“What now?” he asked, irritated . The forty-year-old detective’s black hair was long and sweaty. He was sporting a beard like the pros during the Stanley Cup Playoffs. Although Takamäki suspected that Suhonen wasn’t as superstitious as the NHL players were about shaving and losing.
“You guys were ahead 6–2, so forget about the game,” Takamäki said.
When Suhonen took off his blue shirt, Takamäki noticed the extra gear under his shoulder pads and began to laugh.
“Bullet-proof vest? Why?”
Suhonen looked a little sheepish. “Let’s you take the corners a little harder. Almost all our guys wear them.”
“Boy, you are Puck Police, all right,” Takamäki said, sitting down on a bench. There were about twenty guys’ bags and gear in the locker room. How many department-issued weapons were here? Well, these guys were financial crimes investigators, so probably not many.
Suhonen tossed his neck guard and shoulder pads into his bag and began unlacing his skates.
“What’s up?” he asked, without raising his gaze from his skates.
“Work. A lifer escaped.”
Suhonen stopped unlacing and gave Takamäki an intense look. “Who?”
“Apparently no one that bad.”
“Who?”
“Timo Repo.”
Suhonen went back to his laces. “Repo? Killed his wife somewhere in Riihimäki or Hyvinkää before the turn of the millennium?”
“Bingo.”
“From prison?”
“Nah, his old man’s funeral in Töölö. Ran for it.”
“And you had to get me tossed from the game for that?” Suhonen said, drying and packing up his skates.
“You’re on the clock,” Takamäki chuckled.
Suhonen took off his bullet-proof vest and sniffed it. “Pretty fragrant. Hopefully I get to hunt Repo down with you and Joutsamo in the teeniest compact vehicle ever.”
“Go take a shower.”
CHAPTER 3
MONDAY, 7:00 P.M.
THE CORNER PUB, KALLIO
Suhonen was sitting alone at a table in a stuffy bar in Helsinki’s working-class neighborhood of Kallio. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail and he was wearing a leather jacket. A half-full pint stood in front of him. Salmela hadn’t shown up yet. Half a dozen guys were standing at the bar, even though there was plenty of room at the tables. An elderly customer was watching some old soccer match from the muted TV bolted to the ceiling. Over the loudspeakers, a classic rock band was offering advice about socking cash away, but for the clientele of the Corner Pub, the advice had gone in one ear and out the other.
At the next table over, Suhonen heard a heavy-set guy recounting his weekend escapades to a couple of buddies. “Check it out, we were there at the strip bar and this chick came over to give me a lap dance and just kept going, ‘Tip me, tip me.’ So I dug a fistful of change out of my pocket and dropped it into her panties.”
“Dude, hell no,” laughed one of the other guys.
“And that’s not even the best part,” Fatso continued. “I figured she’d go right over to get the bouncer so I took out one more two-euro coin. I heated it with my lighter and when the goon showed up, I said, ‘My bad,’ and put the red-hot coin in his hand. Fuck, that dude screamed loud! I hauled ass out of there as fast as I could.”
As the group burst out laughing, Salmela entered and walked straight to the bar. The forty-year-old regular had short hair and a brown bomber jacket; its faded lambskin collar was wet. He got his pint in no time and came over to sit next to Suhonen.
“What’s up? Any good gigs lately?” Salmela asked.
Suhonen glanced over at the guys sitting at the next table. “Nothing worth talking about here.”
Salmela tapped the heavy-set guy on the shoulder.
“Hey, why don’t you guys move over to that corner table. Watch some TV for a sec.”
Fatso was about to say something, but his buddy stepped in. “Sure, okay. No problem,” he said, picking up his beer. The others followed in silence.
“Your reputation’s growing,” Suhonen joked.
“Sometimes it even comes in handy,” Salmela answered. Suhonen looked him in the eyes. Suhonen thought they looked even harder than before. Suhonen and Salmela had been friends since childhood. They had both grown up in Lahti, a town of about 100,000 an hour’s drive north of Helsinki. When they were teenagers, they had belonged to a small gang that burglarized attics. When the gang was finally busted, Salmela got caught, but Suhonen was at home with a raging fever. The best friends had ended up on opposite sides of the law, but their friendship hadn’t ended. It had actually blossomed-Suhonen picked up street intel from Salmela and, in return, had helped his friend out of a few legal jams. Salmela had continued to earn his living fronting stolen goods, but now there were rumors that he had ratcheted up into more serious crimes.
“What about your gigs?
“Bah,” Salmela said. “It’s been quiet. Quiet.”
Suhonen wasn’t completely sure he believed him.
“You had something you wanted to talk about?”
“The name Timo Repo say anything to you?”
“Repo?” Salmela thought. “Unusual name. Nah, the only Repo I know is the guy who’s doing life for icing his wife.”
“That’s the one,” Suhonen said. He took a sip of his pint and waited for Salmela’s reaction.
“A softy. I didn’t know him personally. He pretty much kept to himself, like most wife-killers. They’re not tough guys, usually they just snap. Sometimes for a reason, sometimes not. What’d he do?” Salmela asked, sipping his beer.
“Skipped out.”
“From Helsinki Prison?” Salmela was intrigued. “That’s interesting. How?”
Suhonen shook his head. “From his old man’s funeral. Ditched the guard.”
“Hmmm. Okay, not so interesting anymore. What’s he to you guys?”
“C’mon, a lifer escaped. We need to get him back behind bars before the media gets its panties in a twist.”
“But the guy’s a total nobody,” Salmela wondered.
“Still a murderer. Lieutenant figured we need to find him fast.”
“Well, I can ask around, but I gotta say I’m a little confused by your, or I guess Takamäki’s, enthusiasm. Old man’s death can be a tough spot for a soft con like that. My money’s on him downing a bottle of vodka and walking up to the prison gates to turn himself in once the hangover clears.”
Suhonen shrugged.
* * *
In the Homicide break room, Joutsamo poured hot water into her mug and dipped in a bag of tea. It was some green variety she didn’t particularly care for, but it was all that was left. She’d have to remember to pick up some more Tiger’s Daydream.
She walked back down the harshly lit corridor to her room, set her mug down on the sole corner of her desk not covered by stacks of paper, and sat down.
A few postcards were pinned to her cubicle divider, the most recent one from Panama. It had been sent by Joutsamo’s good friend, TV reporter Sanna Römpötti. Joutsamo wondered where Römpötti got the money for her overseas trips, since Joutsamo could barely make the rent on her one-bedroom in Töölö. Maybe reporters made that much more than cops.
Takamäki had given her the background info on Repo, and Joutsamo had now fleshed it out. The Social Security database revealed that Repo was born on June 16, 1955 in Hämeenlinna, so he would be fifty-two now. His current address wasn’t much use: Helsinki Prison.
Repo’s mother had died in the ’90s, and his father was deceased now as well, although that information hadn’t been updated yet. Joutsamo had jotted down the father’s address, which was somewhere in northern Helsinki, probably Malmi. Repo had a son born in 1995, Joel. The records indicated Child Protective Services had taken Joel into custody immediately following the crime. Timo Repo’s mother tongue was Finnish, and he was a member of the Lutheran Church. He also had a brother, Martti, who was a couple of years older. Joutsamo tapped the brother’s address into her computer, too.