“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.”
“Let’s go talk to the neighbor,” Joutsamo said. She started circling around to the front yard the way Kulta had come.
“What neighbor?” Kulta wondered, following her.
“The one who was just watching us out of that window.”
Kulta looked at the neighboring home, but the window facing them was dark.
“Wow. X-ray vision, huh?”
“You 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.
“Agh,” 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.
“No?” 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.”
“Except 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.
“Anna Joutsamo from the Helsinki Police Department,” Joutsamo announced, showing her badge. “This here is my colleague, Mikko Kulta.”
“From the same firm,” Kulta quipped.
“You’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.
“You 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.”
“Do 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.
“Well, 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.”
“Why are you interested in that?”
“Why 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.
“Okay, 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.”
“That’s obvious,” Karppi said, smiling a little more broadly now. His teeth were badly yellowed. “Haven’t caught him yet?”
“No,” Joutsamo answered.
“Well, 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.
“Do 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.”
“You 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?”
“Not really. It’s mostly just ads these days.”
“All 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.”
“Good-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?”
“You guys didn’t talk to him. He didn’t know you were cops.”
“He 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?”
“Everyone’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?”
“It’s possible, of course.”
“Should we start staking out Karppi’s place?”
“No!”
“Why not?” Kulta asked.
“You 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 work 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.