Darling (22 page)

Römpötti filmed for another few seconds
and then walked over to Lind.

“I need to talk to you about something,” Römpötti said.

* * *

Suhonen stopped the car under a burned-out streetlamp about fifty yards from the Hiihtom
ӓki Street apartment building. The street was west of the Itӓvӓylӓ Freeway. The Herttoniemi metro station was about a quarter mile away.

B
uilt in the sixties, the brown, four-story cement building had two stairwells and no elevator. It housed forty small studio apartments, the largest being three hundred square feet. Joutsamo recalled a homicide in the building a year earlier. A group of drinking buddies, watching a movie, got into a fight, with two of them stabbing a third. Their plan was to chop up the body, and they went next door to ask for garbage bags. The police soon got wind of the incident.

The detectives got out of the car, and Suhonen noticed something under a street lamp a hundred feet away. A cell phone light flashed and then went dark as it was held against someone’s ear—probably
a lookout. Suhonen wondered if a stash of pot was being flushed down a toilet right then in some nearby apartment. Or it could’ve been just a warning call to get the stuff near the toilet.

Rautis
was a two-bit dealer, but there was always something up in this neighborhood. Suhonen wanted to keep an eye on the building for a minute, though he knew he was being watched.

Drug dealers didn’t worry too much about the blue-and-white cop cars with sirens
blaring; they knew those had already been sent somewhere. But the pair in street clothes looked much more suspicious. Suhonen could’ve passed for a drug dealer himself, but by walking next to Joutsamo in her black jacket it was obvious what they did for a living. The only thing left for the criminals to guess was whether they were police officers or customs officials.

It wouldn’t have
made any difference had they walked hand in hand trying to look like a couple, though it would’ve suited Suhonen fine. Joutsamo wouldn’t have minded terribly, either.

This wasn’t a
drug raid and dealers weren’t the target, but the criminals didn’t know that. A number of heavyweight dealers operated around Herttoniemi’s apartment buildings. They were highly dangerous because they had a lot to lose, and they were used to violence.

The front door was locked but loose from frequent use. Suhonen dug a piece of wire from his leather jacket pocket and twisted it a few times. It fit between the door and the frame, and Suhonen was able to click the lock open. With a newer lock, they would’ve had to buzz from the tenant directory or call the
custodian.

The stairwell was dimly lit. Suhonen glanced at the
building directory, though he knew it wouldn’t tell him anything. The names could’ve been outdated, and some people didn’t want their names listed.

Suhonen knew Rautis
lived on the third floor.

“Alright, we’ll
both take the stairs then,” Joutsamo said when she saw there was no elevator.

Normally, one
officer took the stairs while the other rode the elevator, so the suspect couldn’t escape.

“Stairway to heaven,” Suhonen grunted.

Joutsamo gave him a confused look.

Suhonen opened the zipper on his jacket and instinctively made sure his Glock was holstered on his
shoulder. He saw Joutsamo do the same. That was good; they were both on top of it without having to say a word.

“How are we getting in?” Joutsamo asked, as they got to the first landing of the winding staircase.

“I’ll shoot the lock if he doesn’t open the door.”

“Be serious,” Joutsamo replied.

Suhonen detected anxiety in her voice—another good sign that she was alert. Hitting a drug dealer’s apartment with a cocky attitude was a good way to get your name on the Police Academy wall.

Suhonen saw Joutsamo glance at him when they got to the second floor. Did she question his approach? Joutsamo and Suhonen hadn’t been together on a case
like this for several years. Nowadays the VCU liked to send the SWAT team even for simple arrests, all in the name of occupational safety.

Suhonen was among the old-school police officers who believed they should handle the arrests th
emselves. Of course, calling in the SWAT guys was a smart move when it came to dealing with nutcases or gangs.

“I’ll do the talking and you cover me. Let’s be careful,” Suhonen said. He didn’t doubt Joutsamo’s ability to react in dangerous situations. She had shot a member of the Skull
s in a firefight a decade earlier.

Joutsamo nodded.

They tiptoed up the last steps, so as not to be heard, and Suhonen stopped on one side of the door. Any shots through the door would miss. Suhonen knocked hard.

“Rautis
, open the door!”

Joutsamo stood at the other side of the door, her Glock ready.

“Rautis, open up!” Suhonen repeated.

“Who is it?”
said a cautious voice from the apartment.

“A friend,” Suhonen replied. He didn’t want the whole building to know the cops were there. “It’s Suhonen.”

“I can’t,” the voice said after a moment’s silence.

“Then I’ll
break the door and come in.”

The door stayed shut.

“Ten seconds and you’ll pay for the door.”

Joutsamo heard
steps, and someone came to the door.

The lock unlatched and the door swung open
to the stairwell. Joutsamo was behind it for a second and couldn’t see Suhonen. She half expected to hear a gunshot and see Suhonen slumped in a pool of blood, but as she stepped out from behind the door she saw Suhonen standing in the doorway with Rautis in front of him.

The skinny young man had a mess of stringy hair to his shoul
ders. His beard matched his hair but was confined to the tip of his chin. He had on a worn, plaid flannel shirt and dirty jeans.

“Who’s
the gunslinger girl?” Rautis asked, looking at Joutsamo.

“Calamity Jane,” Suhonen said and
Rautis chuckled.

Joutsamo held he
r weapon. She noticed Rautis was missing a finger on one hand.

“How’s it goin’
?” Suhonen asked.

“Bad,” Rautis
replied, looking at the floor.

