Nothing but the Truth (30 page)

Takamäki didn’t respond—he was waiting for Skoog’s threat to transfer him to some rural district to process gun permits.

The silence made Skoog hesitate. He didn’t want to hesitate. He’d been lambasted, and now he wanted to lambast someone else. “Answer me! How is this possible?”

“Didn’t you watch the broadcast? Lehtonen talked to a reporter. What more do they need?”

“So where’d Römpötti hear about having Lehtonen committed? She didn’t know about that part.”

“How should I know?”

A foreboding silence prevailed. “There’s a mole on your team. Find out who it is!”

“You know…” said Takamäki, the irritation audible in his voice now. “I think we’ve got enough to do around here without launching an internal investigation.”

“Well… I want a full report for the minister by nine A.M. outlining everything that’s happened and when.”

“Fine.”

“This won’t be good for your career.”

“So where’ll it be… Lapland or someplace else?” said Takamäki in a weary voice.

“Huh?”

“Don’t you always threaten to transfer us to the backwoods whenever something goes wrong? I’d just kind of like to know what district you think is at the bottom of the bucket.”

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

“Actually, I do. But I have some real work to do here. We have a witness who wants…uhh…
needs
protection.”

Takamäki was getting tired of the conversation, and his coffee was getting cold.

“You’re in deep shit.”

“Is there anything else? I got work to do.”

“No,” said Skoog, and he hung up the phone.

Takamäki tasted his coffee. Still warm enough. “Y-eaah...”

“Well?” said Joutsamo.

“Nothing,” he smiled. No point in burdening Joutsamo with the details. She’d already heard enough. “The chiefs are taking out their rage on everyone else, meaning all of us here in the field. No point worrying about it.”

“No?”

“Not if your conscience is clean,” he said. “In any case, Skoog wants a report on the case to give to the minister. Would you have time to do it?”

Joutsamo nodded. “Sure, I’ll be burning the midnight oil anyway.”

“Don’t make it too long. Two, three pages max. The attention spans at the ministry can’t handle anything longer. So no unnecessary details or confidential material. No addresses, for example, since it’ll be passed around the ministry and political circles. Who knows where it could end up.”

“Got it,” said Joutsamo.

“Oh yeah, and one more thing,” said Takamäki. “Let’s put another patrol car in front of the Lehtonens’ building tonight.”

“Just in case the publicity stirs up any nutcases, huh?”

He nodded. “Damn, we’re like a medical team trying to treat somebody who’s asking us to pull the plug.”

* * *

Mari Lehtonen was at home, sitting on the sofa in front of the TV with her legs folded beneath her and a glass of red wine on the coffee table beside her. She had just watched the news, and Laura, tired from the long day, was already asleep. It felt good to be home.

Mari got up and looked out the window onto the street below where a blue and white cruiser was parked. Despite her hard feelings, it still felt comforting. She thought about the news story, which had been rather critical. Joutsamo and the others were doing their best, of course, and maybe her words were too harsh. In the actual interview, Lehtonen had made it clear that her grievances weren’t against any particular officer, but against the system in general. Römpötti had edited that part out. For a moment, Lehtonen considered calling Joutsamo, but decided against it.

Mari returned to the sofa, took a sip of wine and thought about the coming Monday. Most likely she would go to work as usual, and Laura to school. She would have to schedule her day so she could bring the girl to school and get off early to pick her up. That would be best, no doubt.

Her attempts to analyze her own feelings fell short. Home felt good, if a little scary. Her eyes went to the handbag on the coffee table.

She didn’t feel tired yet, and was flipping through the channels when the phone rang. It was her ex-husband, Anton Teittinen. After a brief deliberation she answered.

“Hello.”

“Hey, it’s Anton. Sorry to bother you.” Mari could hear what sounded like the din of a bar on the other end.

“No worries.”

“Listen, you were great on TV, even if I couldn’t see your pretty face.”

She couldn’t decide whether to be warm or cold, so she settled on neutral. He had, after all, helped them out earlier. “Yeah, well…”

“I’m serious,” he went on. “You really put those pigs in their places. Fucking right on, you know.”

Lehtonen didn’t respond.

“But listen. There’s something I wanna talk to you about,” he said. “I got a call from a couple buddies who wanna help out. You know, be kinda like bodyguards for you two since the cops flopped so bad. These guys are definitely not Korpi fans…very much the opposite.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Mari. Anton’s buddies sounded shady, and she didn’t really want bodyguards, just a normal life. What she definitely didn’t want was to end up in the crossfire between two gangs.

“Come on,” he urged her. “Yes, they have criminal records, but that could make a good story: Ex-cons protect a witness when cops fail.”

“Well, I’m not so sure…”

“Seriously. Give it a chance,” he persisted. “Might take some of the heat off you on the streets if people hear these guys got your back. Don’t ya think?”

Mari didn’t want to say yes, but she did anyway. “Alright. That’s fine with me, but tell them to stay on the street—nobody comes inside my place. If we come outside, they can walk in front or behind, but nobody follows Laura into school or me into work.”

“Of course not. Trust me…it’ll be great. Just like an American president with the Secret Service and all,” he said and hung up the phone.

Mari took a sip of red wine as the same feeling of defeat that she had known so well during their marriage descended. Anton had always known how to twist her arm to get his way. After a divorce, several moves, and a restraining order, she had finally managed to break free of him, and now he was shouldering his way back in because Mari was too tired to argue.

MONDAY,

DECEMBER 18

CHAPTER 27

MONDAY, 8:00 A.M.

