Darling Page 4

  CHAPTER 4

  WEDNESDAY, 7:00 P.M.

  NӒYTTELIJӒ STREET, HELSINKI

  Mikko Kulta rang another doorbell. After no response, he pushed the black button on the door again. Still nothing. Kulta drew a small line next to the door number in his notebook to remind himself that people in that apartment hadn’t been questioned and he would need to come back later. He stepped to the next door and rang the bell.

  Even though chances were slim they’d find out anything valuable, the footwork had to be done. Kohonen and Nyström were doing the same in the buildings on the other side of the street. You never knew what might come up. They had no tips from the public, since the case hadn’t hit the media yet.

  It was seven o’clock and most people should be home. Those with daytime jobs would be no help, as the crime was committed in the late morning hours. But retirees, mothers with young children, and the unemployed were likely at home in the morning.

  So far, Kulta hadn’t found out much. A young mother out with her baby had seen an elderly, skinny lady go into the apartment building and come out half an hour later. The young woman said the lady drove a small blue car, but she couldn’t remember the license plate. Kulta didn’t know if it had anything to do with Laura Vatanen’s murder, but he made a note of it. When he wrote down the young woman’s contact information, she worried about what she was getting mixed up in.

  The door opened a crack until the safety chain stopped it, and Kulta saw a teenage girl with messy hair and sleepy eyes.

  “What is it?” the teenager hissed.

  “Sorry to disturb you. I’m Mikko Kulta from the Violent Crimes Unit.”

  “Fuck, I’m not talkin’ to the cops,” the girl said and yanked the door shut.

  And a good day to you, too, Kulta thought, as he made a plus mark by the door number in his notebook and stepped to the next door.

  Kulta had first stopped by the custodian’s apartment to get his fingerprints, but the guy wasn’t there. When he tried to call the maintenance office, the call automatically transferred to someone else, and they didn’t know Jorma Korpivaara’s cell phone number. His number wasn’t in the phonebook, either. Kulta would have to check back at Korpivaara’s apartment later.

  He went on with his rounds—information was scarce. Some knew what Laura Vatanen looked like but they didn’t have other details. Finally Kulta went back to one of the doors where no one had answered before.

  A man around fifty opened the door. His hairline had migrated to the back of his head.

  “Yes?”

  “Mikko Kulta from the Violent Crimes Unit. I have a few questions.”

  “What in the world for?”

  Kulta smelled chicken curry wafting from the apartment and suddenly realized he was famished.

  “Were you at home this morning?”

  “No, at work. I left at eight,” the man replied, confused.

  “Was anyone else home at that time?”

  “No, I live alone. What’s this about?”

  “We’re investigating a crime that took place nearby and asking for any observations,” Kulta said and thanked the man. The door closed, and Kulta marked a small plus by the apartment number in his notebook.

  * * *

  Suhonen got a ride to North Haaga from Toukola, a colleague in the Narcotics Unit. Suhonen’s Harley had been in the garage in Vantaa for a couple of months, and a motorcycle wouldn’t have been appropriate for this gig anyway.

  Suhonen and Toukola had worked together many times. Toukola was a slight-framed, weasel-like man who played bass in the Narcotics Unit’s band. For the entire ride he talked about his new instrument, bragging about its fine sound. Suhonen had nothing to say. He had owned an acoustic guitar once and learned a few chords, but that was the extent of his music hobby.

  The forty-year-old undercover detective had long hair and a messy black beard, and he wore a leather jacket. Showing up at the North Haaga strip mall on an American motorcycle, or any American-made car, would’ve made people think he was a biker gang member. Today Suhonen didn’t want that. The gang image scared people and Suhonen wanted them to talk. He softened his appearance with a baseball cap that made him look like a geek. Juha Saarnikangas had brought him the cap from a trip to Minnesota the year before. On the front of the navy blue cap were the red letters for the Minnesota pro baseball team, Twins. Nobody knows how Juha Saarnikangas, who had a number of drug-related convictions, had gotten to the States and what he had done there. Nonetheless, he had disappeared from the crime scene in Finland. Rumor had it that he’d come into some money and was living in Thailand. The same rumors kept making the rounds about him hitting pay dirt in some con job relating to fine art in the U.S.

