Cold Trail (17 page)

Joutsamo
tried to picture the chessboard. “Knight from E6 to B4. Have you played this before?”

Kulta
kept his eyes on the road. “Once with Suhonen. We got to the third move before we started arguing about where the pieces were.”

“S
o let’s quit while we’re ahead,” Joutsamo said. “Turn right up there.”

Kulta
spun the wheel, and the car curved onto the street where the deceased Erik Repo’s home stood.

“I
t’s that one,” Joutsamo said, and Kulta eased off the gas. The sides of the road were again lined with parked cars, but Kulta managed to crank the Golf into a space so tight Joutsamo wouldn’t have even bothered trying to squeeze into it.

The officers
stepped out of the car, and Joutsamo tugged up the zipper of her black coat. She fumbled around in her pockets, but didn’t find her hat or gloves there.

“Q
ueen from D1 to G4,” Kulta said.

“T
hat’s a dumb move,” Joutsamo answered. “My knight is going to move to C8. Check. And then I’m going to take your rook.”

The streetlights
bathed the yard in a yellow glow, but the wooden house itself was dark.

“B
et you a coffee that this trip is a complete waste,” Kulta said, not waiting for a response.

The
detectives started walking toward the house. Joutsamo tried looking for signs of forced entry, but there was nothing visible. At the gate, she took a quick look inside the mailbox. It was empty. A black garbage can stood next to it in a small wooden shelter. She looked inside that, too: also empty.

“N
o sign of Repo in there?” Kulta joked, continuing on to the house. He peered in through the window first, but didn’t see any movement in the dark interior. He took the windows to the left; Joutsamo took those to the right. They met at the back of the house, both of them shaking their heads.

“I
think I won that coffee,” Kulta said.

“I
never bet you,” Joutsamo protested, looking over at the house next door.

“
An espresso will work, too.”

“L
et’s go talk to the neighbor,” Joutsamo said. She started circling around to the front yard the way Kulta had come.

“W
hat neighbor?” Kulta wondered, following her.

“T
he one who was just watching us out of that window.”

Kulta
looked at the neighboring home, but the window facing them
was dark.

“W
ow. X-ray vision, huh?”

“Y
ou get it with your sergeant’s stripes. You should apply for those brass classes, too. Plus, think about who’s emptying Repo’s mailbox. They deliver the neighborhood paper three times a week here, as I recall.”

The
pair returned to the street and headed toward the neighbor’s house. Joutsamo checked the name on the mailbox: Karppi. The house gave the impression of belonging to an elderly person or couple.

The windows were dark, but
Joutsamo was certain she had seen movement. Of course it could have been nothing more than a cat walking
across the windowsill.

Joutsamo
rang the doorbell. No answer. She rang again. Nothing.

“A
gh,” Kulta grinned, reaching under his coat and pulling out his Glock from its holster on his belt. “Deadbolt’s not on, so all we need to do is give the lock a little tickle.”

Joutsamo sighed
.

“N
o?” Kulta said, twirling the gun around and giving the door a couple of sharp raps with the butt. He called out in a commanding
tone: “Police! Open up now! I repeat, Police. Open this door immediately!”

Kulta smiled when he could hear movement
and the sound of footfalls inside. “I get at least a double espresso for this.”

“E
xcept if whoever’s inside has a heart attack, in which case you’ll get an indictment.”

Rustling
could be heard from inside. Joutsamo recognized it as the sound of an old-fashioned chain. The door opened, revealing an elderly, gray-haired man in a brown sweater. He looked scared and immediately took a couple of steps backwards.

“A
nna Joutsamo from the Helsinki
Police Department,” Joutsamo announced, showing her badge. “This here is my colleague, Mikko Kulta.”

“F
rom the same firm,” Kulta quipped.

“Y
ou’re police officers.”

“
That’s what we just said,” Kulta said.

Joutsamo thought the
jab was unnecessary and clearly missed its mark. The old man didn’t catch it.

“Y
ou were watching us from the window a minute ago. Did you think we were criminals?”

The man grunted.
“This place is swarming with them. Last summer, two houses were emptied on this street alone. The residents were on vacation and everything of any value was taken.”

“D
o you live alone?” Joutsamo asked.

The man realized
he hadn’t introduced himself, despite the fact that the officers had. “Right, of course, I’m Otto Karppi, and yes, I live alone. My wife died years ago.” He didn’t extend a hand, though.

“W
ell, we’re not investigating break-ins right tonight, we’re interested in whether anyone has been over at Repo’s house during the past couple of days.”

“W
hy are you interested in that?”

“W
hy don’t we ask the questions here,” Kulta growled.

“I
’m just interested because I’ve been managing my old friend’s affairs.”

Kulta
corrected him, “Those of the deceased, you mean.”

The corners of
Karppi’s mouth turned up in a slight smile. Joutsamo immediately saw how Karppi had lured Kulta into a trap. Now the old man knew that the police knew that Repo was dead, and of course it was easy to draw conclusions from that. His body might be old, but there was still plenty of
spark
running through that brain of his.

“O
kay, let’s drop the games. You know why we’re here,” Joutsamo said. “Of course we’re looking for Erik’s son Timo, who ditched
his escort at the restaurant.”

“T
hat’s obvious,” Karppi said, smiling a little more broadly now. His teeth were badly yellowed. “Haven’t caught him yet?”

“N
o,” Joutsamo answered.

