Cold Trail by Jarkko Sipila Read Free Book Online Page B

bathroom came first, and Suhonen quickly checked it.
    There was only one room left. Suhonen pulled open the bedroom door. The detectives crouched down on either side of the doorway. The interior walls of the old house wouldn’t offer much protection from bullets. Suhonen glimpsed in quickly. There were curtains in front of the windows, but they let in enough light for him to note the twin bed in the middle of the room. On the left wall there was a desk and on the right, a closet.
    Suhonen rose and entered. Joutsamo followed.
    “ Empty,” Suhonen said, holstering his gun. He flipped on the light switch next to the door.
     
    * * *
     
    Repo stayed as quiet as possible at the back of the cramped closet. The coats were in front of him, but he could still make out the strip of light between the closet and the floor. The old clothes were dusty, and the pungent funk of mothballs filled his nose. He felt like coughing, but he chased the thought from his mind. He was clenching his pistol tightly. The grip felt sweaty.
    Repo heard a woman’s voice, “Yeah, that would have been a little too lucky, finding him crashed out here on the bed.”
    Of course : they were cops, Repo thought. That made him momentarily reconsider the circumstances and the resolution he had come to in the closet. Maybe he should shoot after all. A burglar or two he might have been able to catch off guard, but police officers? There were at least two of them, but there might be as many as ten.
    Yes, he’ d pull the trigger. He wasn’t going back to that cell.
    “T oo bad he isn’t,” answered a male voice.
    “S hould we have a look around?” Repo heard the woman ask. The footfalls approached and stopped at the door. She must have been standing right in front of the closet, because the strip of light at the floor dimmed.
    Repo could barely breathe now. If the closet door opened, he would shoot.
    “N o one’s slept in that bed. Those blankets are army-regulation sharp,” the man said.
    “O kay. I’m going to have a quick look at the desk and the kitchen. You take the living room.”
    The man paused. “What is it you want me to look for?”
    “P hotographs of Repo. Friends, names, anything that will help us with the case.”
    “O kay. There was some mail there in the entryway, but it’s going to be Old Man Repo’s.”
    The woman walked away, presumably toward the desk.
     
    * * *
     
    Joutsamo scanned the room once more. The home of a lonely old man. A lamp and a couple of books were on the nightstand. The book on top appeared to be the memoirs of a Finnish man who had served in the French Foreign Legion: Trained for Pain, Trained to Die . The bookmark was halfway through.
    S everal medications lay on the dark surface of the desk. Joutsamo recognized some from her Narcotics days as hard-core painkillers that junkies used as substitutes for heroin. There were also three boxes, which Joutsamo quickly rummaged through. It was old crap: commemorative coins and freebie promotional gear. No photo albums or address books.
    Maybe they’d be in the closet? Joutsamo decided to check and started walking back toward it.
    “A nna,” Suhonen called from the living room. “Come take a look at this.”
    Joutsamo hesitated for a second, and then walked out of the bedroom.
    Suhonen was standing at the TV, holding something in his hand.
    “W hat is it?”
    “G et a load of this,” said the undercover officer, holding up the photo taken on the deck of the cruise ship. Joutsamo examined it in silence.
    “T he old man blacked out his son’s face, but he still keeps it on display. Why? And in a spot like that?” Joutsamo asked, even though she already knew the reason.
    “Y ou want me to answer that?”
    “N o,” Joutsamo said.
    The father had disowned his son .
    Suhonen was quiet for a moment. “Let’s get out of here. We’re not going to find anything.”
    Joutsamo continued gazing at the photo as Suhonen turned off the lights, first in the bedroom and