Against the Wall (13 page)

Markkanen was taken aback to hear his first name. His boss hadn’t addressed him that way in a long time, if ever.

“…I’ve always considered you hired muscle. Don’t take this wrong, but your fists have been your best assets.”

You should know, Markkanen thought. He hadn’t received the “Bogeyman” nickname in his youth for nothing. He kept his expression serious.

“You’re good at settling debts and roughing people up. And also organizing things. But now that Eriksson is missing, you’re going to have to step into his shoes. At least for a while.”

Hmm, Markkanen thought. So now he was supposed to squeeze into that rookie’s shoes? As long as diapers weren’t part of the deal. Still, he liked the direction this was headed. “Right,” he said as impartially as possible.

“Tomorrow I’ll be receiving twenty freight containers of flat-screen TVs. The ship will be docking in at the Kotka port. Each container will have fifty to seventy-five units. Altogether, roughly one thousand to fifteen hundred TVs, between forty and seventy inches. Very good quality. Not the cheap stuff you get from clearance sales.”

The man leveled a steady gaze at Markkanen. “I won’t go into details now, but there’s a considerable difference in taxes if the paperwork says ‘rubber gloves’ rather than ‘top-of-the-line electronics.’ Understand?”

Markkanen nodded. He knew that one of Lindström’s businesses had something to do with import-export. Markkanen had arranged some of the transport logistics himself and also rode shotgun from time to time. Goods that were officially bound for Russia had actually stayed in Finland and were sold onto the black market tax-free.

“Good. The containers are headed for Russia, but we still need to disclose the contents to Customs when they arrive here. Russian Customs isn’t a problem, but the Finnish side has occasionally been a little sticky. That’s where Eriksson has been coming in. He’s taken care of any issues with the Finnish Customs.”

“I see,” Markkanen said. Though he had suspected something like this, he never knew the exact details.“How?”

“He gathers information.”

“From where?”

“This is why you’ve always been the hired muscle,” Lindström said with a wry smile. “From Customs, of course. He has a man on the inside. I know his name, but Eriksson never told me what their arrangement was.”

A man on the inside. Wow, Markkanen thought. “That’s good.”

“Right. At first, I thought it was a secretary. But this guy is management.”

“Money?”

Lindström smiled. “Yes. It involves money, but there’s something else.”

“What?”

“Jerry is a clever kid. He’s my cousin’s son; he knows how to play the game.”

Markkanen was shocked. Cousin’s son! Eriksson and Lindström were related? This was news to him. And something he definitely should’ve known. Shit, he thought.

“What is it?” Lindström asked. “You look surprised.”

“Well, I just didn’t know Eriksson was your relative.”

“Yeah, we weren’t that close before Jerry came to work for me.”

“Right, right,” Markkanen said. He should have figured it out beforehand. It was one surprise too many. Maybe the old man was right about him and his abilities. “So what do I have to do?”

“It should be simple, even for you. Just take it easy, at least to begin with. Get in touch with Jouko Nyholm at Customs. Tell him that Eriksson’s gone on a trip, and that you’re taking care of business for now. We need to know if they’re having any surprise inspections, and whether our cargo has raised any red flags.” Lindström looked at Markkanen inquiringly.

“So I’m gonna bribe a customs officer?”

“Yep. Sounds simple, right?”

“Yeah. And if he resists, I’ll threaten to turn him in,” Markkanen smirked.

“If at first you don’t succeed, use a bigger hammer.”

“A big hammer is my tool of choice,” Markkanen answered in a serious tone. His thoughts returned to Eriksson. To think he had a management-level informant at the Customs office. Jesus. No wonder he and Lindström were so cozy. And relatives, too. Well, now the job was his. Finally, Markus Markkanen’s situation seemed very promising.

CHAPTER 13

EAST HIGHWAY

WEDNESDAY, 5:00 P.M.