“W
ell, I haven’t seen him here, and no one has been to Erik’s house since the day before yesterday, which is when I think you visited there last,” he said, smoothing and tidying his sparse hair.

“D
o you have any information on where we might find Timo Repo?” Joutsamo asked.

“I
don’t know him at all. We met at the funeral, but that’s the extent of it.”

“Y
ou were there?”

Karppi
looked irritated. “I just said I managed my old friend’s affairs.”

“I
have one more question, just to verify,” Joutsamo said. “You’ve been emptying Erik Repo’s mailbox. Have you found anything inside that would help us in locating the escaped convict?”

“N
ot really. It’s mostly just ads these days.”

“A
ll right,” Joutsamo said, digging a card out of her pocket. “If you spot any movement at the neighbors’ or if Timo Repo contacts you, please call the number on this card.”

Karppi
took the card. “Good-bye.”

“G
ood-bye,” the officers replied, turning back toward their vehicle. Karppi closed the door, and Joutsamo could hear the rustling of the chain from a few yards away.

The
detectives returned to the car, and Kulta climbed in the driver’s seat. Joutsamo gazed at the quiet street and asked Kulta, “If he saw Suhonen and me the first time, why was he afraid of us this time?”

“Y
ou guys didn’t talk to him. He didn’t know you were cops.”

“H
e didn’t know, but Karppi isn’t dumb. He was there when the escape took place at the restaurant, and I’m sure he understood that the police would be looking for the escapee at his father’s home.”

Kulta
started up the Golf. “Where to?”

Joutsamo
continued her train of thought. “There was something fishy about that. Why would he be afraid of us or hide from us?”

“E
veryone’s afraid of the police,” Kulta laughed. “But maybe he knows more than he let on. And he didn’t even offer us an espresso.” Kulta steered the car onto the street. “Would he hide Repo in his house?”

“I
t’s possible, of course.”

“S
hould we start staking out Karppi’s place?”

“No
!”

“W
hy not?” Kulta asked.

“Y
ou could come and sit here in the car, but think about it. Karppi was old man Repo’s friend, and the father and son didn’t have a close relationship. I don’t think he was close to Timo Repo at all. But he was hiding something from us. If we can’t find Repo by tomorrow, then we’ll come by and talk to him again.”

* * *

A little after 9 p.m. Suhonen was driving northwards on Sörnäinen Shore Drive in his grimy old Nissan. He had chosen to take his own car rather than the usual department Peugeot. Traffic was almost nonexistent. He left the concrete colossi of the Hakaniemi housing complex behind on the right and the tall apartment buildings of Kallio on the left. He passed the gas station and continued toward the Eastern Expressway. He was driving 55 mph, even though the speed limit was 45.

As
Suhonen passed a taxi he glanced at his phone, lying on the passenger seat. The thing pissed him off. Suhonen remembered the early ’90s, the good old days when mobile phones didn’t exist. What bliss! You could work at your own pace, all you had to do was produce results. And on top of it all, it had been a Finnish company that had introduced the mobile phone to the world. Now proletariats around the world had cause to despise his little homeland for helping to create the 24/7 work culture.

But w
ork wasn’t what was eating at Suhonen at the moment. His fiancée, or more like his soon-to-be-ex-fiancée, had called and wondered what was keeping him. In Raija’s opinion, he should be on his way home.

Suhonen
and Raija, who worked at an insurance company, had moved in together under the condition that work might keep Suhonen in the field after hours from time to time. Which would, of course, be balanced by extra time off now and again.

Lately
Suhonen had been getting the feeling that the arrangement was no longer satisfactory to Raija. She thought Suhonen should apply for a supervisory position; he’d make more money, his work load would be easier, and he wouldn’t end up in risky
situations anymore.

This is
what Raija had been nagging him about over the phone earlier. In return, Suhonen had suggested that she could get a late-night shift at McDonald’s, and then they’d work the same hours. Raija had hung up on him.

Suhonen
grabbed the phone from the seat and pressed the green headset twice. The phone dialed a number that Suhonen had already tried a few times. A woman’s voice announced in a cool tone, “The number you have dialed is currently unavailable.”

Goddamn Salmela. The guy had changed his number without
telling Suhonen. They’d have to have a talk about that.

Suhonen
sped past the first few exits. He was headed for Kontula, to a couple of bars where Saarnikangas was a regular. It seemed like there were an infinite number of them. Suhonen had already gone through the bars in Kallio and Hakaniemi without finding the guy.

The speed limit climbed to
fifty, and Suhonen slowed down. He tried to calm himself—he should never let his emotions interfere with his work. He turned on the radio: Ari, the latest
Idols
winner, was singing his bubble-gum hit, and Suhonen clicked it right back off.

* * *

Joutsamo was sitting at her desk, tapping away at her computer. The portable TV on Kulta’s desk a few feet away was on. Kulta had already gone home, as had Takamäki. The only ones left in the office were Joutsamo and Kohonen.

The s
ports highlights program wrapped up, and a current affairs show began. On the screen, a grave-looking Sanna Römpötti was explaining that the topic of this evening’s episode of
Hot Seat
was justice. The guest was Aarno Fredberg, chief justice of the Supreme Court. In line with the show’s format, Römpötti got right down to business: “Chief Justice Fredberg, you said in a newspaper
interview last Sunday that prison sentences don’t do any good. What would you propose as an alternative?”