Cold Trail hh-4 Page 3

  “Hello,” Takamäki answered. He never offered his name unless he recognized the caller’s number.

  “Takamäki?” asked a male voice.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Helmikoski, EOC.”

  Takamäki remembered the broad-shouldered lieutenant from the Emergency Operations Center. If Takamäki’s memory served him correctly, he had transferred there from the department in the neighboring city of Vantaa.

  “Yeah, it’s me. What is it?”

  “Have a case for you.”

  Takamäki glanced at the clock on his computer screen. A few minutes past five. Theoretically the day shift had already ended, but the Puttonen case had demanded some extra time. No other VCU lieutenants were around, or at least available.

  “What kind?

  “Escaped convict.”

  Wow, Takamäki thought. At least it wasn’t a violent standoff between motorcycle gangs or a headless corpse.

  “Who?”

  “Timo Repo.”

  “Who is he?” Takamäki asked, writing down the name.

  “Fifty. Doing life for murdering his wife.”

  “Doesn’t ring any bells,” Takamäki replied. The crime had probably taken place somewhere outside greater Helsinki, because Takamäki remembered all the local murders.

  “Was at his old man’s funeral at Hietaniemi. The prison guard let him go to the bathroom at Restaurant Perho and the guy never came back.”

  “Of course not,” Takamäki said, already planning how they should organize the search. “Any sightings since the restaurant?”

  “Possible but not definite sighting near the railway station twenty minutes ago. I’ve got several units looking for him, and the security companies have been alerted, but there are a lot of directions you can head from the central train station.”

  “You guys are still keeping an eye on it, though, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Give me a little more on Repo. Gang member, or what’s his background? I’m mostly looking for an assessment of how dangerous he is.”

  Helmikoski thought for a moment. “We don’t know much about him. A photo and some details of what he’s wearing, but that’s it. The guard who called in the escape was alone and not totally coherent.”

  “Ri-ight,” Takamäki said. Like all prison escapes, the incident was already starting to frustrate him. The police had done their part: investigated the crime and gotten the perpetrator behind bars to sit out his sentence. But as soon as some other department screwed up, the case was tossed back in their laps.

  “Anyway, the guard let him go to the bathroom by himself. So in all likelihood he’s not some hard-core gangster.”

  “Just a murderer, tops,” Takamäki replied.

  * * *

  A couple of minutes later, Takamäki rose from his desk. He had printed out a few pages’ worth of background info on Repo. One was his photo.

  Takamäki stepped into the room shared by Joutsamo, Kohonen, Suhonen, and a couple of other detectives. It was clearly larger than Takamäki’s cubbyhole, but had less space per occupant. Dividers decorated with photographs and papers separated the workspaces. From the window you could see the old courthouse. It was going to be renovated into Police HQ II, but Homicide wouldn’t be moving there.

  Anna Joutsamo was at her computer, typing with her headphones on. The thirty-four-year-old brunette was wearing jeans and a sweater. There was no one else in the room. She hadn’t heard Takamäki enter and didn’t realize her supervisor was there until he was standing right next to her.

  “What is it?” she asked, pulling off her headphones.

  “The Puttonen interrogation, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  Takamäki tossed the papers onto Joutsamo’s desk. “Forget Puttonen. Got a new one for you.”

  Joutsamo swore. “What the hell? What do you mean, forget it? Little Red Riding Hood is right over in that cell. I can’t just drop it.”

  “Yes, you can,” Takamäki said. “I’ve been thinking about the case. There’s no crime there. Doesn’t meet the description.”

  Joutsamo was silent.

  “Believe me. There’s no way to get a case out of it. If you ask me, society would be better off if it concentrated its resources on the twerps who were harassing her.”

  “So which one of us is going handle that? You or me? There’s no one else here,” Joutsamo said laconically.

  Takamäki chuckled. “Let’s release her. She’s probably got a school day tomorrow. Transcribe the interrogation later when you have some time, and I’ll write up a report closing the investigation, citing no crime.”

  Joutsamo turned to the papers Takamäki had tossed onto her desk. The photo was on top. “And who’s this winner?”

