Against the Wall (12 page)

“Why do you let him boss you around?”

“He doesn’t boss me around,” Markkanen snapped.

“Does too. Come here, go there, take care of this, do that. For all that you do, you should be able to run his business yourself.”

“Do you remember who paid our bills when I was doing time?” Markkanen asked, though he knew very well that she remembered.

Riikka fell silent, and they listened quietly as the coffeemaker gurgled. Markkanen had always suspected that Riikka had paid Lindström back with something other than legal tender. They had never talked about that, though. And never would. If something had happened, it was in the past.

“Listen,” Riikka said, sliding onto the sofa next to him. “I need some money.”

He wanted to ask what she needed it for this time, but he dug out his wallet and counted out three hundred.

“That enough?”

“Yeah,” Riikka said. “It’s a really gorgeous blouse.”

Markkanen laughed silently when she kissed him on the cheek. He’d have to remember to shave before leaving.

“You know, we should go on a vacation somewhere warm,” Riikka suggested.

“Again?”

“Yeah, it’s so depressingly dark and cold here.”

Markkanen stood up. Riikka remained sitting.

“Where you going?”

“To get some coffee.”

His cellphone rang in the hallway, and he had to rummage through the pockets of his jacket to find it.

“Hello,” Markkanen answered.

The caller was Lindström. He sounded angry. “Where are you?”

“Why?”

“You were supposed to be here at three.”

“You said four.”

“Shut up! Get over here now.”

“Okay,” Markkanen replied.

Riikka watched him from the sofa, gloating. “No…he doesn’t boss me around. No, no…”

“Shut up,” Markkanen said, pulling his jacket on. About to leave, he called out, “Remember to take Eetu to hockey practice tonight.”

The ice rink was only minutes away from home, but still too far for the kid to walk with a heavy hockey bag.

* * *

It was almost four o’clock and Suhonen was standing at the turnoff onto Vuolukivi Street in the Pihlajamäki neighborhood. Pale, sixties-style four- and eight-story towers loomed overhead.

Rocky Pihlajamäki was the first Helsinki suburb built in the sixties to be officially preserved by the city. The Finnish Historical Board had also requested protection for it, though Suhonen wondered why. The Historical Board had also worked to preserve the “Sausage House,” a monstrosity of a building just across the street from the Helsinki Railway Station, named for the sausage-shaped ring encircling the second floor. For the people of Helsinki, the Sausage House is an institution. For visitors, it’s a curiosity.

Suhonen’s cellphone buzzed. Raija again. This time he decided to answer it. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if she wanted to meet.

“Hi,” Suhonen said, trying to sound as friendly as possible.

“Hi,” she said back. “Why don’t you answer your phone?”

“Been busy at work. You know the drill.”

“Yeah. I know,” she answered coolly.

Raija was quiet for a moment and Suhonen wondered if she was calling to complain or just to chat.

“Listen, I just called because I left that teapot of mine at your place. I want it back.”

“Huh?”

“You know, the one I bought last spring. I forgot it in the rush.”

“Oh yeah? That’s what you’re calling about?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I’ll just bring it to your office when I get a chance,” he said, feeling his temper flare. “Sorry, gotta go. More work.”

He hit “End Call” and watched as a couple of pot-bellied men lumbered into a local bar. A gaudy sign in the window advertised free karaoke and billiards. Suhonen felt like joining them. He didn’t care for karaoke, but billiards and beer would be just fine. It would soften his stale mood.

But there was no time now. He had gotten ahold of Saarnikangas on the phone, and they had arranged to meet in Pihlajamäki. Did Juha live around here nowadays? He wasn’t sure. Last he knew, the guy had lived in Itäkeskus, near the infamous shopping mall. He was now three miles northeast of there, next to the Lahti Highway.

Saarnikangas’ dirty Fiat sat in the parking lot. Suhonen had swung by the van and installed the tracking device. It hadn’t taken more than twenty-five seconds. While he was at it, he had checked the brand on the tires.

According to the DMV, the van was owned by one Krister Vuori. The man was doing three years in Helsinki Prison for drug trafficking.

Suhonen’s second phone—the prepaid one—rang.

“Well?”

“Where are you?” Juha asked.

“Out front.”

“Come on in. Stairwell B in the long building. Third floor; the door says Teräsvuori.”

Suhonen strode through the quiet yard and entered the stairway. The spiral stairs were built into the side of the building and surrounded by glass walls. Suhonen dashed up the stairs two at a time and, reaching the third floor, rang the doorbell.

Saarnikangas was already at the door, and he opened it quickly. Suhonen suspected he had been lurking behind the door, peering out the peephole. A black Metallica T-shirt and tattered jeans were draped over his skinny frame. His hair was tangled as usual.

Suhonen stepped past him into the studio, which opened up from the hallway to the left. A beat-up mattress lay on the floor surrounded by a cluttered pile of paperbacks. Next to the balcony door, a TV sat on the floor and a plastic patio table served as a dining table.

“Nice pad,” Suhonen said.

“Practical,” Juha remarked. “Not mine, of course.”

“What’s new with Krister?”

“You mean Vuori?” Juha laughed, but his voice was pinched. The junkie paced around the room, unable to stand still. “Do you know him?”

“I know of him, yeah.”

“He’s doing time. He left this pad and the van in my care. Apparently, the city hasn’t figured out that the tenant is in the slammer, so I’ve been able to live here.”

“Quit bouncing around and sit down,” said Suhonen, pointing to a white plastic chair. Juha obeyed like a scared puppy. Suhonen remained standing, about six feet off.

“About Eriksson.”

“What about him?”

“What do you really know?”

