblock to serve out the final months of his sentence. A blow to the head can make a man unpredictable. Saarnikangas might be sharper, but Salmela was still the stronger man.
“Yeah. Back in the summer.”
“Cool. You alright?” Saarnikangas said, more as a statement.
Salmela said nothing, just settled into the passenger seat and stared over Saarnikangas’ shoulder at the mall.