  “Prisoner Timo Repo, serving life. Killed his wife a few years back, but what most interests me now is his current whereabouts.”

  “Escaped convict?”

  It didn’t take Takamäki more than a minute to pass on the info he had received from Helmikoski.

  “Goddammit, cases like this piss the fuc… I mean really annoy me. We do our job and then…”

  The lieutenant cut off his subordinate’s rant. “You’re preaching to the choir.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know,” Takamäki said. “This guy disappeared an hour ago. Find out where he might be or want to get.”

  “Timo Repo.” Joutsamo savored the name. “I might have read something about him at some point.”

  “Well, that’s a good start. So you guys are practically friends. Where’s Suhonen?”

  “Hmm, I wonder where he could be at five o’clock on a Monday?” Joutsamo said.

  Takamäki chuckled. Joutsamo grabbed the previous day’s newspaper from the top of one of her piles. “I was going to ask you about this earlier. Did you read this interview this morning?”

  Takamäki glanced at the page Joutsamo was showing him from the Sunday section of the Helsingin Sanomat.

  “Yeah, I read it,” he said.

  The newspaper had sacrificed two pages to an interview with Aarno Fredberg, the new chief justice of the Supreme Court. In the article, Fredberg described his liberal views on criminal justice policy. From the perspective of the policeman, and the policewoman too, the headline was harsh: “Prison Doesn’t Do Any Good.” According to Chief Justice Fredberg, society would be better off if it focused its resources on things other than police and prosecutors, because incarceration simply escalated the cycle of marginalization.

  Joutsamo was still holding the paper. “Can I call Mr. Chief Justice and have him come down here to talk to a few victims of serial rapists? That might open his eyes.”

  “No.”

  “Seriously, how can the highest justice in the land say stuff like this publicly? It’s going to have a direct impact-judges will be handing down more lenient sentences. The bad guys are going to be getting out faster and committing more crimes.”

  “Yes, of course, because prison doesn’t do any good,” Takamäki said sarcastically.

  Joutsamo didn’t notice the joke. She huffed, “What?”

  “Listen, if the minister of the interior said police productivity has to increase even more, would you start working overtime for free?”

  “No,” Joutsamo replied tartly.

  “Well, those judges don’t believe everything they read in the paper, either. They’re people, just like you and me.”

  “Still, the guy could think for a second before opening his mouth,” Joutsamo snapped, flinging the paper back on the stack.

  “Would you believe me if I said it would be better if Repo was back sleeping in his own cell sometime soon?”

  Joutsamo laughed, and Takamäki continued. “Let Puttonen go. Apologize and say that the police have to investigate all reports of crime, even the ambiguous ones. Be apologetic enough, genuinely apologetic, I mean, so she doesn’t lodge a complaint with the Ministry of Justice. Because if she does, you get to write
the response. I can’t stand doing them anymore.”

  “No?”

  “No, actually I can’t. They’re such a joke. I’ll go get Suhonen and see if we can’t send Superman here back to his cell.”

  “Be sure and pack the Kryptonite,” Joutsamo said.

  * * *

  Takamäki parked his unmarked police vehicle, a Volkswagen Golf, in the parking lot of the Helsinki Hockey Arena, a mile up Mannerheim Street from downtown. Luckily, Monday wasn’t a game night, so there was plenty of space. On the way, Takamäki had called his wife, Kaarina, and told her he’d be at least a few hours late.

  The rain kept coming down, and Takamäki hustled to the practice rink door on the east side of the building.

  As soon as he entered the lobby, he could smell the familiar, vaguely pungent aroma of hockey arenas. He stepped into the elevator and went down a couple of floors, where the elevator doors opened to the clanking of a game. The soundscape was different from that of league games. There were only a handful of spectators and the sounds of play predominated-you could hear the swear words more clearly.

  It looked like there was an actual game underway on the ice, as it was unlikely that any team would have brought a ref in zebra stripes just for a practice. Takamäki looked around for Suhonen but couldn’t spot him. The players all looked alike in their gear. The police team was wearing electric blue jerseys that read “PUCK POLICE” in big letters. The other team was playing in red. He’d probably find Suhonen on the bench, Takamäki decided, and walked on.