  In any case, the detective hoped the baseball cap would give him a less menacing look. This time he wasn’t pretending to be a tough professional criminal.

  The North Haaga mall on the corner of Nӓyttelijӓ Street and Ida Ahlberg Street was one of the many strip malls built in Helsinki in the ’50s and ’60s. Suhonen remembered reading somewhere that, according to Helsinki City classifications, the miserably outdated mall was architecturally and environmentally among the most esteemed.

  The light from the streetlamps bathed the pale gray buildings in a yellowish hue. The sleet from earlier in the day had changed to snow. Toukola sped up. The strip mall was built around a town-square type area; a fountain that once stood in the center of the square had been covered over in asphalt years ago. Suhonen couldn’t see anything worth preserving there.

  The mall had an Alepa grocery store, a small convenience store, a few pubs, and a pizzeria, as well as a continuing education center. Suhonen was familiar with two of the pubs, Sailors and Keskipiste, but the Alamo had only opened its doors the previous summer and was new to him. Takamäki had said Laura Vatanen frequented the Alamo, so Suhonen was interested in its regulars.

  Suhonen had also asked the Narcotics team about Jaakko Niskala, whose fingerprints had been found in Vatanen’s apartment. Someone remembered Niskala had been involved in a stolen goods operation, but he wasn’t considered big time. The Narcotics team had him pegged as a drunken loser with a violent temper and sticky fingers when an opportunity presented itself. He also had some history with drugs. Suhonen could find out all about the guy if he spotted him in the pub. He had seen his photo and would easily recognize him.

  Sometimes it took weeks to find hardened criminals or escaped convicts, but someone in their circles would inevitably crack. It might be a friend or an acquaintance that got sick of the constant police attention, or someone who wanted to collect their debts. Sometimes it was a live-in girlfriend, anxious to give the boot to her boyfriend’s lazy loser of a pal. The police would then pick up the crook in a way that didn’t disclose the tipster’s identity. Generally the more money the criminal had, the harder it was to find him.

  The case at hand was much less complicated: this was a group of drinking buddies, not professional criminals. These guys could be found either at home or in the pub; and if one of them had disappeared right after a murder, they would’ve become an obvious suspect. Suhonen had decided to start with the bar, but if the men weren’t there, he’d check around the apartment buildings. Of course, he might not find anyone tonight.

  Suhonen saw the blue Alamo Bar sign next to the screaming yellow advertisements of the Alepa store. The bar had two windows with a door in between. A hand-drawn sign promised a pint of beer for 2.80 euros. Below it were the words No Karaoke—Ever. Both were effective ads.

  Snow coated the ground now, and Suhonen felt the freezing temperature on his face. Outside, the music from the pub sounded like garbled noise, but at the door Suhonen recognized it as Irwin’s “Ooh Las Palmas.”

  Suhonen smirked and stepped inside. The place clearly called for his “smooth rock” approach rather than “heavy metal.”

  Remember the Alamo, Suhonen mused. As a kid in the ʼ70s, he had seen the John Wayne Western in a movie theater in Lahti and loved
it. He’d found the DVD in a clearance bin a couple of years ago. Now that he watched the movie on DVD, the plot seemed slow. But the scene where the Americans desperately take a last stand against the Mexicans still thrilled him.

  The bar was decorated to look like a saloon; old photos of movie stars in Westerns hung on the rough-hewn, dark-stained plank walls. The tables were wooden, or maybe they were vinyl, made to look like wood. The twenty-foot-long bar counter stood about thirty feet from the door. The Alamo was small and dimly lit.

  A few men were seated at tables, and it made Suhonen think of scenes in the Westerns where a stranger walks into a saloon full of local drunkards. In the movies, gunfire would usually ensue within two minutes. Though Suhonen was prepared, he didn’t want it to come to that. His Glock 26 was tucked in its holster under his leather jacket.