Saarnikangas continued to fidget in the chair.

“Exactly what I told you before. Nothing more. I heard some rumors, so I told you.”

“You’re in deep shit.”

“How so?”

“If you don’t talk.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Saarnikangas raised his voice and folded his thin arms across his chest. “I told you everything. I don’t know anything more. You have the body, so it’s your job to figure out who did it.”

“How do you know we have the body?” Suhonen asked with a grim expression.

Juha’s chin dropped open for half a second. “Don’t you?”

“I haven’t said anything about that. You seem to know.”

“Stop trying to confuse me. How many times have I helped you cops out… Shiiit...”

“Enough swearing. Pretty soon you’ll be helping out in the prison cafeteria.”

“Goddamnit,” Saarnikangas said, starting to stand up.

“Sit,” Suhonen said calmly and Juha obeyed. “Listen to me. We did find the body, and the police are looking for someone to skin. We have to find the killer, and fast. The case is hot, and we’ll find every single morsel of evidence. Now’s your chance to help us out, not to mention yourself.”

Saarnikangas squirmed in his chair. “But… I honestly don’t know anything more about it.”

“Do you have a gun?”

“Huh?”

“Do you have a gun?” Suhonen repeated.

“No,” he answered hesitantly.

“Good to know.”

“Why?”

“Well, we won’t have to send the Bear Squad to bring you in when we figure out your role in this case.”

The Helsinki SWAT team was nicknamed the “Bear Squad.” The unit had been formed to protect foreign dignitaries for the 1975 US-Soviet summit in Helsinki. The police had chosen a bear as its symbol because in a confrontation, the team would swat like a bear.

“Don’t start…”

“I’m serious. You’ll be in deep shit if you don’t talk now. If you don’t have anything to say, then find something out. I’ll call you tonight.” He turned away.

“Suhonen,” Juha said. The detective stopped.

“What?”

“About the swearing. You know where the word ‘hell’ comes from?”

Suhonen walked away. “I don’t have time for your trivia.”

“It’s Ancient Swedish, derived from the name of ‘Hel’, the mistress of the netherworld…”

Suhonen closed the door behind him and took out his phone. He made it to the stairs by the time Joutsamo answered.

“Well?”

“I met with Saarnikangas.”

“Yeah. You must’ve been in his apartment,” Joutsamo said. “The phone tap is working and we listened in on your little phone conversation earlier.”

“Good,” Suhonen said and thought that going forward, he’d have to watch what he said to Juha on the phone. “He wriggled and squirmed, but it won’t be long before he either calls me or makes a run for it. If anything happens, let me know.”

“Yup.”

“Oh yeah,” Suhonen added. “The tires on his van were GT Radial Maxways.”

Joutsamo asked him to repeat the brand again.

“It’s a match then,” she said.

Suhonen ended the call and opened the police GPS tracking application on his phone. A glowing red dot indicated that the tracking device was in the parking lot on Vuolukivi. All systems go. The battery wouldn’t be a problem; these newer models could last up to a few weeks.

CHAPTER 12

LINDSTRÖM’S APARTMENT,

TEHDAS STREET, HELSINKI

WEDNESDAY, 3:55 P.M.

“
Bogeyman” Markkanen stepped into Kalevi Lindström’s apartment building. Classical music boomed into the stairwell and rose into the vaulted ceilings, seeming to lift the elegant decor with its lilting tempo. Everything was of the highest quality. The walls had been recently painted, complete with an elaborate molding where they met the ceiling. Markkanen knew that the renovation team had used original 1930s photographs of the building as inspiration.

It had taken Markkanen about forty minutes to drive the ten miles from Espoo to South Helsinki. This was the swankiest part of town. Parking spots were impossible to find, as most of the Art Noveau buildings were from the late nineteenth or early twentieth centuries, and had no garages.

Lindström’s door was made from solid walnut. The chrome doorbell looked original, though it had been bought at an antique store and installed during the renovation.

He pressed the button. The bell jangled forcefully and he waited. He was forbidden to ring twice. It took Lindström about a minute to come to the door. He wore brown tailored pants and a white dress shirt.

“There you are,” Lindström said, and let Markkanen inside.

The younger man knew the rules. As usual, he left his black shoes in the foyer and hung his coat on a hanger.

“Let’s go to my office,” the boss said. The apartment was spacious by Finnish standards, at least 2,000 square feet. In addition to the office and the fitness room, he had a kitchen, a formal dining room, a bedroom, and a living room.

Lindström lived alone. As far as Markkanen knew, he wasn’t married, probably never had been. Markkanen wasn’t sure if he was straight or not. Of course, he had never asked about it; it wasn’t relevant. At least the older man had never come on to him.

The office was designed like a library. A laptop and a few stacks of paper rested on a large desk. Dark built-in bookcases encircled the room. Near the door were a low table and two armchairs. The window offered a view of Tehdas Street, but at the moment, brown curtains hid the spectacular view.

Lindström turned on some lights, gestured for Markkanen to sit in one of the armchairs, and took a seat opposite him.

“Still haven’t heard anything about Eriksson?” Lindström asked.

Markkanen shook his head. “Vanished into thin air.”

“Just doesn’t make sense. I know he would’ve told me if he was going on a trip. Do you know if he had any enemies?”

“Who doesn’t?” Markkanen remarked. What kind of a question was that, he thought, but said nothing. Everybody had them, some more than others.

Lindström nodded his head. “Right, right… We’ll have to figure out who they are, but right now I have a more pressing matter.” The man set his elbows on the armrests of his chair and brought his fingertips together so they mirrored one another. “Markus…” Lindström began.