  Takamäki was well aware-there’s no way he could have avoided hearing about it at the station-that a year ago Suhonen had started playing hockey with the Financial Crimes Division. The undercover detective had trained them in the use of unconventional investigative methods; in other words, how to use informants. At some point, Suhonen had mentioned having played hockey all the way up to the Under 16 team in his hometown of Lahti, which had inspired the guys in Financial Crimes to recruit him.

  Takamäki jumped when the plexiglass boomed right next to him. One of the blue players had tackled one of the reds into the boards. The ref blew his whistle and skated over.

  “Number 27, two minutes! You know there’s no tackling in the veteran league!”

  Number 27 tapped the plexiglass in front of Takamäki with his stick, and the lieutenant recognized that the smirking face belonged to his undercover officer. Suhonen started skating toward the penalty box.

  Takamäki walked up to the bench and whistled loudly at the ref, who skated over. “What now? It was clearly an illegal tackle,” the sweating official bellowed.

  Takamäki flashed his badge. “I have a warrant for Number 27 there. Eject him from the game. I’m going to take him back to the station.”

  “Fine with me,” the ref laughed.

  He skated over to the penalty box, put his hands on his hips and announced that Suhonen was being kicked out of the game.

  “What?!” Suhonen protested. “What’d I do?”

  “Talking back to the ref! You’re done! Out of here!”

  Suhonen glared ominously at Takamäki, who was smiling on the other side of the plexiglass, skated submissively toward the team bench, and stepped off the ice.

  “Nice tackle,” Takamäki said. Suhonen snatched the key to his locker from behind the bench and headed into the locker room without a word. Takamäki followed him down the linoleum corridor.

  The locker room reeked of years of ingrained sweat. The stench took Takamäki back to his patrol-cop years; their locker room had smelled the same. It was a good stink in a way, because it carried a whiff of action. Suhonen sat down on the bench and pulled off his helmet.

  “What now?” he asked, irritated . The forty-year-old detective’s black hair was long and sweaty. He was sporting a beard like the pros during the Stanley Cup Playoffs. Although Takamäki suspected that Suhonen wasn’t as superstitious as the NHL players were about shaving and losing.

  “You guys were ahead 6–2, so forget about the game,” Takamäki said.

  When Suhonen took off his blue shirt, Takamäki noticed the extra gear under his shoulder pads and began to laugh.

  “Bullet-proof vest? Why?”

  Suhonen looked a little sheepish. “Let’s you take the corners a little harder. Almost all our guys wear them.”

  “Boy, you are Puck Police, all right,” Takamäki said, sitting down on a bench. There were about twenty guys’ bags and gear in the locker room. How many department-issued weapons were here? Well, these guys were financial crimes investigators, so probably not many.

  Suhonen tossed his neck guard and shoulder pads into his bag and began unlacing his skates.

  “What’s up?” he asked, without raising his gaze from his skates.

  “Work. A lifer escaped.”

  Suhonen stopped unlacing and gave Takamäki an intense look. “Who?”

  “Apparently no one that bad.”

  “Who?”

  “Timo Repo.”

  Suhonen went back to his laces. “Repo? Killed his wife somewhere in Riihimäki or Hyvinkää before the turn of the millennium?”

  “Bingo.”

  “From prison?”

  “Nah, his old man’s funeral in Töölö. Ran for it.”

  “And you had to get me tossed from the game for that?” Suhonen said, drying and packing up his skates.

  “You’re on the clock,” Takamäki chuckled.

  Suhonen took off his bullet-proof vest and sniffed it. “Pretty fragrant. Hopefully I get to hunt Repo down with you and Joutsamo in the teeniest compact vehicle ever.”

  “Go take a shower.”

  CHAPTER 3

  MONDAY, 7:00 P.M.

