Jarkko Sipila - Nothing but the Truth

Mari didn’t want to say yes, but she did anyway. “Alright. That’s fine with me, but tell them to stay on the street-nobody comes inside my place. If we come outside, they can walk in front or behind, but nobody follows Laura into school or me into work.”

“Of course not. Trust me…it’ll be great. Just like an American president with the Secret Service and all,” he said and hung up the phone.

Mari took a sip of red wine as the same feeling of defeat that she had known so well during their marriage descended. Anton had always known how to twist her arm to get his way. After a divorce, several moves, and a restraining order, she had finally managed to break free of him, and now he was shouldering his way back in because Mari was too tired to argue.

MONDAY, 8:00 A.M.

MARI LEHTONEN’S APARTMENT

Just inside the door of the convenience store across the street from the Lehtonens’ building was a newspaper stand boasting the word hero in one of its headlines. Just beside the headline was a scrambled screenshot from Mari’s TV interview; the subhead read Murder Witness Marked for Death .

Mari Lehtonen hadn’t seen the paper, nor the headline. She was at the breakfast table, drinking tea with her daughter and discussing their plans for the coming day. Some danger was unavoidable, but they couldn’t let it bother them. Mari had also instructed Laura on what say to her friends at school, the main message being that life was to go on as normally as possible. Mari would answer the inevitable questions at work in the same way.

* * *

Kulta and Kohonen were staked out in a car in front of the building-the same Peugeot 206 that Suhonen had used a day earlier. With such an ideal spot, the car had never been moved. Another police car, this one a cruiser, was posted just in front of the entrance.

Kohonen yawned. She’d been arranging phone taps at the station till midnight, hurried to bed, then

risen again at six. She and Kulta had climbed into the stakeout vehicle at seven. Division of labor between the two was clear cut: Kohonen had the girl, Kulta the mom. Neither were allowed to get any further than thirty feet. The previous evening, Takamäki had worked out the details with Laura’s teacher and Mari’s employer. The police were not to enter any classrooms nor Mari’s cubicle area, but were to wait outside in the hallway and reception area. Mari hadn’t responded to Takamäki’s calls.

Kulta fixed his eyes on a car pulling into a parking space in front of the building. A man wielding a camera got out of the driver’s side door and a youthful, dark-haired woman stepped out the passenger side. Reporters, thought Kulta. The media circus had begun. By 8:30, three cameramen and three reporters had gathered in front of the building, with one of the patrol officers tending the crowd. Kulta had asked Takamäki for advice, but had received none.

The clock in the Peugeot showed 8:36 when yet another vehicle pulled up to the curb: a matte black American muscle car. Kulta knew the model, a 1974 Chevy Nova.

The car was parked about a hundred and fifty feet from the Peugeot with its front bumper concealed so Kulta couldn’t make out the plates. The two men inside gave no indication of getting out. Kohonen had noticed the car too.

“Should we go have a look?” she said, already out the door. Kulta brought up the rear.

Both officers made sure their coats were open and checked their guns in their shoulder holsters. Despite freezing temperatures, neither felt particularly cold with their bulletproof vests on.

The Chevy was parked about a hundred feet past the entrance to the Lehtonens’ building, and the detectives breezed past to the whir of camera shutters. Kohonen signaled one of the patrol officers to come too, and the entourage of cameramen tailed along.

At fifty feet, Kulta began to make out the men’s faces. The guy in the passenger seat had sunken cheeks and bad skin. His hair was long, and he had a small mustache. Kulta felt a glimmer of recognition, but couldn’t quite place the man’s face.

Then it came to him.

“Careful,” he said. The one in the passenger seat was Butch Willer, previously Pekka Viljamaa. The details of the name change were unimportant at the moment. What was important was the fact that Willer was a member of the Skulls, a hard-core organized crime ring fronting as a motorcycle gang.

“They’re Skulls,” said Kulta as he drew his pistol. “I got the passenger side, you take the driver.”

Kohonen and the other officer drew their weapons and sidestepped to the other side of the car.

The officer who’d been posted in front of the building came running up to shoo off the cameras. “Move away! Now!”

The herd took a few steps back, but the shutters kept clicking.

“Out of the car!” bellowed Kulta loud enough for the gangsters to hear. “Get out! Slowly!”

Inside, the two men glanced at each other and nodded. They opened the doors and stepped out slowly. Both had on gang vests over long-sleeved black T-shirts.

“Show me your hands!” Kulta ordered.

“What is this?” protested Willer in his shrill voice as he got out. Kulta didn’t respond, just kept his gun trained on Willer. The patrol officer came up from the side, and with one swift movement, threw the man to the ground, wrenched his arms behind his back and clapped the cuffs on. Kulta turned to the second gangster on the other side of the car-he was already in cuffs as well.

“What the hell,” said Willer from the sidewalk, his voice loud enough that the reporters could hear. “We didn’t do anything. All we’re doing is protecting Lehtonen cuz the cops can’t do it. We’re no criminals.”

“Shut up!” shouted Kulta. He swapped his gun for a phone and called for a patrol car to take these goons away-the one already on site was for security detail only.

One of the reporters took a couple wary steps toward Willer. “Did I hear you say you guys are Lehtonen’s bodyguards?”

“That’s right. The police can’t do it, so someone has to.”

The patrol officer glanced over at Kulta, who was still talking on the phone. He decided to break it up himself, “Okay, that’s enough. Press conference is over.”

“Can I ask who’s paying you?” said the reporter, the cameras whirring all around.

“Mari Lehtonen, of course,” said Willer. “She doesn’t trust the police.”

“That’s enough!” shouted the officer.

Kulta hung up the phone and came to his aid.

“Media, move back,” he ordered, but nobody listened. The thought of pulling out his gun crossed his mind, but he suppressed it quickly.

“Are the police so incapable of protecting Lehtonen that she has to pay gangsters to do the job?” stammered one reporter.

Kulta was getting very annoyed, but he managed to stay calm.

“Can you tell us what the reason is for this arrest?”

“Now there’s a good question,” said Willer from the sidewalk. “I’d like to know, too!”

Kulta tuned out the racket. His eyes scanned the surrounding area for more thugs. The Skulls weren’t exactly known for their bodyguards. Body counts was more like it. These two may well have been sent here on a hit.

Kulta’s eyes were drawn to the entrance of the apartment building, where two figures were exiting-Mari and Laura-apparently going somewhere. The two peered over at the ruckus before veering off in the opposite direction.

Shit, thought Kulta. If he started chasing them now, he’d drag the reporters and cameras along, but if he stayed here the Lehtonens would be sitting ducks, which was out of the question.