The Lion of Justice (14 page)

Once I got back I fried eggs and beans as if I needed all that energy to speak with Kari Suurluoto. Again, he picked up immediately; this time he was waiting for it.

“Hi, Hilja. Sorry about yesterday. I had just picked up my daughter and three of her friends from the stables. I didn’t want to talk with them around—too tough a subject for a thirteen-year-old.”

“Were you and my father close?”

“We were the only boy cousins. I have two sisters, just like your dad. Still, we were six years apart, and that was a lot for young men. I think I admired Cousin Keijo, but I was afraid of him, too.”

“Afraid? Why?”

“I was afraid whenever Keijo wanted me to be afraid. What did you want to know about him?”

“Stuff like that. Did you think he’d be a killer one day?”

A long silence. I heard clicking noises. A tree in the courtyard cast a shadow over the window in our living room. I could see individual leaves in the shadow. Some of them had already fallen.

“How old are you now?” Suurluoto asked. “You’re over thirty, right?”

“Right. And I’m a bodyguard. You don’t need to protect me from the cruel world,” I told him.

Suurluoto sighed. “We can’t protect each other, but we can do our best. I don’t talk about your dad to my daughter, but of course she’s searched for him on the web and found out about the murder. She knows all the details. I’ve told her not to go to those sites, and I’ve set strict parental controls, but not all of her friends’ parents care. They just say kids these days are more mature than we think.”

I let Suurluoto talk. Eventually he began to talk about my father. Keijo Suurluoto had always had a short fuse and a mean streak, but he was also nice. Keijo looked like an average kid, and he wasn’t bullied in school. Kari’s older sisters had never liked Keijo, but Kari had admired his self-confidence. Sometimes it turned into cruelty.

“Once he twisted my arm, and it dislocated. We were supposedly just wrestling. I told him to let me go, but he just laughed. I had to be taken to the hospital, and he kept saying how sorry he was and how he’d forgotten how much younger I was than him. I was ten, and he was sixteen. I think he enjoyed his time in the army, and that’s when he met your mother. He’d bragged to his mom how he’d found a wife. He knew right away that this was true love. And when I saw Anneli for the first time, I didn’t wonder why.”

Kari Suurluoto’s parents had owned a farmhouse in Juankoski, and the entire family was there to help. That’s where Keijo had brought Anneli to meet the family for the first time. Anneli, although on her way to becoming a teacher, was from Tuusniemi and a farm girl, so she quickly learned her way around the house, moving hay with a pitchfork and brewing coffee. Her work ethic had charmed her future in-laws, who had been a tad suspicious about a girl who wanted to be a teacher, thinking she held herself in higher regard than farm folks.

“My parents had only finished grade school, and so did Keijo’s parents. But Anneli was an angel. It was easy to see how kids would love her. She was my first serious crush, although I knew she wouldn’t look at a boy five years younger, and besides, she was dating Keijo. But I kept dreaming about her. Anneli was so nice—she didn’t ignore me, and she wouldn’t let Keijo tease me. She was protective.”

A lynx
, I almost said. In New York I had learned about Native American totem animal theories, and in these mythologies lynx were protectors and carriers of secrets. I remembered how Mom had tried to shield me from my father until the very end, how she’d told me to crawl away and hide.

“Keijo was jealous about Anneli, even when it came to me, a teenage boy. We all witnessed it at the wedding. I danced too close to Anneli and for too long, and Keijo saw how happy I was to be near her. He almost hit both of us but didn’t thanks to Anneli’s brother. That Jari was a really nice man.”

Kari Suurluoto hadn’t been surprised when Keijo murdered Anneli. He was shocked, sad, and furious, but not surprised. They’d seen it coming, all the Suurluotos had said, but they’d been divided looking for a reason why he did it. Keijo’s father had died the summer Hilja was born, so he wasn’t around to take sides, but Keijo’s mother thought that Anneli had been asking for it, always shaking her ass and fluttering her eyelids at men.

“Did she do that? Be honest with me. I can take it,” I said.

“Depends on the person, really. I dreamed of Anneli’s smiles and hugs meaning something more than just friendship, but I don’t think they did. Anneli was a joyful being and so transparent with her feelings. She had Vyborg blood in her veins. That’s where her mom came from when she escaped the war. I felt so bad for your grandmother at the funeral. Didn’t she pass soon after?”

“She lived a few more years, but she was never the same again. I was quickly moved from her custody to Uncle Jari’s.”

“Was that good for you? My mom didn’t want you to stay with us. I think she was afraid of Keijo. And she had a reason to be. He escaped from prison twice.”