  The men at the tables eyed the tough-looking stranger as he walked up to the bar and ordered a beer. In a Western it would’ve been a whiskey, of course, and the bartender would’ve poured it with a trembling hand. But this large, mustached man’s hand was steady as he set the mug on the counter. Music blared down on the bar, making it hard for Suhonen to eavesdrop, so he decided to get a table. He spotted his target right away: Jaakko Niskala’s seat was closest to the window. Suhonen sat down so he could hear Niskala and his friends with his right ear and keep his eye on them without looking like he was watching. He wouldn’t approach them unless the situation called for it.

  The four men at the table, between the ages of thirty and forty, seemed to be made from the same mold, and they blended into the Alamo Bar atmosphere. All were shabby and sad looking with the kind of bad karma that usually came with a gang of sixteen-year-olds looking for trouble. The group’s composite IQ seemed to decrease when they were together. Apart from Niskala, Suhonen didn’t know any of them.

  Suhonen had trouble picturing Laura Vatanen as part of this group. She had to have had a sassy personality, despite her disabilities, to deal with these guys. Suhonen couldn’t imagine Laura as a beer-swigging bar slut. She might’ve become one in another twenty years, had she spent her time with this gang.

  Sipping his beer, Suhonen glanced at his cell phone. He didn’t have any missed calls or texts, but he wanted the others to get the idea that he had reason to be there—he was expecting someone.

  Irwin’s song ended and another began, “Swimmies, damdadaa! Pants, damdadaa! Tanning lotion, damdadaa! And ski pants too!” Suhonen straightened the brim on his cap and thought of all the shitty situations his job forced him into.

  He sipped his beer slowly, listening to the conversation at the next table. It was mostly nonsense about the weather, sports, and booze. Nothing was said about the obvious topic of the day—the police and the hearse visiting the apartment building a few hundred feet away. Of course they might’ve already had that discussion, or else they didn’t want to talk about it.

  Suhonen decided he needed to be proactive in order to get results, although it might’ve been more efficient to haul everyone to the station for questioning. The innocent would tell the truth and try to place blame on their buddies. Takamäki wanted Suhonen to figure out who besides Fingerprint-Niskala would need to be brought in to the station.

  Suhonen took another sip of his beer and with a nonchalant stretch walked slowly to the next table, feigning boredom.

  “Any of you guys know what the action was all about in that apartment building this morning? Squad cars, cops with cameras and shit.”

  All but one of the men turned and gave him a reserved glance. Suhonen was aware the men had him pegged; he just didn’t know what they thought. He re-adjusted his cap, pushing it back in an attempt to look friendly and approachable.

  “Something went down over there,” said the man in a worn-out, blue sweater. The sweater had the Helsinki city insignia on it, so unless it was stolen, Suhonen figured the angular-faced man had a job.

  “Figured that much, but what?”

  Nobody answered right away.

  “Well, I dunno,” the sweater guy went on. “Hey, I’ve never seen you before. You live around here?”

  “No, in Lahti,” Suhonen replied. “But I have a work gig here this week. A buddy of mine lives near here, and I happened to walk by the apartment building when all the cops were there.”

  “You should’ve asked the cops,” an older guy said and the others chuckled. They obviously had consumed more than a few beers. The guy’s mustache hung low, like the bags under his eyes. Suhonen noticed the guy with the mustache was older than he had first estimated—probably around fifty.

  Suhonen chuckled with them. He had to keep up the conversation; if he quit now, it would be up to them to make the next move. He mentally named the three strangers at Niskala’s table: “Insignia Guy,” “Mustache Guy,” and “Quiet Guy,” who hadn’t uttered a word. Suhonen could only see his broad back.

  “I’m not particularly keen on talking to the cops,” Suhonen said.

  “What kind of guy are you?” Mustache Guy asked, perking up.

  “I’m not particularly keen on explaining that, either,” Suhonen said. “But I’d wanna know if the cops were up to somethin’ around here.”

  Suhonen realized his tone was changing from the smooth rock style toward heavy metal. Maybe these guys needed a heavier approach to get them to talk.

  “Someone was killed there, alright,” the oval-faced guy said. He had short, spiky, sparse hair; he was the one Suhonen had recognized as Jaakko Niskala.

