Cold Trail (6 page)

“Y
ou had something you wanted to talk about?”

“T
he 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.”

“T
hat’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.

“S
kipped out.”

“F
rom Helsinki Prison?” Salmela was intrigued. “That’s interesting. How?”

Suhonen
shook his head. “From his old man’s funeral. Ditched the guard.”

“H
mmm. 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.”

“B
ut the guy’s a total nobody,” Salmela wondered.

“S
till a murderer. Lieutenant figured we need to find him fast.”

“W
ell, 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 post
cards 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.

The
police database
provided basic facts on the crime Repo had committed on November 3, 1999 in the city of Riihimäki. He had been charged with murder right from the start, rather than a lesser homicide charge. It also revealed that Repo had been sentenced to life in prison in 2000. Joutsamo had written down the number of the police report.
It would lead her to the investigation documents, which might prove useful in tracking down Repo’s acquaintances.

Repo
didn’t own a car. There was no mention of him in the “usual suspects” database, aka the register of repeat offenders.

She
also had access to the
Helsingin Sanomat
newspaper’s premium
archives. There, Joutsamo had discovered a blurb titled “Riihimäki Wife-Killer Gets Life.” The text itself was short and to the point, “The Riihimäki District Court sentenced Timo Repo, convicted of killing his wife in November, to life in prison. The court found the act unusually cruel and brutal: forty-four-year-old Repo slit his wife’s throat with a knife. Alcohol was involved. Repo admitted to the crime in court.”

Takamäki
entered the room, carrying a cup of coffee.

“D
o we have anything?”

“N
ot much more than a couple of addresses: father’s and brother’s homes,” Joutsamo replied. “I thought I’d go by and check them out once Suhonen gets back from his field trip. Tomorrow I’m going to head up to Riihimäki to take a look at his preliminary investigation papers and see
if I can find
any mention of Repo’s acquaintances in them. After that,
make the rounds and ask anyone if they’ve seen him.”

“O
kay.”

“Y
ou see this? The old
Helsingin Sanomat
piece about Repo’s crime?” Joutsamo said, holding up a print of the article.

Takamäki
read it. “Cold-blooded way to kill. We’d better round him up before he decides to cork another bottle. Of course, it may already be too late.”

His cell
phone prevented the lieutenant from further reflection. Caller ID said it was Kaarina, his wife.

“H
ey hon,” Takamäki said.

“
Jonas got hit by a car. The Espoo Police called,” Kaarina said urgently.

“H
ow bad?” Takamäki asked. Sixteen-year-old Jonas was the older of Takamäki’s boys. Kalle was fourteen.

“T
hey don’t know yet. The ambulance took him to Jorvi Hospital.”

Joutsamo
could tell something had happened and perked up her ears.

“W
hen did it happen...and where?”

“I
don’t know exactly. Apparently not long ago, according to the policeman. Jonas had been riding his bike near the Sello shopping mall.”

Takamäki
thought for a second. “I’m heading straight to the hospital. How’s Kalle?”

“H
e’s at home. I’ll come, too.”

“G
ood,” Takamäki said, ending the call.

Joutsamo
gave her superior an inquisitive look.

“
Jonas got hit by a car and was taken to Jorvi. I have to go out there.”

“H
ow bad?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“Anything I can do?”

Takamäki
shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

“Y
ou want me to call a cruiser to take you?”

“N
o need. I’ll drive myself.”

Joutsamo
stood up and gave Takamäki a quick hug.

CHAPTER 4

MONDAY, 7:20 P.M.

MALMI
, NORTHERN HELSINKI

Timo Repo sniffed the stale air and opened the window. He drew back the curtains giving onto the street. Not all the way, but far enough for the cold blue light of the streetlamps of Vallesman Road to filter into the living room. He was still wearing the black suit. The stolen gray trench was flung across the arm of the couch.

His dad
had lived for years in an old wooden house in the north Helsinki district of Malmi. The elder Repo hadn’t diverged from ingrained habit: the key had been under the mat, just like decades before.

Timo recognized s
ome of the belongings. He had bought the Aalto vase as a gift for his mother in the 1980s. The china was the same old set.