My world came to a halt. The shadow from the tree stopped swaying on the living room walls.

“Are you saying my father, these days using the name Keijo Kurkimäki, has escaped prison?”

“Yeah, from the psychiatric ward. His first attempt was cut pretty short. I think it lasted only a couple of hours. The second time they found him after four days. It was never publicized, but Keijo’s mom received a call, warning her that Keijo might try to come see her in Tuusniemi. They finally caught him in Kuopio, where he was drunk out of his mind in the middle of the market square, throwing herring at seagulls. At the time my wife and I lived in Brussels, and I took care of the kids at home, so I don’t know the details of what really happened. If I remember right, your dad pretty severely injured a guard and some girl, but I’m not sure. It was some ten years ago.”

Because I had never heard of this, it must have happened while I was in New York. The last time my father called me was a couple of years ago. I’d made sure none of the pictures of Sans Nom showed my face—although my father was locked up securely behind bars and concrete and electronic locks, surely he was allowed to use a phone. I hated the powerful effect his voice had on me. The last time I’d seen him, he held my mother in his arms and begged her for forgiveness. I don’t know if my mother would’ve forgiven him. I would never be able to.

14

I chatted with Kari Suurluoto for another twenty minutes. He worked in the Leppävaara suburb of Helsinki as a department head for a large household appliance store. He said he’d gladly meet up with me if I ever felt like it. He wanted to know if I looked like Anneli. I assured him that he’d be disappointed; I’d inherited Keijo’s features.

Why hadn’t anyone told me Keijo had been on the run? Sure, I had been in New York at the time, but come on. This was my father, even if he had lost custody of me as soon as he was locked up. I went back online to look for more information about him. Websites had archived public hearings and scanned newspaper articles. There was even a picture of my father. The only mention of me was how Keijo Suurluoto had a four-year-old child. A couple of articles showed a picture of our home in Lappeenranta at the time. I remembered how the stairwell in the building often smelled of fresh sticky buns, thanks to a neighbor who was an active baker. Was that the reason Mrs. Voutilainen’s pies had made me feel safe, sending me back to early childhood, where I hadn’t experienced enormous loss yet?

The only motivation I could think of for the murder was jealousy. I might never know if my father had any real reason to be jealous, and even if Mom had had sex with all the men in the neighboring apartments, that didn’t give my father the right to kill her. I didn’t remember her bringing over any strange men, but then again, I was too young to remember.

On Wednesday the restaurant was pretty empty, so I had some free time in the early evening. I tried my luck with Päivi Väänänen-Huttunen who lived in Kuopio. A woman warily answered the phone. She muttered her name, as if she didn’t want me to hear it.

“It’s Hilja Ilveskero. I was wondering if you went to high school with my mother, Anneli Suurluoto, formerly Karttunen?”

The woman didn’t reply. There was a heated debate in the background in English. It stopped abruptly—she’d turned the television off.

“Who did you say you were again?”

“Anneli Karttunen’s daughter, Hilja.”

The woman sighed. “Is there any way you can prove it? Your number doesn’t show up on my phone, and you could be anyone.”

“I saw your picture in my mother’s funeral album. Päivi Väänänen was written behind the photo. You wore a black bell-shaped dress, pearls, and large, gold-rimmed glasses,” I said.

“Yes, I went to school with Anneli. It was just such a long time ago I had almost forgotten about her. Or wanted to. What do you want?”

“I just want mementos, memories. I hardly know anything about her. And if it’s at all possible, I’d like to get in touch with Tarja Kinnunen and Tiina Turpeinen if you have their contact information. They were at the funeral, too.”

“We were all tight in high school. We made an oath that we’d keep in touch until the day we died. Tiina studied in Joensuu like your mother, I was in Kuopio, and Tarja stayed in Tuusniemi. But when Anneli died, it all fell apart. I haven’t seen Tarja or Tiina except randomly.” It sounded like she was crying. “That’s what death does to you. It doesn’t erase just that one person—it has an effect on many people and through them, many more.” Now she was clearly sobbing. “Our Hanne—I mean, my daughter is married to a man who reminds me of Keijo, and I’m so afraid—”

“Please report it to the police if he’s beating her. Right now.” Great. I was becoming a counselor.

“But then he’ll kill us all. The police can’t do a thing.”

“They can if you give them a chance.”

“Where do you live?”

“Helsinki.”

“I can’t right now.” Her voice was interrupted by a sob. She blew her nose. “I have my high school diary somewhere. I used to write a lot. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll go through them and see if I can find something about your mother. Didn’t Jari die recently? I saw his obituary in the papers.”

