Against the Wall (28 page)

“Don’t get mad, Markus. It just slipped out somehow.”

“Well, pack your stuff and leave town.”

“To go where?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you go to Tampere. I’ll meet you there tomorrow, if I can make it. Check in at the Hotel Ilves.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Markkanen hung up and considered what this meant. Lindström shouldn’t have any reason to talk to Riikka.

His hunger had faded, and he walked back to the car.

Fucking Lindström.

CHAPTER 25

PASILA POLICE HEADQUARTERS

FRIDAY, 2:40 P.M.

Suhonen walked into Takamäki’s office. The lieutenant was seated at his computer.

“You have a sec?” Suhonen asked, closing the door behind him.

Takamäki looked up when he heard the door close. Apparently this was something important or sensitive.

“I was about to head over to Customs, but it can wait. Go ahead.”

“I have a situation… It’s a little complicated.”

“How so?”

Suhonen told him about going undercover to meet Markkanen, and his orders to rob Lindström at his apartment in an hour. Takamäki listened quietly.

“What do you think I should do?” Suhonen asked finally.

“You know you can’t go through with it.”

“It could mean a breakthrough,” Suhonen said. “We’re already pretty far along.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Sometimes we end up in situations where the law is unclear, and the lawyers are no help either. But this situation is obvious, armed robbery is way past the gray area. Think what could happen if something went wrong.”

Suhonen nodded. “Well, yeah. In principle, I agree. It
is
very risky.”

Takamäki thought aloud. “Too risky. Do we have any other options?”

“What do you mean?”

“I was thinking we could fake it, but that’s pretty damn difficult as well, since Lindström is a potential suspect here. If the target was an outsider, we could consider it.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Suhonen said.

“Let’s look at the benefits. What would we gain if you carried out the robbery? You might get a little closer to Markkanen’s inner circle, find out more about the case, but I don’t see a direct benefit to the investigation. You wouldn’t find a smoking gun.”

“Probably not. Still, the relationship between the two is interesting. Markkanen knows where Lindström keeps his money, yet he doesn’t want to do the job himself. He’d rather pay someone on the outside to do it. Obviously, he wants to maintain a relationship with the guy,” Suhonen pointed out.

“And when you combine that with Eriksson’s murder, it starts to look like some kind of love-hate triangle.”

“Markkanen mentioned that Lindström owed him money,” Suhonen recalled. “Maybe Lindström told him to kill Eriksson, and now the guy’s refusing to pay.”

“Or maybe Markkanen’s been playing games behind the boss’s back and, for one reason or another, took Eriksson out of the picture.”

“Or another possibility is that Eriksson and Markkanen were partners, in which case Lindström could’ve ordered the hit,” Suhonen said.

The men stared at each other in silence.

“Then again, Eriksson might have no connection to them whatsoever,” Suhonen added. “We don’t know for sure. This is pure speculation.”

“Never assume,” Takamäki smiled. “But we’re in no hurry. Let’s just go about our business, and the case will unravel when someone slips up.”

Suhonen glanced at the clock on the wall. “Right, no hurry. I’m supposed to be robbing one of our primary suspects in an hour. Oh, and Markkanen mentioned that Lindström does business with the Russians. If someone’s digging through his background, that tidbit might be helpful.”

“Not sure if anyone’s had a chance to do that yet,” Takamäki said. “Joutsamo, Kohonen, and Kulta apprehended Saarnikangas earlier. He didn’t have many warm words for you, or so I heard.”

“No
surprise there
,” Suhonen said quietly.

Takamäki turned back to the computer. “I have to send off this email. But about that robbery. Maybe it makes sense for you to go there just to observe, but stay out of the apartment. If Markkanen asks you about it later, just make up some excuse.”

“Yeah, that’s probably the best move.”

* * *

Markus Markkanen was livid. What had possessed the old man to call his wife? He wanted immediate answers. He was driving down Kapteeni Street, having just passed the neo-Gothic red-brick façade of St. John’s Church. A bus up ahead was moving slowly, but he had no room to pass on the crowded, narrow street. Flanked by stone apartment buildings with quaint shops and cafés, Kapteeni Street led south toward Lindström’s apartment.

Damn buses.

One of his phones rang. It was Lindström’s line.

The bus inched forward, and Markkanen took a deep breath before answering.

“Hel-lo,” he said, putting too much emphasis on the last syllable.

“Is this a bad time?”

“No. Go ahead.”

“We need to talk.”

“About what?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here. Is four okay?”

Markkanen was on Vuorimies. He could be there in just a couple minutes, but four o’clock would be even better.”

“Four’s good. I should make it by then.”

“Good,” Lindström said. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Everything’s okay.”

The conversation ended. Markkanen pulled up to the corner of Tehdas Street and waited for the cross traffic. Within twenty seconds, he had decided to call Suikkanen. The robbery would have to wait for another day.

He had just stepped on the gas when he caught a glimpse of a familiar figure rounding the corner. The man wore a leather jacket and a black beanie cap on his head, which, at least a week ago, had been bald. It was Korpela, the Skull. What was
he
doing here?

Markkanen made a split-second decision. He crossed the intersection and swung a U-turn. Tony Korpela had disappeared around the corner.

The blue Beamer coasted back to the intersection and Markkanen could see the Skull about a hundred fifty feet up on the right.

He continued on slowly, as if looking for a parking space. Korpela was about sixty feet ahead when Markkanen’s heart sank. Damn, what if he’s going inside!