Juha Saarnikangas was driving at a steady speed along the East Highway toward downtown Helsinki. The dashboard clock showed 1:30, but that’s what it had been showing for the last two months, maybe longer. The evening rush, a long line of headlights, was pouring out of the city past him. His battered wipers made a mess of the view.

As he neared the Kulosaari bridge, a rooftop clock broadcast the time in glowing orange numbers: 5:02. Juha knew Lydman started his bouncer’s shift at the Corner Pub door at five. He worked two nights a week, and Juha suspected he was also dealing at the door.

He had to get in touch with Lydman. He had already been to his place in Pikku-Huopalahti once, and didn’t want to go there again. The phone wasn’t safe. Suhonen’s visit had shaken him. Wasn’t it enough that he had tipped him off about the body? Why couldn’t the police just take care of it themselves so he could be left out of the whole mess.

He could tell Lydman and the others that he hadn’t been able to lift the body the first time, and when he came back, the cops had already arrived.

From what Suhonen had said, it seemed that he was a murder suspect now. “You’re in deep shit,” Suhonen’s threat still echoed in his mind. He had asked about a gun and hinted at an encounter with the SWAT team. The case was hot, then. Too hot. Shit.

A taxi blew past a yield sign and cut in front of Saarnikangas. He leaned on the horn, forgetting that it was broken. The highway split into two and he took the route to Kallio. Juha tried to remember if he had left any evidence at the crime scene. Fingerprints? DNA? Bits of thread? The cops always looked for those types of things. He couldn’t remember. The events at the garage seemed like a distant nightmare. Except that it was no dream.

It had probably been stupid to tell the police, but at the time it had seemed like a clever move.

Suhonen had the number to his phone, so it was probably under surveillance already. That’s why he couldn’t just call Lydman. He’d need a new cellphone. On the other hand, he’d have to keep using the old one just enough so Suhonen wouldn’t suspect anything.

* * *

Suhonen was looking at a map of Kallio on his cellphone display. The red dot blinked at the corner of Fleming and Aleksis Kivi, then turned onto Fleming. Kallio, or “the Rock,” had been a working class area up until the eighties. But as factories moved away from downtown, the population shifted from families to young adults looking for cheap rent. The cheap rents also tended to draw a rougher crowd.

Suhonen stepped on the gas. He was a couple minutes behind.

Based on the map, Saarnikangas was headed somewhere in the heart of Kallio, but where?

Joutsamo was looking at the same map at her desk. She had also informed Suhonen over the phone that Saarnikangas hadn’t made a single phone call. The phone was still active, though. She had asked if he needed any backup, but he had assured her he could handle it.

The lights turned green, and Suhonen swung onto Kustaa Street. He passed what was formerly the Hill Mortuary on the left. The brick building was originally built in the 1920s, and a sign above the door read in Latin, “For mortals only death is eternal.”

Suhonen was familiar with the building, but not as a mortuary. The last bodies had been embalmed and loaded onto the “corpse train” bound for the Malmi Cemetery in the fifties. At its peak, there had been five trains a week, each including two cars for the dead and four for the families. The living were brought back to Kallio.

In the eighties and nineties, a local gang had used the dilapidated building as their headquarters, and Suhonen had been there many times. Now that it was a youth community center, he no longer had any business there.

Suhonen turned right onto Aleksis Kivi, and the mortuary receded in the distance. His phone indicated that Saarnikangas was already at Helsinki Avenue. Suhonen sped up.

* * *

Saarnikangas swung the van into the chicane on Helsinki Avenue, on the east end of Brahe Soccer Field. Brown shabby buildings served as changing rooms, and a sign pointed towards a café. One good thing about the van was that he could leave it just about anywhere. Saarnikangas had found a laminated Service Call sign in the glove box, which he displayed inside the windshield. Technically, the Service Call sign would allow him almost limitless parking, at least if the meter maid didn’t check the plates. There were no meter maids in sight, and even if there were, it wouldn’t have mattered. Neither Saarnikangas nor the owner of the van, in prison already, would pay the ticket.