Joutsamo thought they should go in
to secure the apartment, but Suhonen kept chatting with the guy at the door.

“Rautis
,” Suhonen said, waiting for the guy to look up.

Joutsamo could see tears in the guy’s eyes.

Suhonen stepped in the door and Joutsamo followed. Rautis took a step back and Joutsamo shut the door behind her.

“Siwa,” Suhonen began. “What the hell. Why?”

“You know why,” Rautis said, lowering his gaze again.

“I know you’re not on top of the world, nowhere near Mont Blanc…”

“I
was
on Mont Blanc,” Rautis said, letting out a small laugh. “About five years ago, I went skiing in Chamonix, at the foot of Mont Blanc, and they have a lift that takes you pretty far up the mountain.”

“But now you’re down low, and without a lift pass. Why the hell did you have to rob
the Siwa store?”

“How do you know about that?”

“Description.”

“I shoulda
had a hot dog taped on my hand in place of the missing finger,” Rautis said with a chuckle.

“Maybe so.”

“Debt,” Rautis said. “That was the only reason.”

“And you can’t get the money anywhere else?”

“No.”

“How much do you owe?”

“Four grand.”

“Only four?” Suhonen asked. “In the old days you used to gamble ten grand on blackjack
, and it didn’t even phase you.”

“It did phase me, I ju
st couldn’t show it,” Rautis said. “We’d win occasionally, but usually we’d end up in the red. No one can take the house down.”

“How much did you get from the register in Siwa?”

“Six hundred twenty.”

“So you still owe three grand three hundred eighty,” Suhonen calculated.

“No, four. I have a feeling I won’t be using any of the money in the living room now that you guys are here. I’m pissed. Siwa and a measly six hundred. It’s fuckin’ pitiful.”

“What did he threaten you with?” Suhonen asked.

“A finger for each grand,” Rautis said, glancing at his hands. “I would’ve only had five left. I could’ve decided which ones I wanted to keep; I probably would’ve given up the pinkies, and the middle finger of the hand that still has the index finger.”

Joutsamo began to feel sorry for the guy. His motive was credible.

Suhonen pulled his wallet out of his pocket and looked in it. Joutsamo could see several five-hundred-euro bills in it.

“I’ll go have a chat with your debtor,” he said.

“Wha…You’ll take care of him?”

Joutsamo wondered where Suhonen had gotten so much cash but kept her mouth shut.

“That depends on his attitude,” Suhonen said with a tense expression. “But I doubt he’ll come collecting the debt, at least not for your fingers.”

“That would be great.”

“Who is it?”

“You kn
ow it’s a drug debt…” Rautis said, hesitantly.

“Well, I’m not stupid.”

“And you’ll go in there as a cop…”

“Who said anything about a cop?”

“Ah, Suikkanen,” Rautis said, getting the drift.

“Who is it?”

“Rantalainen.”

“
The
Rantalainen?” Suhonen asked. “He’s still in prison.”

“Yeah, he is.
But he’s the one I owe.”

This was interesting news. The guy serving a sentence for serious drug crimes was still doing business on the outside. The drug squad would be interested in this
tidbit, no doubt.

“But you did
n’t hear it from me,” Rautis added quickly.

“I never remember what I’ve heard from where, with
my Alzheimers and all. But before I forget about my wallet, tell me who I need to go talk to. Rantalainen isn’t getting out any time soon and won’t be chopping any fingers. So who is it?”

“Y
ou’ll help me, then?” Rautis pleaded, once again lifting his eyes.

“I’ll do my best,” Suhonen said. “Give me a name,
grab your toothbrush, and we’ll go to Pasila and take care of that Siwa incident.”

CHAPTER 21

SATURDAY, 5:50 P.M.

HOTEL PASILA, HELSINKI

Nea Lind leaned forward at the restaurant table—the
same posture she had taken interviewing Korpivaara a few hours earlier. The hotel bar was less bleak than the interrogation room at the police station, but it was one of the coldest and dreariest as far as hotel bars went.

A
streetcar rumbled past the window. Besides Lind and Sanna Römpötti, only a handful of people were in the bar, each sitting alone or in pairs. No groups were there to create ambience or give others anything to whisper about. Sadly, the “easy listening” music designed to make up for the lack of conversation was the only sound scene in the bar.

Lind didn’t want to talk with Römpötti at the station, so she asked her to meet in the hotel bar. Lind had a short conversation with
Korpivaara after the hearing, but it was one-sided. She talked and Korpivaara sat looking somber and absent, not responding to Lind’s questions or reassurances.

Lind slid the
document in front of Römpötti and waited a minute while the reporter read the decision.

“Fingerprints on the coffeemaker—that’s the biggest piece of evidence they have against
Korpivaara,” Lind said in disbelief.

“Your client has confessed,” Römpötti said
, looking up.

“That’s another thing I don’t get.”

“Why?” Römpötti asked, taking a sip of her Bacardi coke. “What if he killed the girl?”

“Did the police brainwash you? I don’t get it.”

Römpötti didn’t say anything. The police had brainwashed many a reporter, but she didn’t feel she was one of them. She’d done plenty of stories about infractions by police officers. Besides, the police were just one source.

“Why is Jorma
Korpivaara’s case suddenly so important to you?”

“I know the police are mistaken in this case.”

“Stop shitting me and tell me the real reason,” Römpötti said.

“I want to be on the side of justice; I want to know what really happened,” Lind said, looking at Römpötti.