  “Who was it?” Suhonen asked.

  “Far as I know it was some broad,” the man said reluctantly.

  Suhonen knew word traveled fast in these circles, and the men obviously knew more about the case than they let on.

  “A broad,” Suhonen said slowly. “Did they apprehend the killer?”

  Suhonen startled himself with his police jargon. He had to be more careful. But the men didn’t seem to notice.

  “No idea,” Mustache Guy said. “Guess it hasn’t been in the news yet, either.”

  “That’s a helluva shitty deal,” Suhonen said. He instinctively added the adjective as if to balance out the police comment.

  “How do you mean?” Niskala asked with interest, almost concerned.

  “Women are always a special case with the cops, especially if it’s a younger one. The cops won’t let up,” Suhonen said, watching the men’s reactions.

  Niskala and Insignia Guy folded their arms and said nothing, but Mustache Guy replied, “You must have experience in shit like that.”

  “I’ve met my share of cops, some of ʼem persistent as hell.” He thought of Joutsamo. She seemed to be taking Laura Vatanen’s case personally.

  “Yup,” Niskala said defiantly, enhancing his posture. “I’ve got experience there, too.”

  Suhonen was sure he did. But obviously not with Joutsamo, since he wasn’t in prison at the moment.

  “But most of ʼem are total idiots,” Suhonen said, letting out a chortle.

  “Ha! I’ll drink to that,” Mustache Guy snorted and raised his mug.

  Suhonen sipped his beer, watching the guy. Every cop out there is smarter than these guys, he reflected. He didn’t like how he let his thoughts wander. He normally had time to prepare and focus before an undercover assignment. This was a lightweight job, and it should’ve been easy to keep his thoughts under control. He had to focus or he might slip. Stick to the plan and not let his character turn into a gangster.

  “Name’s Suikkanen,” Suhonen introduced himself.

  “Raksa,” said Mustache Guy.

  “I’m Jaakko,” Niskala said, and the rounds went on. Insignia Guy introduced himself as Jorma. The quiet one, still not turning around, grunted his name, Heku. He was obviously wasted.

  “How did Suikkanen end up here in Haaga?” Mustache-Raksa asked.

  Suhonen had already said he was from Lahti and wondered if the guy was trying to catch a hole in his story. He promptly dismissed the thought because the men were so drunk they
didn’t remember anything past a minute.

  “I’m from Lahti, but I’m familiar with Helsinki thanks to the slammer.”

  Suhonen didn’t like the suspicious looks the men were giving each other. Mentioning the prison was a bad move. These guys were no hardened criminals and having one show up made them restless. On the other hand, fear could be helpful.

  “What did you…?” Mustache Guy asked cautiously.

  “Nothin’ too big,” Suhonen said modestly, though a real criminal would’ve ignored a question posed by a stranger. “Drugs and violence. But you shouldn’t do the crime, if you can’t do the time.”

  “So what are you doin’ in here?” Mustache-Raksa sounded like he was worried that someone was about to bust up their beer nest.

  “I’m just havin’ a couple of beers,” Suhonen said and took a gulp, leaving an inch on the bottom. “But why don’t you tell me what you know about the police operation in that apartment. You look like guys that would be in the know,” Suhonen said and then added, “You see, I’ve gotta know what to watch out for.”

  The man with the mustache looked at Insignia Guy. Niskala’s arms were still crossed on his chest. Quiet Guy was apparently too drunk to get a word out.

  “So you know somethin’?” Suhonen pressed Insignia Guy.

  “Well, I know a little. I’m the custodian in the building, and I unlocked the door for the cops. Someone killed the woman that lived in that joint. She used to come in here sometimes.”

  “Come in here?” Suhonen asked. He knew now that this guy was the custodian, Jorma Korpivaara, who Joutsamo had mentioned at the meeting. That only left two men unidentified: Mustache-Raksa and Quiet-Heku.

  “Was she some kinda bar slut?”

  “Well…” Mustache Guy hesitated.

  The waiter brought four more beers without being asked, and Heku pulled a twenty-euro note from his pocket. The bartender had the change ready.