I confirmed this, and Päivi promised to call back later. Her call kept on tugging at me. Not because of my mother or the friends she had lost, but because of this Hanne I didn’t even know, who was about to make a classic mistake.

I’d decided to disregard my own mistakes as I waited for Yuri Trankov in front of Hotel Torni on Thursday. The weather had turned bitingly cold, and the air smelled of sleet. Right as a sleek black Jaguar stopped in front of me, a snowflake or two landed in my hair. Trankov got out of the car. Once again he’d dressed up in his mobster outfit, sunglasses included. At least this time he hadn’t used hair gel. Kissing my cheeks brought him close enough for me to smell the sea in his cologne. Goddamn it, really? I had clearly been without a man for too long, and I wanted Trankov to touch me more.

I’d dressed up as neutrally as possible. I wore simple jeans, combat boots, a loose gray sweater that came down to my hips, and a puffy jacket. I looked like I was going hiking.

I had told Mrs. Voutilainen that I was meeting Trankov. I’d left Monika a note in the kitchen, telling her I was out and about with Mrs. Voutilainen. It wasn’t much of a security system, so I had also packed my Glock and a box of ammo in a pocket inside my large purse. It felt suspiciously heavy, and I hoped Trankov wouldn’t offer to carry it.

He opened the door for me, disregarding the traffic jam he was causing. When a car honked at him, he waved his hand in a pompous gesture. The Jaguar didn’t have Syrjänen’s plates, so I memorized the number. The car smelled new; I doubted it had been driven more than a few thousand miles. The interior was dark-red leather, and the rear windows were tinted. When Trankov started the car, the GPS came on and began to speak in Finnish. Trankov turned it off.

“We don’t need that,” he said. “I know the way. Do you like my car?”

I looked at the shiny metallic parts and dark-red upholstery. Trankov turned the wheel, also covered in leather. I decided to keep my gloves on for now, although the car was warm. I should have worn a hat; that way I’d have had less of a chance of shedding in the car. Although, maybe it was for the best if I left some traces in the Jag, which was either a rental, leased, or bought with stolen money.

Trankov lead us out of Kamppi toward Länsiväylä Highway and sped up when the lights turned yellow, then weaved between lanes. The car could go up to 174 mph. Could Trankov even handle such speeds? Where did he think he could try it out? On Länsiväylä he was over the limit driving eighty. I didn’t say a word. He’d be the one to pay for the ticket or lose his license. Perhaps he didn’t care, because he had guardian angels in high places, people who could erase his ticket from the database as easily as his reentrance to Finland.

“Is Långvik Syrjänen’s permanent home these days?” I asked. “What happened to that villa in Kotka’s Hiidenniemi? Wasn’t it supposed to become a holiday resort for the rich?”

“That’s old hat. Syrjänen sold the property a year ago this spring. He got a good price for it, too. Turned out it wasn’t all that easy to make the area into a resort the way he had planned—he would have needed more land, which would’ve meant building fake islands. Neighboring landowners weren’t selling and were opposed to the plans. They told Syrjänen he wouldn’t get permits or that it would take years to happen.”

“Is he going to take the project to Långvik then?”

“Why are we talking about Syrjänen? Are you interested in him? If you are, I have news you won’t like. Syrjänen is not in Långvik. He went to Tallinn to meet a potential business partner. It’ll be just you and me. We can concentrate entirely on art.”

Right after the intersection at Ring 3 Highway, Trankov got off on a road heading south. The intersection was confusing. Repair crews were making turning difficult, and Trankov was cursing at the slowpoke in front of us. I’d traveled plenty to Kirkkonummi and Inkoo, but I’d never been to nearby Långvik. We passed the Hirsala golf course, which was completely devoid of golfers. Sometimes we were in the middle of nowhere, driving inside an untouched forest, and occasionally we saw houses in villagelike groups. Then two people on horseback came toward us—finally something that slowed the Jaguar.

“Do you ride?” Trankov asked.

“I can ride,” I told him. The last time I rode a horse was in Canada during a ten-day trip with my Queens academy classmate Benoit to see the horse ranch his parents owned. We also went to Montreal, where we got acquainted with the security arrangements at a local hockey stadium. While we were at the ranch, I was woken up late one night by a phone call. I’d forgotten to turn the cell phone off, as if I’d felt I might receive an important message. I quickly stepped out of the room and walked outside to take the call under the stars. It was Chief Constable Niilo Rämä from the Kuopio police. He’d expressed his condolences and told me they’d found Uncle Jari’s body. Most likely he’d drowned and been in the water for days; they’d have more specific information after the autopsy. I still remember walking into the stables and crying against Bessie, the horse I’d ridden the day before. I felt animals could comfort me better than humans. Ever since then, I associated horses with sorrow. I had to leave Montreal before the others. I didn’t go for my things in New York but instead flew to Helsinki from Toronto.

