Darling (23 page)

“Yeah, sure,” Römpötti said. “It’s the defense attorney’s job to side with the version of truth that will benefit the client. My job as a reporter is a little different: my truth is the truth, not the truth according to someone’s angle. And the more I listen to your version of the truth, the more skeptical I become.”

“So you’ve talked with Takamäki or Joutsamo?”

“No, with you.”

Lind cast a curious glance at Römpötti, who emptied her rum glass.

“One of my most important criteria in assessing someone’s credibility is their willingness to be open about their past and their motives. You haven’t been honest with me, not even just now when I gave you ample opportunity.”

“What?”

“Remember the three rules about dealing with the media—don’t lie, don’t lie, don’t lie. You broke all three.”

Römpötti looked at
Lind sternly, gulped down the rest of her drink, and stood up.

“Don’t lie,” Lind said, weighing the words. “What are you, the holy defender of truth? You think freedom of the press gives you the right to stick your nose in everyone’s business?”

“We don’t stick our noses in everyone’s business,” Römpötti said, standing by the table. “We only do it when it affects the general public.”

“But you decide that threshold
,” Lind said laughing. “That’s the same thing.”

“Not really,” Römpötti began, but Lind interrupted her.

“Don’t you understand that freedom of speech isn’t some godly right? Your television channel exists to make money for its owners, sometimes at the cost of other people’s suffering.”

“You could see it like that, but you should consider what society would be like if we didn’t have
freedom of the press,” Römpötti said soberly. “Freedom of speech is one of the most important basic human rights. How would equality before the law be possible without it?” the reporter asked, but didn’t stick around for the answer.

* * *

Takamäki sat alone in the Spanish-style Restaurant Sevilla in the Hotel Pasila and had noticed Römpötti and Lind at the bar. He had ordered a
Frutti di Mare
pizza and a mineral water. If he wasn’t driving, he would’ve had a beer.

He had plenty of time to enjoy his meal, since Joutsamo would be tied up with
Rautis’s arrest and its paperwork for a while. They agreed to meet at the police station around seven or eight.

Takamäki saw Römpötti walking toward the front door, looking
stern. When she stopped to put her coat on, Takamäki greeted her.

“Howdy.”

Römpötti turned and said hello, her voice obviously chilled from the previous conversation.

“What’s up?” the detective asked.

“Not much,” the reporter replied. “It’s been a long day and I thought I’d go home.”

“Good decision.”

Römpötti seemed to ponder something and turned to Takamäki.

“Listen, Kari.”

“Yes?”

“You should probably be aware of something concerning the
Korpivaara case.”

“What?” Takamäki asked, with piqued interest. Sometimes it worked
this way—the reporters knew something the police weren’t aware of.

“Lind over there
,” Römpötti said, nodding toward the bar. “She was Korpivaara’s girlfriend when they were teenagers. And her father once beat Korpivaara to a pulp because of the relationship.”

“Wow.”

“The incident was never reported to the police; it was reported to the hospital as a motorcycle accident.”

“That’s pretty interesting.”

“I think so, too. The statute of limitations has passed, but in case you’re wondering about Lind’s motive to defend the case, well, there you have it. Korpivaara never quite recovered from the incident, either.”

Takamäki thought back to a
moment during the hearing when Lind had denied that her client was guilty, and Korpivaara made her change her mind.

“So that’s what’s up today,” Römpötti said and left.

The reporter walked out the door, wondering if she had given out her information too easily. She could’ve used it get some tidbit in return. On the other hand, she had lost interest in the case after she realized Lind was concealing essential information about her past. She could no longer trust anything Lind had to say.

After Römpötti left, Nea Lind came to Takamӓki’s table and asked if she could sit down.

“Why not,” Takamäki replied.

“
So, do you come here often?” Lind joked.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Takamäki said with a smile. “
Our police station doesn’t have a cafeteria, so we usually eat at one of the canteens nearby.”

“The word ‘canteen’ cheapens th
is place.”

“As far
as the police are concerned, Restaurant Kӓmp is one, too.”

“What did Römpötti want?” Lind asked.

Takamäki figured Lind would be curious after she saw him talking to Römpötti.

“She said she’d had a long day and was going home.”

“I could say the same,” Lind said, relief in her eyes.

Takamäki kept his face stern
. The waitress came with his pizza, and he waited for her to get out of earshot before continuing, “She also told me that you and Korpivaara have a past. Is that true?” Takamäki asked. He purposely left out the details.

“What did she say?” Lind pressed.

“That you and Korpivaara have a past.”

“
What do you mean?” Lind asked nervously.

The woman’s reaction told Takamäki that Römpötti’s information was accurate.

“You used to date.”

While Lind pondered the comment, Takamäki grabbed his fork and knife.

“Well,” Lind began reluctantly. “We knew each other when we were young, but dating is too strong a term. We were teenagers.”

