Jarkko Sipila - Against the Wall

The gangster sneered. “Yeah, right. The dick fucks it up, then refuses to pay for it.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“What did he offer?”

“Same as before, but I thought…”

“You thought?” Larsson snapped. “You ain’t supposed to think, just deliver the damn message.”

Salmela continued, unruffled. “I thought the old rate was low, so I got thirty percent more.”

Larsson broke out laughing. “Damn good thinking.” But his expression hardened immediately. “Who is it?”

“Wasn’t sure if I should ask, but I did anyway. A forty-something small-timer from Lahti…goes by Suikkanen.”

Larsson’s face tightened. “Suikkanen? Fuck me, I know that guy.”

Salmela was dumbfounded. Had Suhonen tried to infiltrate the Skulls as Suikkanen? He stayed quiet, waiting to see if Larsson would say anything more.

Spit flew from the gangster’s mouth. “That Suikkanen’s a fucking cop. He’s an undercover pig.”

Larsson turned to a narrow bookshelf and slid out a paperback with a red cover. He shook some photos out of the pages and riffled through them. When he found the right one, he handed it to Salmela. “Look for yourself.”

The photograph showed the front of the Pasila Headquarters. Suhonen was descending the stairs at the entrance, chatting with another man. Salmela recognized him as Lieutenant Takamäki.

“The one with the leather jacket is Suikkanen,” Larsson continued. “He landed me in here last summer.”

“Don’t know him.”

Larsson’s gaze was hard. “Good. Better stay away from him.”

“Anyway, back to Markkanen. I said we would…or you would contact him by phone. If he’s asked about his brother, the answer is yes. If about his sister, then it’s a no.”

“Hell yeah, we’ll do it,” Larsson said, and whistled. The hall guard stepped inside. “Get word to Korpela that we’ll take Markkanen’s job. Tell him to do it right…that Suikkanen’s a cop. But don’t tell Markkanen that we know that-he could be in with them. We might have to bump him, too… Also, get Korpela on the phone. I want to talk to Tony myself.”

Interesting, Salmela thought. The Skulls had stashed away an illegal cellphone, which Larsson could use to stay in touch with the outside.

“Anything else?” Salmela asked.

“No,” Larsson said. “Get lost.”

Salmela got up and stepped into the corridor. His cell block was one level up. The doors to the stairwells weren’t locked during the day. Now he had to warn his old friend Suhonen about the Skulls’ plan. He’d need phone authorization immediately, or he’d have to get word out some other way.

As he climbed the staircase, a blue-uniformed guard approached from the opposite direction. Salmela had just squeezed past the lout when he heard a voice from behind, “Hey, Salmela…”

Suddenly, he felt a crushing impact in his right leg. The pain in his knee shot through his entire body, and his leg buckled beneath him. Salmela tumbled onto his side and hit the stairs.

The guard was still standing a bit further down. “Raitio wanted to send his regards to you and your knee.”

Salmela caught sight of a raised hand. It came down hard, then everything went black.

The nightstick hit Salmela just above his left ear.

The guard glanced around. The stairwell was quiet, no witnesses. He pulled out his radio andreported that an inmate had either been assaulted or fallen down the stairs. Unable to haul the unconscious victim to the infirmary alone, he requested assistance.

A dreary voice on the other end asked if there was any sign of the perpetrator. The guard said no; he had just found the victim in the stairwell.

A thin stream of blood trickled out of Salmela’s ear and ran down his neck.

* * *

Markus Markkanen passed the Helsinki Ice Arena and stayed right at the Y intersection. Behind the arena were the Olympic Stadium, host of the 1952 summer games, and a smaller soccer stadium. He was satisfied. Someone had called him to ask about his brother, so Suikkanen’s fate was sealed. Lindström had taken the bait, as had Suikkanen.

His stomach growled and he glanced at the dashboard clock-he could go for some food. He took a right turn onto Urheilu Street, then a quick left. A former gas station had become a McDonald’s years earlier.

There was a line for the drive-thru, so Markkanen swung the Beamer into a parking space in front of a hedge. He’d get his food quicker if he went inside. Maybe he’d eat in, too.

The rock ’n’ roll themed interior was actually kind of fun; it reminded him of his youthful fascination with James Dean.

Markkanen was already at the door when one of his phones rang. It was his wife.

“Hey,” he answered softly. “How’s it going?”

“How are you?” she said, sounding a bit tense.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. We’ve been swimming, swimming, and swimming, but…”

“But what?”

She hesitated a moment. “This is a little strange. Lindström called and asked me the same kind of questions you might ask. How’s it going and what not.”

Damn, Markkanen thought. What was Lindström doing calling his wife?

“What did he want?”

“Nothing, really. He was very friendly. Asked me if we needed any money or anything. Just to chat.”

“Did he ask where you were?”

“Well, uhh…yes.”

Markkanen groaned. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

“Well, of course I told him. What else could I say?”

“Stupid.”

“Don’t get mad, Markus. It just slipped out somehow.”

“Well, pack your stuff and leave town.”

“To go where?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you go to Tampere. I’ll meet you there tomorrow, if I can make it. Check in at the Hotel Ilves.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Markkanen hung up and considered what this meant. Lindström shouldn’t have any reason to talk to Riikka.

His hunger had faded, and he walked back to the car.

Fucking Lindström.

PASILA POLICE HEADQUARTERS

FRIDAY, 2:40 P.M.

Suhonen walked into Takamäki’s office. The lieutenant was seated at his computer.

“You have a sec?” Suhonen asked, closing the door behind him.

Takamäki looked up when he heard the door close. Apparently this was something important or sensitive.

“I was about to head over to Customs, but it can wait. Go ahead.”

“I have a situation… It’s a little complicated.”

“How so?”

Suhonen told him about going undercover to meet Markkanen, and his orders to rob Lindström at his apartment in an hour. Takamäki listened quietly.

“What do you think I should do?” Suhonen asked finally.

“You know you can’t go through with it.”

“It could mean a breakthrough,” Suhonen said. “We’re already pretty far along.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Sometimes we end up in situations where the law is unclear, and the lawyers are no help either. But this situation is obvious, armed robbery is way past the gray area. Think what could happen if something went wrong.”

Suhonen nodded. “Well, yeah. In principle, I agree. It is very risky.”

Takamäki thought aloud. “Too risky. Do we have any other options?”

“What do you mean?”

“I was thinking we could fake it, but that’s pretty damn difficult as well, since Lindström is a potential suspect here. If the target was an outsider, we could consider it.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Suhonen said.

“Let’s look at the benefits. What would we gain if you carried out the robbery? You might get a little closer to Markkanen’s inner circle, find out more about the case, but I don’t see a direct benefit to the investigation. You wouldn’t find a smoking gun.”