Suhonen could have stepped in and informed them that the story was a crock of shit. He had heard it three weeks ago and had, of course, checked all the suicides among known motorcycle gang members and hang-arounds for the past six months. There hadn’t been a single one. Numerous suicides had been committed with handguns in general, but nothing indicated that the story was true. Suhonen was more inclined to believe that the gang had started spreading the tale themselves purely to reinforce their reputation.
“Those Skulls are totally nuts. You don’t want to stick your nose too far into their business.”
“Heard anything from Foppa lately?” asked Arsenal Fan.
“Visited him a couple of weeks ago.”
“What about his old lady?”
Moustache Man grunted. “You should know…”
“I should know what?”
“How she’s doing. You’re over there all the time. Everyone knows that…”
Arsenal Fan went quiet. “Does Foppa know, too? I’m kinda tripping about that.”
“I didn’t tell him, and we didn’t really talk about her anyway.”
“Okay, good,” the buddy replied, taking a swig of his beer.
Suhonen was drinking a Coke and considering his next move. The mention of Foppa’s name gave him an opening. Suhonen made his decision quickly and rose with his glass. His odds were low, but sitting at the bar was starting to get old… There had been no sign of Saarnikangas. His dark mood suited his role.
“Hey, guys,” he said without smiling, and sat down at their table. Arsenal Fan and Moustache Man looked at the intruder without saying a word.
“You were talking about Foppa. I know him.”
Neither one said anything until Moustache Man figured it was best to announce, “So do I.”
“Good,” Suhonen said. “That’s what it sounded like a second ago.”
“Were you eavesdropping?”
“No,” Suhonen replied, his voice clearly softer. “You guys were talking loud enough for half the bar to hear. Not smart.”
Moustache Man eyed Suhonen intently. “Where do you know Foppa from?”
“Did time in the same block.”
“Which one?”
Suhonen felt the urge to smile, but it didn’t suit his role. Moustache Man had tossed out a control question.
“East block, third floor.”
“What were you in for?” Arsenal Fan asked, a little shyly. Suhonen figured he was wondering whether the stranger had heard the story about him taking care of the wife.
“Occupational mishap. Two years, two months for aggravated assault. Got caught on a surveillance camera I didn’t know about.”
Arsenal Fan and Moustache Man nodded sympathetically, but clearly a little uncertainly.
“Who are you looking for?” Moustache Man asked.
“How so?” Suhonen’s tone was so coy that the other two could tell he was definitely looking for someone.
“An enforcer like you in a neighborhood pub. Drinking a Coke. You think we’re stupid?”
“I don’t think you’re stupid. And this Coke is warm. Suikkanen,” Suhonen said. His motivation was clear: by introducing himself first, he brought himself to the same level as his drinking buddies.
“Suikkanen.” Moustache Man savored the name. “Never heard.”
Suhonen flashed a cold smile. “You’re not supposed to have.”
“Yugi,” Arsenal Fan said, extending a hand.
Moustache Man eyed his buddy coldly, and Yugi pulled his hand back. Moustache Man introduced himself: “Eki.”
“Nice to meet you,” Suhonen said, giving another smile.
“I’m going to ask repeat the question, if you don’t mind,” Eki continued. “Who are you looking for? Who’s in trouble?”
Suhonen stroked his chin. “No one would be in trouble if everyone just paid their debts.”
Arsenal Yugi and Moustache Eki were silent. Both were pleased that neither had any debts to speak of. The enforcer in the leather jacket seemed like a bad guy, one you didn’t want to spend a whole lot of time around.
“Juha Saarnikangas.”
“Juha?” Yugi let slip. Eki gave his friend an evil look. Now there was no point denying it, even if they wanted to.
“They said in Kontula he might be here.”
“How much does he owe?” Eki asked.
Suhonen shrugged. “It’s none of my business.”
“What is your business?”
“Finding him.”
“And then what?” Eki asked.
“Now, that’s none of your business.”
“Why would someone send a torpedo like you after some small-time junkie? That’s a pretty stacked deck.”
“You want to join in?” Suhonen asked, looking intently at Eki. “Would it be more even then?”
“I’m not too fond of your tone.”
“You don’t have to be.”
Yugi had taken a swig of his beer and now managed to get a word in. “I don’t give a shit about the guy. He stole a wallet from some twelve-year-old kid in Tallinn Square once, goddammit. I was having a drink and happened to see it. It was completely out of control, and I ran the clown down. When I brought the wallet back to the kid, who was bawling his head off, the cops were there, and I had a hell of a time explaining what happened. Luckily they believed the kid that I wasn’t the one who took it. In the end they even thanked me.”
Suhonen nodded. “Touching story. But where can I find him?”
Yugi continued, “He was here about three hours ago, but he shot up in the john, and the bouncer threw him out. Got banned from here for a month, for a change. I think he’s crawled back to some hole for the night. I doubt he’ll be out again.”
“What hole?”
“I don’t know. He’s got some bitch here somewhere nearby, but he’s always hanging around the Itäkeskus Mall parking lot in the morning, checking to see if someone left their car door unlocked and their stuff inside. That’s where I’d look for him if I had to.”
“And would you?”
“I won’t,” Moustache Man said quickly.
Suhonen ignored Eki’s response. “A C-note if you tell me where to find him.”
“I don’t have to do anything else?”
“All I need is to know where I can find him.”
Eki tried to curb his buddy’s enthusiasm. “Think for a second about what you’re getting mixed up in.”
“I’m not getting mixed up in anything except helping someone give the idiot what he deserves.”
“You’re drunk,” Eki said, standing up. “Sorry, I’m not interested in this conversation anymore.”
Suhonen gave Moustache Man a hard look as he rose.
“No worries. I already forgot,” Eki said, heading in the direction of the bar.
“Good,” Suhonen growled, writing down the number for his off-the-record line on a scrap of paper he found in his pocket. The prepaid phone couldn’t be traced back to the police.
* * *
Joutsamo saw a knife. Not some gleaming dagger; just a rusty old all-purpose Mora. She realized she was in an empty, windowless room. A lone light bulb dangled from the ceiling. A second knife fell from somewhere, and then a third. Soon the floor was covered in knives. They reached up to her ankles, her knees. Joutsamo wanted to run, but she couldn’t move.
She woke up in a sweat. She had kicked off her blanket and was sprawled in bed in her T-shirt and underpants. She looked at the red lights on her clock radio: 3:32 a.m.
She lay there for a moment, breathing. The windows of her one-bedroom Töölö apartment gave onto the large interior courtyard. The curtains were drawn, but yellow light from the yard gleamed in through the gap.
Her nightmares had returned. Joutsamo wasn’t able to predict when they came, and it made going to bed unpleasant. Violence had been stored to her mental hard drive. At times Joutsamo wondered whether she should go back to Narcotics or transfer to other duties. But something about violent crimes fascinated her. Maybe it was that evil was so unpredictable. People committed senseless acts for such trivial reasons. Joutsamo had always been interested in the motives behind a crime, especially if one was never found.
Joutsamo rubbed the sleep from her eyes and her thoughts cleared. There was a direct cause for her nightmare-the Repo case.