Vengeance (21 page)

    
“In other words?” Larsson asked.

    
“Strong steel mesh on the outside and replace the windows with bulletproof glass.”

    
“Do it.”

    
Larsson walked to the front door. “And something has to be done about this.”

    
Aronen, the AK-47 swaddled in his arms, looked at Larsson, wondering what the boss had in mind. Preparing for a damn war? At some point, the cops would borrow a few Leopard tanks from the army, slap some “POLICE” stickers on them, and plow through. In that case, they’d need some of those new shoulder-fired anti-tank missiles, which could be fired from inside a building without scorching the room.

    
“Yeah, we’ll reinforce it,” he responded nonetheless.

    
With some dynamite and shotgun shells, they could easily build some IEDs, but the anti-tank missiles would be virtually impossible to obtain. If Larsson’s intent was to launch a full-scale urban war against the police, it would be absurd for the whole gang to be holed up in one building. Maybe Larsson just wanted to flex his muscles.

    
With the AK-47 in his hand, Aronen followed Larsson into the building and they headed up the stairs. Aronen was already counting in his mind how many sandbags they’d need. At least a stack for every window, but that wouldn’t look so good. Maybe they could stash them someplace where they could easily be pulled out when needed.

    
They nodded to the rookie on guard, who had cut his pinball game short when the pair walked in. The men proceeded to the back room and Aronen locked the assault rifle in a metal cabinet.

    
“So where’d the AK-47 come from?” he thought aloud.

    
Larsson stared at him, “Ask Gonzales.”

    
Yeah, of course, Aronen thought. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and offered one to Larsson, who shook his head. Aronen sat down on the sofa, Larsson at the round table in front of his laptop.

    
“You know everything you do on the computer can be tracked,” Larsson remarked. “Everything.”

    
Aronen nodded. Larsson’s eyes were fixed on the screen as he tapped on the keys. Aronen had read some article in the newspaper about computer security, but his knowledge of computers was limited to word processing, email and the internet. He wanted to ask what they should do about the reporter, but Larsson would tell him sooner or later.

    
“Did you know that the pigs use mostly WIFI in their audio surveillance these days?”

    
Larsson didn’t expect an answer this time either. Aronen put the unopened beer back in the fridge. It wasn’t even 11 o’clock yet—maybe he could make it to the gym. He got up and decided to scan the building for listening devices first.

    
Suddenly, a booming voice from the bar startled the men, “Larsson! Dammit! Come outta your mouse hole!”

* * *

Joutsamo was sitting in her chair when Suhonen stepped into the shared office area.

    
“Well?” she snapped. Lieutenant Kafka had spread the flu to his detectives, so Takamäki had ended up asking his own team to cover. He had promised a long respite for the following week.

    
“Nothing. Meetings, meetings, meetings and lots of ‘let’s think about it’—just like the Stockholm PD,” Suhonen grumbled.

    
“Kulta went to check out the bathroom at the train station,” Joutsamo said.

    
“Good.”

    
Suhonen sat briefly at his corner desk, booted up his computer, and stood up again.

    
“Half day today?” Joutsamo hollered as Suhonen stepped out of the room.

    
“Coffee or tea?” he turned to ask.

    
“Neither,” she said, and continued to scrutinize her interrogation transcript.

    
A minute later, Suhonen returned with a steaming cup of coffee. “Little coffee break,” he said, but Joutsamo couldn’t hear through her headphones.

    
Suhonen settled in front of the computer and pulled up the information on the deceased Karjalainen. His last known address was in South Haaga. Suhonen knew the apartment building, located behind the Central Fire Station.

    
He picked up his desk phone and dialed Mikko Kulta, who told him they had indeed found Karjalainen in the lavatory, and that he appeared to have died of an overdose. Nothing indicated foul play.

    
“Did he have anything on him?”

    
“Didn’t find any drugs. An empty needle, though.”

    
“What about money?”

    
“Just an empty wallet.”

    
“Okay. Bring everything here.”

    
“Wasn’t planning on putting them in the garbage,” Kulta said.

    
Suhonen’s thoughts turned to Juha Saarnikangas. The man had said that Karjalainen owed him some money, but none was found. Maybe Juha had raided the wallet when he found the body. Any drugs would have obviously gone the same route.

* * *

Niko killed the Chevy in the side yard of the Skulls’ Compound. The four men got out of the car as a rusty, beige ’80s Opel Cadet was being pushed into one of the downstairs garage stalls. Salmela had once owned the same car and he glanced at the plates: AFR. The letters matched, but the numbers didn’t.