MARI LEHTONEN’S APARTMENT

Just inside the door of the convenience store across the street from the Lehtonens’ building was a newspaper stand boasting the word
hero
in one of its headlines. Just beside the headline was a scrambled screenshot from Mari’s TV interview; the subhead read
Murder Witness Marked for Death
.

Mari Lehtonen hadn’t seen the paper, nor the headline. She was at the breakfast table, drinking tea with her daughter and discussing their plans for the coming day. Some danger was unavoidable, but they couldn’t let it bother them. Mari had also instructed Laura on what say to her friends at school, the main message being that life was to go on as normally as possible. Mari would answer the inevitable questions at work in the same way.

* * *

Kulta and Kohonen were staked out in a car in front of the building—the same Peugeot 206 that Suhonen had used a day earlier. With such an ideal spot, the car had never been moved. Another police car, this one a cruiser, was posted just in front of the entrance.

Kohonen yawned. She’d been arranging phone taps
at the station till midnight, hurried to bed, then

risen again at six. She and Kulta had climbed into the stakeout vehicle at seven. Division of labor between the two was clear cut: Kohonen had the girl, Kulta the mom. Neither were allowed to get any further than thirty feet. The previous evening, Takamäki had worked out the details with Laura’s teacher and Mari’s employer. The police were not to enter any classrooms nor Mari’s cubicle area, but were to wait outside in the hallway and reception area. Mari hadn’t responded to Takamäki’s calls.

Kulta fixed his eyes on a car pulling into a parking space in front of the building. A man wielding a camera got out of the driver’s side door and a youthful, dark-haired woman stepped out the passenger side. Reporters, thought Kulta. The media circus had begun. By 8:30, three cameramen and three reporters had gathered in front of the building, with one of the patrol officers tending the crowd. Kulta had asked Takamäki for advice, but had received none.

The clock in the Peugeot showed 8:36 when yet another vehicle pulled up to the curb: a matte black American muscle car. Kulta knew the model, a 1974 Chevy Nova.

The car was parked about a hundred and fifty feet from the Peugeot with its front bumper concealed so Kulta couldn’t make out the plates. The two men inside gave no indication of getting out. Kohonen had noticed the car too.

“Should we go have a look?” she said, already out the door. Kulta brought up the rear.

Both officers made sure their coats were open and checked their guns in their shoulder holsters. Despite freezing temperatures, neither felt particularly cold with their bulletproof vests on.

The Chevy was parked about a hundred feet past the entrance to the Lehtonens’ building, and the detectives breezed past to the whir of camera shutters. Kohonen signaled one of the patrol officers to come too, and the entourage of cameramen tailed along.

At fifty feet, Kulta began to make out the men’s faces. The guy in the passenger seat had sunken cheeks and bad skin. His hair was long, and he had a small mustache. Kulta felt a glimmer of recognition, but couldn’t quite place the man’s face.

Then it came to him.

“Careful,” he said. The one in the passenger seat was Butch Willer, previously Pekka Viljamaa. The details of the name change were unimportant at the moment. What
was
important was the fact that Willer was a member of the Skulls, a hard-core organized crime ring fronting as a motorcycle gang.

“They’re Skulls,” said Kulta as he drew his pistol. “I got the passenger side, you take the driver.”

Kohonen and the other officer drew their weapons and sidestepped to the other side of the car.

The officer who’d been posted in front of the building came running up to shoo off the cameras. “Move away! Now!”

The herd took a few steps back, but the shutters kept clicking.

“Out of the car!” bellowed Kulta loud enough for the gangsters to hear. “Get out! Slowly!”

Inside, the two men glanced at each other and nodded. They opened the doors and stepped out slowly. Both had on gang vests over long-sleeved black T-shirts.

“Show me your hands!” Kulta ordered.

“What is this?” protested Willer in his shrill voice as he got out. Kulta didn’t respond, just kept his gun trained on Willer. The patrol officer came up from the side, and with one swift movement, threw the man to the ground, wrenched his arms behind his back and clapped the cuffs on. Kulta turned to the second gangster on the other side of the car—he was already in cuffs as well.

“What the hell,” said Willer from the sidewalk, his voice loud enough that the reporters could hear. “We didn’t do anything. All we’re doing is protecting Lehtonen cuz the cops can’t do it. We’re no criminals.”

“Shut up!” shouted Kulta. He swapped his gun for a phone and called for a patrol car to take these goons away—the one already on site was for security detail only.

One of the reporters took a couple wary steps toward Willer. “Did I hear you say you guys are Lehtonen’s bodyguards?”

“That’s right. The police can’t do it, so someone has to.”

The patrol officer glanced over at Kulta, who was still talking on the phone. He decided to break it up himself, “Okay, that’s enough. Press conference is over.”

“Can I ask who’s paying you?” said the reporter, the cameras whirring all around.

“Mari Lehtonen, of course,” said Willer. “She doesn’t trust the police.”

“That’s enough!” shouted the officer.

Kulta hung up the phone and came to his aid.

“Media, move back,” he ordered, but nobody listened. The thought of pulling out his gun crossed his mind, but he suppressed it quickly.

“Are the police so incapable of protecting Lehtonen that she has to pay gangsters to do the job?” stammered one reporter.

Kulta was getting very annoyed, but he managed to stay calm.

“Can you tell us what the reason is for this arrest?”

“Now
there’s
a good question,” said Willer from the sidewalk. “I’d like to know, too!”