She hadn’t told Römpötti this shared past, but maybe she should have. Somehow she had thought the reporter
would chase an interesting story without asking too many questions. On the other hand, if the past relationship didn’t keep her from defending Korpivaara, it didn’t keep her from talking about it in the media.

Takamäki recalled the anonymous phone call from Lind’s former colleague, who considered Lind dishonest and manipulating. He cut a piece of the pizza and stuffed it in his mouth. He wanted Lind to continue without
having to ask questions. And she did.

“But it doesn’t
disqualify me from the case, if that’s what you’re wondering. Defending someone you know, or used to know, doesn’t violate any professional ethics or laws.”

“Your motive makes no difference to me,” Takamäki sa
id, swallowing the pizza. “Go right ahead and defend Korpivaara to the best of your ability. I’m just wondering if the relationship might’ve blurred your view of the case. Römpötti told me about the beating. You trying to make up for what your father did?”

“I’m not…” Lind said tensely. “If the police are trying to prevent…” She was interrupted by the phone ringing in her pocket. She pulled it out and answered.

Takamäki ate his pizza in silence. The attorney listened to the person on the phone, asking quick questions and making short comments: “Who? Where? Are you telling me the truth? Yes, I want to meet right away… Okay.”

Lind hung up. “Sorry, I have to go do your job,” she said with a smirk as she stood up.

Takamäki nodded and cut himself another piece of pizza. He especially enjoyed the crisp, thin crust.

CHAPTER 22

SATURDAY, 7:55 P
.M.

HӒMEENLINNA
FREEWAY, HELSINKI

Driving on the freeway, Suhonen called to ask his Narcotics buddy Toukola for background information on Sergei Makarov because he didn’t recognize the name. When Toukola told him Makarov used to be called Pekka Pispala, Suhonen remembered the guy and his face. That wasn’t his real name, either; his given name was Mikael Mehtola.

Changing
aliases was common in the world of criminals. Under a fresh name you could at least attempt to start over—and hopefully trick your debtors and the authorities. Sometimes crooks would change nationalities, but Makarov was still a Finn, despite the Russian name. According to rumors from prison, Mehtola-Pispala-Makarov’s name choice was inspired by a YouTube video where Soviet national hockey team’s trio Makarov-Krutov-Larionov had their opponents spinning.

The
Narcotics officer also confirmed what Rautis had said: Makarov was connected to Rantalainen, who was after Rautis’s money. Suhonen was about to hang up the phone, when Toukola told him that Makarov also was connected to another guy that Suhonen had asked about recently, Jaakko Niskala. Suhonen recalled that he’d met Niskala at the Alamo Bar in North Haaga and that Niskala’s fingerprints were found on Laura Vatanen’s doorframe.

Suhonen found out that Makarov lived on Kanteletar Street in the Kannel
mӓki neighborhood. Toukola wanted Suhonen to let him know if he got anything out of Makarov, and especially Rantalainen. Narcotics wanted to know about anything that would help keep the latter in prison longer.

Suhonen drove north on the
Hämeenlinna Freeway and passed under the Ring I Beltway bridge. It would’ve been quicker to take Ring I, but Suhonen wanted to check on the Kannelmӓki strip mall situation. He wondered why Niskala’s name would reappear so unexpectedly but decided it was just a coincidence. It made sense that the two-bit criminals of the Alamo Bar in Haaga would have connections to Makarov, who lived in nearby Kannelmӓki.

Joutsamo was at the
station interrogating Rautis, who’d confess to the Siwa store robbery. The money was found in his apartment, along with a replica gun used in the robbery.

Suhonen had left his unmarked police car at the station and taken an old Peugeot from
the garage. The license plates would connect the car to a leasing company, unlike his other vehicle, which had plates connecting them to the police. He’d left the Twins baseball cap in the locker at the station.

Suhonen
had promised to help Rautis—not out of pity, but because in the past the guy had given him good leads in a few cocaine deals. The bitter Rautis wanted to get back at his old buddies for kicking him out of their circle.

Suhonen got Makaro
v’s phone number from Rautis, and Toukola said he’d get permissions to track the location of the phone. It would take a few hours. They didn’t have enough to go on yet to get a warrant for a phone tap.

Suhonen parked the car by the
strip mall. He’d take a look in the local bar first. Mehtola-Pispala-Makarov would likely not be at home on Kanteletar Street on a Saturday night.

* * *

One of the streetlamps was burned out, and the apartment building’s front yard was dim. The snowy pavement radiated cold, and Lind made a mental note to switch to winter boots. She passed a dark patch of woods and sped up her steps. She spotted the letter E on the cube light over the door.

The attorney had taken a taxi from Pasila to
Nӓyttelijӓ Street. The caller said she lived in stairwell E, which was the one farthest away from the street. Laura Vatanen’s apartment was in the middle.

Lind found the name on the directory outside the front door and pressed the button. The lock buzzed after a few seconds. Lind turned on the stairwell light, stepped past a baby stroller, and walked up two floors.

