Forty-five years old, Nyholm had short-cut hair, already turning gray at the temples. Gray was also the color of his suit, which he wore only for work. He had two of them, in case one needed dry cleaning. Amazingly, even after twenty-plus years, his wife continued to wash his shirts, though he wasn’t sure how much longer that would last. Beyond laundry, he didn’t have much of a relationship with her. Their daughter was already eighteen, so the inevitable divorce shouldn’t cause the kind of undue emotional burden that it would in a younger child. His relationship with Kristiina was not in good shape either. The girl brought her laundry home for washing and sat to eat at dinner, but that was about it. So at least in some sense, father and daughter were cut from the same cloth.
Nyholm knew his job inside and out. Did anything else matter? Hell, this headache mattered. He shouldn’t have downed those last couple shots of whiskey last night, but why cry about it now.
He had more work than he could ever handle. Over a million semi-trucks passed from Finland to Russia every year. It was impossible to track the sheer volume of imports and exports. And how would they know whether someone was giving false information? The real owners of the exporting, forwarding, and shipping companies also commonly hid behind fronts. The paper trails of these Russian and Finnish import-export companies often led to offshore tax havens: the Isle of Man and Guernsey in the UK, and even some obscure island nations in the Caribbean.
The incidents of fraud were numbered in the thousands, but investigators were numbered in the tens. The scams were always connected to money: Russian Customs could easily be tricked by double-invoicing for goods. The documents listed a lower value for the imported goods to avoid customs and taxes. Often, the Finnish companies willing to double-bill received a piece of the action. Another method was to alter the contents of the shipment: flat-screen televisions magically turned into socks, and laptops into toothbrushes.
Plenty of scammers, but only a few watchdogs-according to this equation, the watchdogs had plenty to watch, and the scammers plenty to scam. Nyholm knew he had a shitty job. It was only as good as he was willing to make it, and he was only as good at it as he needed to be. He didn’t care to be perfect.
Nyholm got up. He had the sudden urge to wash his face with cold water. Whiskey, the wife, the daughter and the headache were hardly problems at all.
He heard footsteps approaching in the hallway: 270 pounds were enough to wobble the piles of paper on Nyholm’s desk. He tried to improve his posture, shifting papers to look busy.
Leif Snellman appeared in the doorway. He was a large man with a crew-cut. His only other remarkable feature was his nose, which was far too small in relation to his broad face.
“Damnit Nyholm,” Snellman growled in a low voice. “I need that report from last month for the noon meeting. Hurry up,” he said and disappeared without waiting for a response.
That didn’t bother Nyholm at all. As long as Snellman had left.
CHAPTER 8
KANNELMÄKI SHOPPING CENTER WEDNESDAY, 11:20 A.M.
A large, red-brick building sat behind the run-down Kannelmäki shopping center, a strip mall in North Helsinki. The four-story apartment building was long, with four entrances leading into separate stairwells. Detective Mikko Kulta shook his head. Had it been built vertically, as in most capitals, the City of Helsinki wouldn’t always have to seize more land from its neighbors.
A year ago, he had gone to look at a small studio nearby. But on his salary, it would be impossible to get a mortgage even for such a small pad. Either he’d have to find a rich woman to marry, or continue to rent.
Kulta had left his unmarked Ford Mondeo next to the strip mall. On the east side, the single-story mall bore the bare aesthetic of the late fifties, and on the south side, the land dipped down, making room for two levels. A cement staircase cut through the center of the mall. In front of a body shop on the lower level were a half-dozen cars, each waiting its turn.
Kulta spotted a blue maintenance van in front of staircase B. Though the distance to the door was only ninety feet or so, he pulled up the zipper on his blue fleece jacket. The rain had stopped, but the wind had picked up-thin clouds skirted swiftly across the sky. Earlier in the morning, the sun had peeked out at least briefly.
Kulta thought about his upcoming basketball practice-he’d have to skip it. Duty would devour his free time, as usual. Debris from a tall grove of birches littered the pavement.
When he reached the van, the maintenance guy was nowhere in sight, so Kulta banged on the side panel. A narrow-faced man in his fifties scrambled into the driver’s seat. He wore blue overalls and a black cap, from which tufts of messy gray hair stuck out.
Kulta noticed a scar on his left cheek. It had been poorly cared for, making it a distinctive feature. He wondered what kind of colorful past he’d find if he looked into the guy’s record.
“Hello,” Kulta said, “I’m from the VCU.”
“You wanna show me a badge?” the man replied dryly.
Kulta dug his wallet out of his side pocket and removed a small plastic card. It had the same blue and white colors as an ordinary Finnish ID card.
The maintenance man squinted at it for a long time, then nodded. “Alright. Just standard procedure.”
“Let’s go. Staircase B, second floor.”
The front door was unlocked, and Kulta entered first. The stairwell smelled musty. Two strollers were parked at the base of the stairs. Kulta took the stairs two at a time; the maintenance man struggled to keep up.
“What’s the hurry?” he panted.
“Just standard procedure,” Kulta remarked flatly and pointed to a tan door. The name on the mail slot read Sainio, but according to Kulta’s information, it was occupied, or rather had been, by Jerry Eriksson.
In Kulta’s pocket was a search warrant signed by Takamäki. Finnish police could search apartments with a lieutenant’s authorization, but phone taps needed court approval.
The maintenance guy sifted through his keys till he found the right one.
“Shouldn’t we ring the doorbell first?” he asked.
“What do you mean we? Just open the door,” Kulta said. To be on the safe side, he opened the zipper on his jacket. His gun was in the shoulder holster.
* * *
Kirsi Kohonen wore a black wool hat, but that didn’t help her freezing toes. Ought to start bringing warmer shoes to work, she thought. These thin-soled running shoes didn’t cut it anymore. The door opened and a tall, elderly woman appeared. She looked close to seventy, was at least four inches taller than Kohonen, and wore a blue blouse with plain slacks.
A shrill bark came from somewhere inside. The distance from the crime scene was about a hundred yards, but there was no direct line of sight to the abandoned house. Kohonen showed her badge to the woman.
“Detective Kohonen from the VCU.”
“Glad you said it, too; that badge is just a big blur to me without my glasses,” the woman laughed.
Kohonen put her badge back in her pocket. “We’re trying to gather some info on a recent incident and…”
“What incident?”
“Well, actually, I can’t say.”
“Why?”
“It’s confidential. I’m not authorized.”
The woman stared at Kohonen. “I see.”
“Anyhow… Have you noticed anything unusual in the past few days?”
“Where?”
“Here in your neighborhood.”
“Nothing unusual ever happens here. What could I have noticed?”
Kohonen kept a straight face. She had to persist. It was possible the woman didn’t know anything, but she couldn’t be sure yet. “Have you seen any cars or people recently that seemed suspicious? Either last weekend or the early part of this week?”