Markkanen was crawling along about fifty feet from the door to Lindström’s staircase when a blue taxi pulled up to his back bumper. Afraid it might honk and attract Korpela’s attention, he flicked on his right blinker and pulled over as far as possible. He missed the driver’s-side mirror of a parked Nissan by about two inches. The taxi zoomed past, but Markkanen kept his eyes on Korpela. The man punched in the door code and disappeared inside.

Markkanen shook his head and switched off his blinker. He hit the gas and sped on towards the South Harbor. Now he had to set up a meeting with Suikkanen. The man’s task had just changed.

CHAPTER 26

BOARD OF CUSTOMS, EROTTAJA

FRIDAY, 3:30 P.M.

Jouko Nyholm’s foot tapped out an irregular rhythm on the wooden floor. Should he leave? Snellman had told him to stick around because that bastard from Homicide had come for a visit. Takamäki and Snellman had been talking for ten minutes already.

He thought for a moment, then started typing an email. His fingers couldn’t find the keys, and he constantly had to make corrections. In the email, he requested a surprise inspection of a toilet paper shipment on the M/S
Gambrini
, scheduled to arrive in the next few days.

“According to some recent intelligence, the cargo bound for Russia on the M/S
Gambrini
is not toilet paper, it’s washing machines. Please take appropriate action,” Nyholm wrote.

He read through the memo one more time. The sentence was sloppy, but the message was clear. He clicked the mouse and off it went to the Customs surveillance manager at the Kotka harbor.

That’s it, no more, Nyholm thought.

In his desk drawer was a Customs-issued 9mm Glock. It could end this whole mess.

* * *

Takamäki and Snellman were sitting at the large conference table in Snellman’s office. Snellman had ordered sweet rolls, but neither was in the mood for pastries.

“It’s an interesting link, that’s for sure,” Snellman said.

Takamäki had just explained Eriksson’s connection to Nyholm’s daughter.

“But on the other hand,” he went on, “none of us are responsible for the decisions of our adult children. Fortunately.”

“No, of course not,” the lieutenant answered.

“So,” the assistant director said, standing up. He stepped behind his desk. “I guess our only choice is to ask Nyholm himself.”

“Don’t…” Takamäki started to say, but Snellman had already pushed the button for the intercom. He told Nyholm to come over.

“I’m not so sure this is a good idea right now,” Takamäki said.

“We need answers, don’t we?” Snellman grumbled. “If your suspicions prove misguided, you can rule him out. But Nyholm could know something useful about the victim.”

Takamäki didn’t believe that for a second. Had he known something, Nyholm would have told them about it a couple of days ago when first asked to look into Eriksson’s connections to Customs. Snellman seemed to have some sort of power over Nyholm—maybe it was worth a shot.

They heard a cautious knock on the door.

“Come in,” Snellman roared.

Takamäki noticed immediately that something was wrong. Nyholm’s hair was messed up, and he was trembling. One hand was concealed behind his back.

“What’s wrong?” Snellman asked, puzzled.

“Nothing,” he answered, wiping his nose with his left hand. His right was still behind his back.

Snellman glanced at Takamäki, who looked equally perplexed.

“Well, listen, Jouko,” Snellman said in a gentler tone. “The police have discovered that your daughter was dating this Jerry Eriksson, the guy who was murdered. Do you have anything to say about that?”

Nyholm remained standing, but looked a little calmer.

“Sure, I knew that…of course.”

“Well, why didn’t you mention it when you were looking into Eriksson’s background?” Snellman said quietly.

Takamäki had a sudden image of an exchange between a father and son, who’d been caught stealing apples.

“I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I just couldn’t. It…it…”

Snellman’s gaze hardened. “Just spit it out, Nyholm,” he snapped. “We don’t have all day to listen to your blubbering.”

Nyholm’s expression went cold, and he slowly drew his hand from behind his back. It was holding a black pistol.

Both Takamäki and Snellman flinched.

“Shit Nyholm! What are you doing?” Snellman bellowed.

Nyholm raised the gun and pointed it at the men seated at the table. “Stay where you are. Don’t move.”

Takamäki felt like getting up, but decided it was
better to obey. His own gun was back at Police Headquarters, locked in the bottom drawer of his desk.

Nyholm pressed the gun against his own temple. His expression was stoic.

“Don’t do it,” Snellman said.

Nyholm turned towards Takamäki. “Eriksson met my daughter last spring and quickly found out what I did for a living. Of course, I checked his record. Her life was messed up already, and there was nothing I could’ve done about it anyway. Then the blackmail started…”

Takamäki listened to the outburst. “What blackmail?”

“Eriksson wanted information on our surveillance ops. They were trafficking electronics, primarily to Russia through Finland. The paperwork always said rubber gloves or toilet paper. All I had to do was tell them whether the shipment was slated for inspection. They paid me for it.”

“Mole!” Snellman roared.

The gun didn’t waver from his temple. “That’s right. I told my wife I was gonna kill him, this Eriksson. When I heard he’d been found dead, I thought I might be a suspect. But the scheme went on. Another guy named Markkanen took Eriksson’s place. I don’t know if that’s his real name, but his number is in my cellphone.”

His gaze was still locked on Takamäki. “With that number, you should be able to track him down.”

“Who’s behind this?”

“Yes, I figured that out too. It took a little effort since they hid the scheme behind fronting companies. You’ll find the paperwork in my office. The Finnish side is headed by a man named Kalevi Lindström. The Russian side has several names, but I’m sure there are even bigger bosses behind them. Any other questions?”