The brown door bore the same name as the directory: Rentola-Lammi. Lind rang the doorbell, and the door opened as wide as the safety chain allowed. A blonde girl who looked to be sixteen or seventeen peered through the opening with round eyes.

“Hi,” Lind said in a friendly tone. “I’m Nea Lind. Was it you who called me?”

The girl nodded timidly, pulled the door in to undo the safety chain, and opened it again.

“I’m not sure about this after all,” the girl said.

Too late for that, Lind thought and stepped in. The apartment was sparsely decorated. Jackets on a coat rack and shoes all over the floor filled the entryway.

The girl wore jeans and a gray New York sweatshirt. Her hair was in a ponytail and her skinny face lacked makeup.

“I don’t want any trouble…”

“You won’t be in trouble,” Lind assured her. “On the contrary.”

The attorney slid past the girl. Two doors on the right led to the bedrooms. One had a queen bed, the other a twin. The latter was decorated for a teenage girl. Lind took off her coat, and the girl walked into the living room on the left and turned off the TV.

The first thing Lind noticed was a psychedelic Frank Zappa poster. A coffee table from Ikea sat in fron
t of the sofa, and the TV was tucked in a Lundia shelf unit on the opposite wall. In front of the window in the back of the room was a worn-out black armchair. Lind couldn’t see behind the TV shelf, but she assumed the kitchen was there.

“Where’s your mother?” Lind asked.

“She went to the bar,” the girl said. “She won’t be home before midnight,” she added and sat down on the couch. She bent her long legs and wrapped her arms around her knees.

Lind grabbed her notebook and sat in the armchair. It squeaked when she sat down.

“It’s pretty ancient,” the girl giggled.

Lind tried to laugh, but was just relieved that the chair hadn’t collapsed under her. Sini Rentola-Lammi
had called her when she was talking with Detective Takamäki in Restaurant Sevilla in Hotel Pasila.

In the absence of a
tape recorder, her written notes would have to do.

“Let’s start from the beginning, okay?” Lind suggested. That way she could see if the girl would
tell the same story.

The girl nodded.

“Why did you call me?”

“
I saw your TV interview. That’s why I called.”

“That was a while ago. Why’d you wait until now to call?”

“I wasn’t going to call at all. Then I changed my mind—I wanted to help Jorma.”

“Why me and not the police?”

“I haven’t exactly gotten along with the cops,” the girl said with a small laugh.

The feeling is mutual, Lind thought, and went on with her questions.

“What do you mean you want to help Jorma?”

“He’s a suspect for Laura’s murder
…”

“Killing,” Lind corrected quickly.

“Whatever. But I don’t think Jorma could’ve done it that morning.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I told you on the phone. He was here, with me.”

“Last Wednesday morning?”

“Yes,” Sini said. “He got here around nine thirty and left when he got a phone call.”

Lind wanted to ask w
hat Jorma was doing here in the apartment, but she was afraid that then the girl wouldn’t want to tell her everything. They’d get back to that.

“How do you remember the time of day?”

“I was supposed to leave for school then. School started at ten. But I didn’t go.”

“Didn’t Jorma call you beforehand?”

“He didn’t call much, he just rang the doorbell. Sometimes he’d come in using his key. That’s why I always keep the safety chain on when I’m here alone.”

“Did he know you were home alone?”

“He probably saw my mother leave. She gets on the bus right outside his window.”

Lind was making notes.

“Jorma came here when you were supposed to leave for school. And then what?”

“Then what?” Sini repeated, irritated. “We drank coffee and talked, and then he wanted to do
it
.”

“Did you do
it
?” Lind asked, embarrassed by the direct language.

“Yeah.”

“Were you in love with him, or infatuated or something?”

“I don’t know,” Sini said, shaking her head. “I guess there’s something macho about him. But he gave me money sometimes, and presents.”

“What presents?”

“Well, all kinds of stuff. You know.”

“I don’t know.”

“Sometimes it was clothes and things, other times something else.”

“What else?”

“You know,” the girl said, evading the question. “Wine and stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Are you some kind of cop, pressing me like this?” Sini asked, annoyed.

Lind looked at the girl intently and said, “No. I’m an attorney trying to find out what happened and why, so I can help Jorma.”

“Sometimes he’d bring hash and speed.”

“Did you use it together?”

“Sometimes. And if there was enough, I’d sell to my friends at school.”

Lind looked at the girl.

“You may want to keep that from the cops.”

“Do I have to talk to them, too?”

“If you want to help Jorma
,” Lind said, nodding, “you need to tell them all this.”

“Do I have to?”

“If you want to help,” Lind said. “One more thing about the phone call Jorma got.”

“Yeah?”

“Who called?”

“I’m not sure, but it had something to do with his job. Someone wanted him to go unlock a door. But he got another phone call, too. Maybe, I’m not sure.”

“Okay. And he didn’t go anywhere in between?”