    
Niko walked in front, and behind him was Salmela, sandwiched between Roge and Osku.

    
“Well, Salmela, welcome to our offices,” Niko said in a pompous tone.

    
Salmela didn’t expect anyone to offer him a beer or challenge him to a game of pool.

    
“Things went so well out in the woods today that I have a plan to settle your debt.”

    
Salmela watched the animated Niko with vacant eyes.

    
“You owe about twenty Gs, so if I pay you, say, two grand a month, then you’ll be paid up in ten months… No wait, two grand is too much,” he mumbled to himself. “Fifteen hundred, so let’s say in one year we’re all square.”

    
“What do I gotta do?”

    
“You’ll clean this place every morning. Vacuum, dust, pick up the empty bottles and butts, wash the toilet and all that.” Larsson had told him to get a capable guy to take care of the housekeeping. During their episode in the forest, Salmela had demonstrated his trustworthiness.

    
“I see,” Salmela managed. “A year?”

    
Niko’s expression was rigid. “That a problem?”

    
“No…”

    
“But you can take comfort in the fact that the pay is completely tax-free,” Niko sneered. “So get to work. The cleaning supplies are over there in the corner closet by the bar. If you run out of something or need anything else, feel free to bring it yourself tomorrow.”

    
Salmela’s eyes scoured the dim room for the closet.

    
“Don’t touch the windows,” Niko said, pointing to the cardboard-covered frames.

    
Roge chimed in. “But make sure to clean the glass on the pinball machine.”

    
“And one more thing,” Niko said. “What happens in here, stays in here. It’s a short trip back to that cliff.”

* * *

A lanky blond man was sitting on the sofa in the back room, chuckling as Larsson spoke. Rolf Steiner had showed up on his own time.

    
“You got a problem?” Larsson cut in from the table. Aronen sat further back, observing. The weapons expert was wearing a tank top, and one of his shoulders was tattooed with an arrow pattern in the form of bear claws.

    
“Yeah,” Steiner shot back. “Your bullshit.”

    
“Huh?”

    
“Just listen to yourself,” said Steiner. A long-sleeved Metallica shirt and dirty jeans hung from his lean frame. “None of us have ever talked about branding before. Fuck. What is this, some kind of ad agency?”

    
Larsson rubbed his bald head. Steiner was a simple guy, but Larsson needed him to buy into the new program.

    
“Brand is just a word. Hell, forget it. You tell me how to revive this gang.”

    
“Simple. More toughs out of the pen.”

    
Larsson nodded. “I agree. But how are we gonna do that? There’s about a half-dozen other gangs in there trying to recruit the same guys.”

    
“Let’s work out an NHL-style draft with the other gangs.”

    
“What are you talking about?”

    
“Look. Every gang will get their turn to pick one eighteen-year-old. The weakest group goes first and so on.”

    
Larsson wondered what Steiner had been smoking this time. “Uh-huh,” he managed.

    
Steiner peered over at him with his squinty eyes. “I think you spent too much time in your cell. Read too many damn books.”

    
“Any time in a cell is too much time,” Larsson said. Steiner was right, though. Larsson’s strategy was simple. Most people had some knowledge of the Skulls, and the more they were feared, the better. That way, recruits would perceive them as a more attractive option.

    
The Skulls didn’t have a problem with name recognition, they were well known. But the quality of their product, at least in Larsson’s opinion, was mediocre at best. They had to become more professional. And what about their image? The Skulls were associated with violence, but more so through prison sentences than by being successful at what they did. Larsson wanted to give recruits the impression that this gang was successful, and joining would mean money and power.

    
“So tell me, why don’t we have recruits lining up at the door?” Larsson asked.

    
“Because we’re too boring,” Steiner said. “When’s the last time we had a bash here—where we invited candidates and prospects? We had one last summer, but it’s been pretty quiet since. No? And next time we better have a living buffet.”

    
In a living buffet, a naked woman lies on the table covered in whipped cream and fruit, which the guests get to eat—with the bulk of the goodies piled on her breasts and bikini area.

    
Larsson was in agreement and Aronen nodded too. “So how come you’re in this gang, then?”

    
Steiner’s jaw muscles rippled. “We got a problem?”

    
“No. I just want to know.”

    
The question was difficult for Steiner and he took a moment.