The living room contained
a threadbare sofa, an armchair, and an old TV. The room opened onto the kitchen at the far end. Near the dining table, a door led to the bedroom.

Repo
’s gaze fell on an old photograph on top of the TV. It had been taken some time in the late ’60s, when the family had taken a weekend cruise to Stockholm. Mom and Dad smiled in the middle, with the boys on either side. His buzz-cut brother, Martti, grinned broadly in the photo. Timo remembered that he had had the same kind of haircut. You couldn’t see it, though, because his face had been scrawled out with black marker.

Repo
was exhausted. He didn’t have time to sleep, but he could rest for a while on the couch. First, though, he went into the closet in his father’s bedroom. He found a 9mm Luger in a brown leather holster in the hatbox on the upper shelf. It also held three small cardboard boxes, each containing twenty-five bullets.

He
knew the gun. Dad had taught him to shoot it back in the day. The gun was still in good shape; it had been oiled well enough. He pulled back the pistol’s slide, checked that the chamber was empty, and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked. He ripped open one of the boxes, loaded
six bullets into the magazine, and pushed it back into the old gun. Repo drew the
slide again. The bullet slid in impeccably. Good, no chambering
problems
.
Repo clicked on the safety and shoved the gun back into its holster.

He stretched out on the couch and decided to c
lose his eyes for a minute.

* * *

Suhonen was driving a green Peugeot 206 he had signed out of the police HQ garage. Joutsamo was sitting in the passenger seat. An old song by Metallica was playing on the radio. Joutsamo, a fan of heavy music, thought it was bubblegum rock. Suhonen disagreed heartily.

The car turned onto
Vallesman Road. The houses were old and relatively small, and both sides of the street were lined with parked cars.

“
I know this area. Picked up a member of the Skulls three, four blocks from here a few years back,” Suhonen said. The Skulls—or, as it read on the gang members’ leather vests, MC Skulls—wasn’t a genuine motorcycle club; it was a criminal organization. “Found two Swedish submachine guns.”

“L
et’s drive past it first and see if there are any lights on,” Joutsamo suggested. “If there are, then we can stake the place out or call in the SWAT team.”

“Y
ou got it,” Suhonen said.

Joutsamo
checked the numbers on the houses. “Two more, then it’s the next one. At that streetlamp.”

Suhonen
slowed down and the car slid past the house, going under 20 mph. The place was dark.

“
I didn’t see any movement,” Joutsamo said.

“A
nd you’re saying you would have been able to tell if there had been?”

“O
f course. Should we wait or go in to have a look?”

Suhonen
turned right at the next corner and started circling around the block. It would attract less attention than flipping a U-turn on a residential street. Joutsamo didn’t get a response, because Suhonen’s phone rang. It was his fiancée, calling to ask if and when he might be coming home. Suhonen said he didn’t know. The call was a brief one, and Joutsamo chose not to comment on it.

Suhonen returned to the situation at hand:
“We can’t hang out in the car on a residential street like this. We’d need to get a van or do it from one of the neighboring houses. Maybe we should just go have a look and see what there is to see, if anything.”

“Y
eah, but if we’re going by the book, I suppose we ought to have some reason to believe
that the suspect’s in there,” Joutsamo said. Once the prison had asked for the help of the authorities in hunting down Repo, the search had turned into a police investigation. “And we don’t have a warrant to conduct a search of that house. Our job is to find the convict.”

Suhonen
grunted. “If you say so. You’re the one who’s always talking about studying to become a lieutenant, but we wouldn’t be here in the first place if we didn’t believe Repo could be in that house, now would we?”

He
parked a few houses down from the target. “You know, I’m a ‘probable cause’ kind of guy,” he continued, as they stepped out of the car.

“I
n what sense?” Joutsamo asked.

“P
olice ops, of course. ‘Probable cause’ is a pretty good foundation for any operation. If I have probable cause to suspect something, I can do whatever I want. All I need is to meet the criteria for ‘probable cause.’”

Joutsamo
laughed, but she also checked to make sure the bulletproof vest she was wearing under her sweater was on straight. Her leather jacket was open, and her gun was holstered under her arm.

“G
o around the back?” she suggested.

“I
don’t think there is a back door. At least there wasn’t one at that gang member’s house, and this one looks the same.”