Cold Trail (15 page)

“A
nd who is this member of the public? Did she give her name?”

“N
o, because she thought she’d end up a witness.”

“A
re there any known PTs in the building?” Takamäki asked. Apartments whose residents were known to be dangerous were registered in the Potential Threat database.

“N
o.”

“I
wonder what’s there, then?” Takamäki said, taking his coat off. “Okay, let’s bring in a few SWAT men to help out. No point fooling around if it really is Repo and he has a gun. The guy could be desperate. I’ll take the lead from here and call in the SWAT team. You and Suhonen head right over just in case he moves, assuming it is him. Kohonen’s still here, isn’t she?”

“Y
es,” Joutsamo said.

“K
irsi can check who lives in the building. Brief her quickly before you go. Let’s shoot for,” Takamäki glanced at his watch, which read 5:52 p.m., “entry by 7:00 at the latest, but as soon as SWAT can spare us the men.”

* * *

A caravan of three SWAT vans rolled out from police headquarters at 6:45 p.m. Takamäki was sitting with Turunen, head of the SWAT team, in the lead vehicle. His phone was in hand as the van turned north up Nordenskiöld Street at the Neste gas station
.
The evening gloom had deepened from gray to black.

Eight
SWAT officers had fit into two vans; the third one was for transporting the target. The vehicles weren’t using their emergency lights.

Takamäki
returned his phone to his pocket.

“J
outsamo said that the situation at the scene remains the same. No sign of the target.”

Takamäki
and Turunen had had a quick pow-wow in Takamäki’s office, during which the lieutenant had filled the SWAT leader in on the case. Turunen had classified it as a routine search.

Be
fore the railway underpass, the caravan turned right onto Eläintarha Road and headed toward Töölö Bay. When they got to the Helsinki Street intersection, Takamäki looked at the illuminated fountain in the bay and the downtown’s gleaming city lights behind it. The thought crossed his mind that he really should be at home.

He
snapped back to reality when Turunen started giving orders to his men through his headset. “We don’t know the exact apartment of the target, but it’s probably on the fifth or sixth floor.”

Turunen
rattled off names and tasks. The men were assigned floors and duties. The only one Takamäki knew by name was Saarinen, who was in the second van. He had heard a story about the Jack Bauer look-alike: one day after work, the SWAT guys had decided to spend the evening at a sauna, relaxing and drinking. Saarinen had begged not to come, saying
he had promised his wife he’d go home. Eventually the other guys talked him into it,
and after making the other guys promise to be quiet, he had called his wife. As he vigorously slapped his palm against his leather jacket, Saarinen explained to her that the SWAT team had gotten an urgent assignment in Oulu, and he was just walking into the helicopter. After the twenty-second call, they had headed off to the sauna.

Turunen
gave out more orders. “Takamäki and I will cover the exterior of the building. Be aware that two homicide detectives are also on the scene: Joutsamo and Suhonen.”

The adrenaline gradually began to
rise in Takamäki’s veins, too. He instinctively checked that his own Sig Sauer was in his coat pocket. He had originally gotten the Swiss-German pistol from a guy he knew at the Equipment Office. The Sig Sauer was smaller than the standard police-issue Glocks.

The
van turned right at the corner of the Brahe Soccer Field toward the Kallio fire station and Fifth Street. They were only a couple of minutes from the target now. Takamäki called Joutsamo and informed her that they were approaching. He and Turunen had agreed that the operation would begin immediately upon arrival.

A tram
was shuddering along in front of them, and the trip seemed to take forever. The Kallio fire station appeared on the right and Bear Park on the left. They had called Fire and Rescue and arranged to have an ambulance at the ready as a precaution.

C
ars were parked in front of the building, but Turunen calmly double-parked the police vans in front of the entrance, as the street was plenty wide. The other vans pulled up behind Turunen.

The SWAT men had heavy bullet
proof vests, helmets, and Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns.

“O
kay, Saarinen, let’s do this,” Turunen said.

The
hooded police were moving single file toward the door of the building when the first flash went off, immediately followed by a second, a third, and a fourth. Takamäki registered a photographer and a cameraman. And then he recognized Mary Juvonen standing behind them.

Takamäki
knew there was no point interfering in the photographers’ work. That would only get you a scowling
shot in the papers. He walked up to Juvonen. “You sure made it here quick.”

Juvo
nen was wearing a black wool cap and a Burberry coat.

“Y
eah, some woman called in a tip that Repo might be found here.”

“S
he did, huh?”

“Y
eah,” Juvonen said. “So Repo’s not particularly dangerous?”

“
Come on, knock it off.”

The SWAT team had enter
ed the building, and the photographers were following. Takamäki gave Juvonen a stern look.

“T
he stairwell is a police operation
zone. No photographers allowed. Who’s going to tell them?”

“T
hat’s your assessment, huh?”

T
akamäki nodded. “If he’s in there, anything could happen.”

Juvonen
could tell from the lieutenant’s tone that now was not the time to mess with him.

Juvonen raised her voice.
“Hey, guys. Let’s not go inside. We’ll wait out here.”

“Y
ou sure, Mary?” the photographer asked from the doorway.

“Y
up. We’ll do it this way this time. If they find him in there, then they’ll bring him out this way in any case,” Juvonen said with a glance at Takamäki, who nodded.