After locking the doors, he headed toward the Corner Pub. The street was bustling with activity. A streetcar rattled by and turned towards the Sports Center, former home to one of Helsinki’s semi-pro basketball teams. During its glory years, the team had drawn a few hundred spectators on a good night, a fraction of the attention local hockey teams received.

Some junkie was arguing with himself under a streetlight. Then again, who would really know if he had an earpiece under that mop. Bright neon lights and signs for cut-rate beer flashed from the bar windows, luring thirsty customers. The Corner Pub was offering a half liter for €2.50.

Saarnikangas cut across to the south side of Helsinki Avenue. The Corner Pub was situated next to an Alepa grocery store. Juha saw a familiar figure standing in front of the entrance, already dragging on a cigarette. He was wearing a black beanie cap and a dark overcoat. A bouncer’s ID tag glinted on his chest.

* * *

Suhonen could see from the map that Saarnikangas had left the van at Brahe Soccer Field. He was pretty sure the guy didn’t have sports on his mind—he must be heading to one of the nearby bars or someone’s apartment. Given the narrow streets, this wasn’t a good spot for a car-to-car conference.

Nor was he sure whether Saarnikangas intended to meet anyone. His phone had been idle. Maybe the guy just wanted a beer, but if that was the case, there were quite a few bars closer to his apartment in Pihlajamäki, even one just across the street.

Suhonen ran a red light, crossed Helsinki Avenue and headed back up Fleming, which was shadowed by tall apartment buildings. The structures, like most of their kind in this part of the city, were about six stories high, the façades ranging between cement, brick, and stucco. The first vacant parking spot was in front of number 14, near a tattoo shop. The nose of his car blocked a third of the gate to the building’s courtyard. He didn’t care—cars could squeeze by, and at this hour, there were no delivery trucks about.

Suhonen hurried down the hill toward the grocery store on the corner.

“Hey, what’s the big hurry,” said a man stepping out of a doorway onto the sidewalk.

Suhonen shot a dirty look at the younger man, who was barely half his weight. The man took a step back.

“Well, shit, I guess it’s none of my business.”

You’re damn right, Suhonen thought, but didn’t say anything. The air was getting colder, and he zipped up his leather jacket, continued on to the corner store, and took a quick glance around the corner.

* * *

“
Listen,” Lydman snarled, a cigarette butt in his hand. “I already told you, I’m not interested. Understand?”

“Well, no,” Saarnikangas protested.

Lydman was a good four inches taller and looked threatening in his black coat and beanie cap. He took a drag on his cigarette, and his gaunt cheeks hollowed even further.

“Oh, you don’t? Maybe all that smack’s fried your brain cells.”

“Not all of ’em. And what do those steroids do to your brain, anyway? Certainly not making it any bigger.”

Lydman took a step toward him. “You fucking with me?”

Juha felt like laughing. Absolutely he was fucking with him. Was Lydman really that stupid?

A woman well over two hundred pounds stumbled out of the bar. Her makeup was overdone, and her smile looked more like a grimace. She extended her hand to Lydman. A few coins clinked as they changed hands.

“Thanks, Princess.”

The woman waddled off a few yards before Juha said anything, “Princess?”

“It’s her nickname,” Lydman said and shrugged. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. And try listening this time. You’re the genius who sent me to that gas station…”

“I said I don’t want to hear it. Not one word! I sent you there because that’s what I was told to do.”

“Who told you to?”

Lydman didn’t answer.

Juha felt like he was hacking at a brick wall with a spoon. Maybe upping the ante was in order. “Hey, you don’t know everything.”

“Hah,” Lydman sneered. “Didn’t I just tell you I don’t want to?”

“This is different,” Juha muttered. Lydman was quiet for a moment. “A narcotics cop has been asking me questions about someone.”