Jarkko Sipila - Against the Wall

“I need your advice…”

“Hey, Saarnikangas! You took the job. That was your choice. If you got problems, they’re yours,” he said and pulled a couple wrinkled hundred-euro notes from his pocket. He shoved them through the opening. “There’s your money. The other five will go toward your debt, assuming the job was done right.”

“It was,” Juha said, looking the man in the eyes.

Lydman’s gaze fell for a second, then rose again.

“Good. Do as you’re told, and nothing bad will happen. The less we know about anything, the better.”

“But I want…”

“What you want doesn’t mean shit. This is no game, these are brutal people.”

Juha was puzzled and couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Two girls, probably first-graders, came down the stairs. Both of them wore bright red jackets and were chattering loudly. Saarnikangas heard them say something about knitting.

Lydman slammed the door shut, leaving Saarnikangas alone on the landing. He made the mistake of smiling at the girls, who hurried down the stairs. “Gross! Did you see his teeth!” he heard one of them sneer.

Saarnikangas waited for a couple of minutes before going down the stairs. He didn’t want anyone to think he was following the girls.

By the time he got out the door, they were already out of sight. He stumbled back to the van, wondering what to do. Both of his hands were trembling, probably from lack of sleep. He would have liked to sleep, but he could barely close his eyes. Some downers would help, except he didn’t have any. He did have money, though. Shit.

Saarnikangas imagined himself lying in bed. He could just lie there, and nothing would matter. That shithead could say whatever he wanted about brutal people this, that, and the other, but it wouldn’t matter to him.

The Ducato roared to life. He had to get back to the garage. He had to think. Enough blundering.

HELSINKI PRISON

TUESDAY, 10:03 A.M.

Saku Ainola, warden of the Helsinki Prison, was wearing his usual old, gray suit. Suhonen was sure the man had been in the same shabby outfit for at least the last ten years. A dreary man in his forties, Ainola waited for Suhonen to pass through the metal detector at the entrance. Suhonen had left his change, phone, and Glock 26 in a locker, so he made it through without a beep.

The drawn-looking guard at the gate was expressionless. He had seen people of every stripe pass through, and this guy in a leather jacket was just one more. Though Suhonen looked more like one of the inmates than a visitor, the guard had seen the police-issued Glock and guessed correctly that he was a cop.

“Hello,” Ainola said dryly, offering his hand. Both men had firm handshakes. Ainola had been with the Helsinki Prison for a long time, starting as a guard. In his spare time, he had earned a law degree and had worked his way up over the years.

Ainola flashed his ID card at the sensor, which unlocked the door of the gatehouse. He opened it and led the way. The gatehouse was part of the prison’s perimeter wall, some twenty yards from the brick-walled, nineteenth century central building. Helsinki Prison housed mainly high-risk repeat offenders.

Suhonen dodged the puddles in the paved yard. His cross-trainers were water-resistant, but not waterproof. A steady drizzle fell from the gray sky.

“Thanks for arranging this,” said Suhonen.

“No problem.”

Suhonen had specifically requested that Ainola personally arrange the meeting so that no inadvertent rumors would spread.

Ainola again swiped his card and pulled open the door to the main building. He led Suhonen to a basement room reserved for police interrogations.

“Call me when you’re ready,” Ainola said and slipped out. The door clanged shut, and Suhonen heard the lock engage.

The room reminded him of the interrogation rooms at the police headquarters. Gray walls, a beige table, a phone on the wall, and a couple of chairs. Sporting straight, close-cropped hair, Eero Salmela sat at the table. He was wearing dark gray prison-issue pants, a white T-shirt and a blue hooded sweatshirt. He appeared to have lost weight-his cheeks were sunken, and his eyes set deeper than before. He looked at Suhonen gravely, his mouth a thin crack. Prison wasn’t easy on a man.

“Hey there,” Suhonen said. He shrugged off his coat and draped it over the back of the chair. The room was cool, and Suhonen kept his sweater on.

“What’s new in the big city?”

Suhonen was tempted to point out that the prison was well within city limits, only about two miles from downtown Helsinki. From the nearby streets, a tennis ball full of amphetamines could almost be thrown into the prison yard. But Salmela didn’t seem to be in the mood for jokes. Suhonen sat down. “Been in Pieksämäki the past few days, I wouldn’t call that the big city.”

“Naarajärvi prison? What’s so interesting over there? Or should I say who?”

“No, no. It was a mandatory police driving course. Nothing really worth talking about.”

“High-speed pursuits, huh?” Salmela wore a skeptical expression, then shrugged his shoulders.

Suhonen and Salmela had known each other since childhood. Chance had dealt the criminal card to Salmela, and the cop card to Suhonen. It could easily have been the other way around as well, but Suhonen had stayed home with a fever one night long ago when Salmela and a couple other punks from Lahti were busted for breaking and entering.

Salmela, Suhonen’s part-time informant, had always provided him with valuable intel. On his end, Suhonen had helped Salmela out of a few minor legal jams.

A couple of years ago, Salmela’s son had been shot dead during a drug deal gone bad. Up to that point, Salmela had been a small-time thief and black market dealer, but the loss of his son had turned him to more serious crimes.

“How’s your woman?” Salmela asked.

“You mean Raija?” Suhonen laughed. He had managed to live with her for just one year, before they broke up. “She finally had enough a month ago and packed her bags.”

“That hurts.”

“A little.”

“You’re lying,” Salmela said.

“You’re right. Didn’t bother me at all.”

Salmela was quiet for a moment. “You’re a terrible liar. Did you bring the cake?”

“Baked it myself. Forgot to put the file in,” Suhonen chuckled. Salmela had been the one to request the meeting. He was serving a four-year sentence for drug trafficking. He had been involved with a gang planning a string of armed robberies. They were going to use the stolen money to finance a large drug shipment. Salmela was involved only in planning and executing the robberies, but the District Court had viewed him as a full co-conspirator, and he was convicted for trafficking along with the other players.

The scheme had unraveled a year ago when Suhonen, working on another case, had tagged along with a SWAT team on a raid in an apartment in West Harbor. Salmela and a couple other men were arrested along with a stash of weapons and a detailed plan of the armed robberies. The Helsinki PD had then turned over the drug investigation to the National Bureau of Investigation.

“Who ratted on us?” Salmela turned serious again.

“I already told you. It was a fluke. We were looking for another guy, checking any suspect apartments in the database. Just tough luck.”

“I don’t believe you,” Salmela said, leaning forward. “But that doesn’t matter now. Appeals Court put me in a really shitty spot.”

“Oh, it’s the court’s fault now?”

Salmela nodded.

“If you remember, the court gave me four years and Raitio four-and-a-half.”

Jorma Raitio was another of the major players in the scheme.