Takamäki
went back and joined Turunen at the van. The photographers and the reporter stayed obediently on the sidewalk.

“G
oddammit,” Turunen said. “How the hell did they get here so fast?”

“
The reporter said they got a tip from some woman.”

Turunen
shook his head. “Is that so? I’ll bet you a beer we don’t find him here.”

“F
ine, if you’ll bet there are going to be five columns’ worth of photos of your guys in tomorrow’s paper.”

Turunen
wasn’t particularly amused, but he smiled anyway. “Make it six and you’re on.”

Joutsamo
walked up to the van. Suhonen had noticed the flashes and had stayed back in their car next to Bear Park. “You organize a press conference already?”

“I
’m pretty sure someone else did,” Turunen replied.

“T
urunen, you have a camera in your van?” Takamäki asked.

“O
f course.”

“Y
ou mind getting it?”

It took Turunen thirty seconds.
“Here,” he said, handing it to Takamäki. “I already turned it on. Just point and press that red button. The flash is automatic.”

Takamäki
walked fifteen feet from Juvonen and the photographers
and suddenly took a photo.

Juvonen’s reaction was immediate
: “Why’d you take a picture of us?”

“I
t’s always a good idea to get a record of those present at a crime scene,” Takamäki grunted, managing to turn around right before the photographer rapid-fired his flash.

“W
hat’s that going to be used for?” the cameraman blustered, annoyed that he hadn’t captured the incident on tape.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, the SWAT men had checked all of the apartments in the stairwell and emerged without Repo. The
Iltalehti
photographers recorded their exit, but none of the masked men answered the reporter’s questions.

The SWAT
team marched over to the
vans and prepared to leave. Juvonen followed, with the photographers at her heels. Their target was Takamäki, who was stepping into the lead van. Suhonen had already vanished from the scene, and Joutsamo was in the SWAT van.

“T
akamäki!” Juvonen yelled from ten yards away.

The
lieutenant climbed into the van and considered for a moment whether or not to reply. In the end, he rolled down the window.

Juvonen
made it up to the door of the vehicle. The photographer immediately took a couple of pictures.

“D
idn’t find him?”

“D
id you see him?”

“N
o.”

“L
ook, Juvonen, get a grip. Don’t mess with us,” Takamäki said in a severe tone.

“W
ho do you think you are?”

“T
his isn’t going to end here,” Takamäki said, rolling up the window. Turunen popped it into gear, and the van jerked forward. Joutsamo said that she had recognized Juvonen’s voice as that of the person who called in the tip, confirming Takamäki’s suspicions.

Juv
onen looked at the police vans
cruising
past Bear Park and turned toward her photographers. Both of them had heard the exchange. “Well, back to the newsroom. Nothing else is going to happen here. We’ll get a spread out of this.”

* * *

Repo parked his newly-acquired car at a soccer field parking lot in Hakunila, a neighborhood in the suburb of Vantaa. There was a grass field next to the lot, but the junior team was training farther away on the gravel field, near a dome scrawled with graffiti. It was already dark outside, and the field’s lights created a yellow glow.

Repo
stepped out of the car, closed the door, and clicked on the lock. His driving skills had quickly come back to him.

Wearing
his gray coat and black suit, the escaped convict walked toward the soccer field. At the end of the parking lot there was an old wooden cabin that functioned as the locker room. The weather was the best possible for soccer practice—about forty degrees, no rain. The forecast on the radio had promised that the temperature would drop and tomorrow it would sleet or snow.

There were a
bout fifteen boys on the field, half of whom were wearing yellow vests over their sweat jackets. The team was evidently having a scrimmage.

“N
o, no. Remember distances,” shouted a wavy-haired man in a parka. Repo guessed he was about forty. He was wearing a black beanie, like all the players.

The vests appear
ed to have the upper hand, and they drove the ball inexorably
toward the sweatjackets’ goal. A few parents were standing on the sidelines chatting, but from ten yards away Repo could only make out a word here and there.

He
searched the field for a familiar face, but couldn’t find it. In their matching soccer sweatsuits and beanies, the boys all looked the same.

Th
ose parents are probably talking about hockey, Repo wondered. At least that’s what the words he heard—lines, checking, hitting—sounded like. On the other hand, they could have also been talking about prison.

No one paid any attention to
Repo.

The
vests—more prison slang—were outplaying their opponents, and scored again. One of the boys faked out a defender near the sideline and centered the ball in front of the goal, from where another player headed it into the back of the net.

A
dull clapping echoed from the coach’s leather gloves. He called out to the winger, “Great fake and center, Joel!”

Repo
startled. Joel. He took a closer look at the boy and recognized the features from the photo Karppi had given him. The face wasn’t as round as it used to be, but it was his Joel, no doubt about it.

The coach continued
shouting out the pitch: “Markku, that header was just like Ronaldo! Nice goal! Okay, kick off from midfield.”

The goalie angrily kicked the ball into
center field, where one of the vests snagged it out of the air.

Repo
heard one of the sweatjackets complaining to the coach about the teams: “All the best kids on the same team. This is totally unfair.”

Jo
el jogged up to the middle of the field.
Repo watched every step.