  THE CORNER PUB, KALLIO

  Suhonen was sitting alone at a table in a stuffy bar in Helsinki’s working-class neighborhood of Kallio. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail and he was wearing a leather jacket. A half-full pint stood in front of him. Salmela hadn’t shown up yet. Half a dozen guys were standing at the bar, even though there was plenty of room at the tables. An elderly customer was watching some old soccer match from the muted TV bolted to the ceiling. Over the loudspeakers, a classic rock band was offering advice about socking cash away, but for the clientele of the Corner Pub, the advice had gone in one ear and out the other.

  At the next table over, Suhonen heard a heavy-set guy recounting his weekend escapades to a couple of buddies. “Check it out, we were there at the strip bar and this chick came over to give me a lap dance and just kept going, ‘Tip me, tip me.’ So I dug a fistful of change out of my pocket and dropped it into her panties.”

  “Dude, hell no,” laughed one of the other guys.

  “And that’s not even the best part,” Fatso continued. “I figured she’d go right over to get the bouncer so I took out one more two-euro coin. I heated it with my lighter and when the goon showed up, I said, ‘My bad,’ and put the red-hot coin in his hand. Fuck, that dude screamed loud! I hauled ass out of there as fast as I could.”

  As the group burst out laughing, Salmela entered and walked straight to the bar. The forty-year-old regular had short hair and a brown bomber jacket; its faded lambskin collar was wet. He got his pint in no time and came over to sit next to Suhonen.

  “What’s up? Any good gigs lately?” Salmela asked.

  Suhonen glanced over at the guys sitting at the next table. “Nothing worth talking about here.”

  Salmela tapped the heavy-set guy on the shoulder.

  “Hey, why don’t you guys move over to that corner table. Watch some TV for a sec.”

  Fatso was about to say something, but his buddy stepped in. “Sure, okay. No problem,” he said, picking up his beer. The others followed in silence.

  “Your reputation’s growing,” Suhonen joked.

  “Sometimes it even comes in handy,” Salmela answered. Suhonen looked him in the eyes. Suhonen thought they looked even harder than before. Suhonen and Salmela had been friends since childhood. They had both grown up in
Lahti, a town of about 100,000 an hour’s drive north of Helsinki. When they were teenagers, they had belonged to a small gang that burglarized attics. When the gang was finally busted, Salmela got caught, but Suhonen was at home with a raging fever. The best friends had ended up on opposite sides of the law, but their friendship hadn’t ended. It had actually blossomed-Suhonen picked up street intel from Salmela and, in return, had helped his friend out of a few legal jams. Salmela had continued to earn his living fronting stolen goods, but now there were rumors that he had ratcheted up into more serious crimes.

  “What about your gigs?

  “Bah,” Salmela said. “It’s been quiet. Quiet.”

  Suhonen wasn’t completely sure he believed him.

  “You had something you wanted to talk about?”

  “The name Timo Repo say anything to you?”

  “Repo?” Salmela thought. “Unusual name. Nah, the only Repo I know is the guy who’s doing life for icing his wife.”

  “That’s the one,” Suhonen said. He took a sip of his pint and waited for Salmela’s reaction.

  “A softy. I didn’t know him personally. He pretty much kept to himself, like most wife-killers. They’re not tough guys, usually they just snap. Sometimes for a reason, sometimes not. What’d he do?” Salmela asked, sipping his beer.

  “Skipped out.”

  “From Helsinki Prison?” Salmela was intrigued. “That’s interesting. How?”

  Suhonen shook his head. “From his old man’s funeral. Ditched the guard.”

  “Hmmm. Okay, not so interesting anymore. What’s he to you guys?”

  “C’mon, a lifer escaped. We need to get him back behind bars before the media gets its panties in a twist.”

  “But the guy’s a total nobody,” Salmela wondered.

  “Still a murderer. Lieutenant figured we need to find him fast.”

  “Well, I can ask around, but I gotta say I’m a little confused by your, or I guess Takamäki’s, enthusiasm. Old man’s death can be a tough spot for a soft con like that. My money’s on him downing a bottle of vodka and walking up to the prison gates to turn himself in once the hangover clears.”

  Suhonen shrugged.