“That’s what I thought.” Trankov’s voice brought me back.

“What?”

“That you can ride. A horse would’ve made a great addition to the painting, but unfortunately I don’t have one. Good thing I have something better. Something you’ll surely like.” Trankov smiled in a way that couldn’t be interpreted as anything but sexual. I looked at his slim, long-fingered hands turning the steering wheel in the narrow bends in the road. They made me think of David; for a man well over six feet tall, he had strangely small hands and feet. Trankov was only a couple of inches taller than me, and his fingers were those of a pianist. They could have easily reached around my throat, and though his fingers were thin, I’m sure his hands were strong.

We turned onto a side road and drove a few yards before reaching a six-and-a-half-foot-tall brick wall. The gate was forged iron. Trankov pulled a remote control out of his breast pocket and pressed in the code. The gate began to open slowly. Three two three one; I was pretty sure that was the code. If Trankov noticed that I had snooped on the code, he didn’t care. He drove into the garden behind the wall. The garden was landscaped in French fashion: low, shaped bushes; gravel pathways; a couple of ornamental junipers; no tall trees. The main building was only a few years old, although whoever built it had tried to make it look neoclassical. The garage fit three cars, and there was another building in the yard with large windows. I caught glimpses of the sea behind a small hill, and a staircase led down to the sauna on the shore.

“Does Syrjänen own this?” I asked.

“He’s renting. The owners are on a three-year work assignment in Shanghai. Some people Syrjänen knows through his business. And the wife is into painting. I lucked out.”

Now Trankov pushed in the code for the garage, and I didn’t have a chance to look at it. One of the security cameras was at the garage door, and I grimaced at it as Trankov drove the car in. The pompous SUV was there.

I let Trankov get out and open the door for me. He acted like the perfect gentleman. I held my purse tight against me.

“Let’s go to the studio. Nobody else is using it right now,” Trankov said.

“Where did you learn how to paint?” I asked while I made a mental map of the buildings and security cameras.

“In Vorkuta. That’s where I spent my childhood.” I remembered how Trankov had told Mrs. Voutilainen that he hailed from Murmansk, and Laitio had mentioned the years Trankov had spent in a Siberian foster home.

“Did Paskevich live there, too?” I hit a sore spot with that question.

“He never lived with me and my mother. They were never married.” His eyes flashed with anger, and I didn’t know if it was because of me, the memories of a reluctant father, or anger toward his father.

We all have our weaknesses. You better know your own and those of your enemies. Use them wisely, Mike Virtue had said. I’d located one of Trankov’s Achilles’ heels with Laitio’s help.

Trankov opened the studio door with a key. The wall facing the sea was all glass, and two of the narrower walls were half-covered in windows, too. The skylights near the door let the light from the north side of the building seep in. The northern wall had a couple of doors, probably leading to a powder room and a bathroom, and a small kitchen occupied the corner with a fridge and hot plates. Next to the kitchen was a bar with two tall stools.

“Can I get you something before we start working?”

I didn’t trust him, so I just asked for tap water and got a glassful for myself. Trankov gave me a crooked smile as if he’d read my thoughts.

“There’s also some sparkling water and beer in the fridge. They’re Finnish, and I guarantee they’re unopened,” Trankov said.

“Water is fine for now, thanks.”

The walls had been plastered white. The little I could see of the floor between protective papers and various piles was white rock tile, and it could handle paint thinners and removers. There were three stands that held tightly stretched canvases, and two of them were covered. The largest stand held a primed canvas about six and a half feet tall and four feet wide. Mary Higgins had taught me how to prime canvas; when her chemically induced creation project began, she could fill three canvases in a row and then rest for days before she finished the paintings.

The studio was warm, so I removed my jacket, and Trankov rushed over to take it and hung it on a small coatrack. Was he going to paint me in his mobster clothes? His black suit was spotless, and I wanted to smear it with my lipstick, but I only wore a touch of mascara. I remembered what Paskevich’s brothel room had looked like in Bromarf, covered in makeup, wigs, and clothes for his female companions. I made it out of that pickle without a scratch, so I figured I’d do fine here, too.