Vengeance (23 page)

    
“Who has Vesa been hanging out with lately?”

    
“Uuh,” she said, staring at the table. “I don’t know their names.”

    
“Try to remember.”

    
She looked at Suhonen. “He’s really dead?”

    
Suhonen nodded. “Yes.”

    
Mari thought for a moment. “One of ’em was an ex-junkie named Juha… Saarinen, Saarnivuori or something like that.”

    
“Saarnikangas,” Suhonen answered. “Who else?”

    
Mari looked up at Suhonen. “I told Vesa he shouldn’t be hanging out with the Skulls, but he didn’t care.”

    
“Where’d he get the speed?”

    
“I know he went to Tallinn—could’ve bought it over there. Was it a bad batch? Is that why he died or did someone kill him?”

    
Suhonen shrugged. “We don’t know yet. Is that there from Tallinn?”

    
“Must be. He didn’t have the money to buy it anywhere else. He owed everybody something.”

    
Suhonen was still thinking. “The Skulls that Vesa hung out with. You know their names?”

    
“I saw ‘em once from the window when they picked him up in some American muscle car…it was black. A fat guy and a couple younger ones. I don’t know their names.”

    
“Okay,” said Suhonen. That was enough—the description matched Niko Andersson’s crew. “One more thing. This Juha Saarnikangas and the Skulls. You ever seen them together?”

    
Mari thought for a moment. “No. Definitely not.”

    
“You know someone by the name of Eero Salmela?”

    
“Name doesn’t ring a bell.”

    
“About my age. Wears a brown leather jacket with a lambswool collar all the time.”

    
“I don’t know him. Vesa probably did.”

    
Strand returned to the kitchen with his dog. There were three joints in the Ziploc bag.

    
Suhonen tried to comfort her, “Esko would protect you in a heartbeat. He’s actually a sheep in wolf’s clothing: nice to nice people.”

    
“Or nasty to nasty people?” Mari said, trying to force a smile.

    
Strand commanded the dog to stay and followed Suhonen into the hallway.

    
Suhonen spoke in a hushed voice. “This was partly my fault—I didn’t know she lived here too. I figured this was Karjalainen’s pad and we’d just search it for drugs.”

    
“Yea-ah,” he whispered. “No big deal.”

    
“We could get her for resisting arrest and drug possession, but as far as I’m concerned, we should just call it post-traumatic stress syndrome, you know, considering her man just died and all.”

    
Strand could see where Suhonen was headed. “She gave you some good intel?”

    
“Yes… But the truth is she only threatened Esko, so it was more like resisting a canine. We’ve been trailing Karjalainen and I know those drugs were his. The joints are probably hers, but let’s just have the dead guy take the rap for that.”

    
Strand shot him a look as though Suhonen was just trying to get in her pants, but the undercover officer read his mind.

    
“Come on, are you serious? Honestly, I’m more interested in Esko.”

    
Strand laughed aloud. “Okay. Works for me, but you’ll have to court Esko with some nice treats. He likes cheese pizza, and he can’t eat that at home. Too much pizza is bad for police dogs too.”

    
“Okay, I owe you one. If Esko ever needs dog-sitting sometime, call me.”

    
“You can be sure I won’t.”

    
They went back into the kitchen. Strand took off the cuffs and left with the dog. Suhonen stayed to ask more questions and fixed a pot of coffee for Mari.

CHAPTER 15

SATURDAY, 5:00 P.M.

VIHTI HIGHWAY, HELSINKI

“I’m tired…and hungry,” Eero Salmela complained from the passenger seat.

    
“Not cold though?” Suhonen asked. He was driving an unmarked squad car southbound along the Vihti Highway. They went through a roundabout and stopped at a red light. The rain had started again and the Peugeot’s wipers were hard at work. Headlights from the oncoming traffic glared off the wet asphalt.

    
“That I could’ve helped with,” continued Suhonen, pointing to the switch for the seat-heater.

    
The light changed and the car moved on.

    
About a half-hour earlier, Salmela had called his friend and asked to be picked up at a bus stop along the Vihti Highway. That had worked for the Suhonen.

    
“Let’s go for coffee at the Teboil station,” Salmela suggested as they approached the new Hakamäen Avenue. The hundred-fifty-million-dollar road and tunnel project had been completed a year ago. It had gotten off to a catastrophic start when a multi-car pileup had shut it down on opening day. Despite the new tunnel, the road was plagued by congestion even more than before. The newspapers called Hakamäen Avenue “Finland’s most expensive parking lot.” Now, on a Saturday, there was little traffic.

    
“No coffee shops. We can get you some grub from a drive-thru or something.”

    
“What’s wrong with the Teboil? I like that place.”

    
“I wanna talk in the car where it’s private,” Suhonen explained. He switched to the slow lane. Two other cars continued onward to the tunnel, but Suhonen veered southward onto Mannerheim Street.

    
“You smell like detergent,” Suhonen remarked.

    
“New job.”

    
“Congrats,” said Suhonen, though he was already wondering how that might affect the plan they had in store for him. “Somewhere north?”

    
“Yeah,” he hedged.

    
“You selling soap or cleaning?”

    
“Cleaning.”

    
Continuing past the Teboil station toward downtown, they passed the lofty office buildings of Ruskeasuo and the residential districts of Pikku-Huopalahti.

    
“What company?”

    
“None of your business,” he shot back.

    
The trip continued in silence. Suhonen turned on the radio. Radio Rock was on commercials so he changed the station. He let a classic hit from the Rolling Stones play quietly in the background. Suhonen had only been asking about Salmela’s work so he could steer the conversation toward the job they’d been planning for him.

    
“Where can we get some food?” Salmela asked. “I’m fine with anything but burgers. My stomach can’t take those additives.”

    
Suhonen drove past a Hesburger and a McDonalds to the Töölö section of Helsinki. Nestled in an old streetcar station was a Turkish kebab place that would do the trick.

    
“You okay with kebabs?”

    
“Sure.”

    
The lights turned green and the car lurched ahead. Suhonen figured he could hint at the job opportunity before the restaurant, but he wouldn’t get into the details until afterwards.

    
“How much is your debt now?”

    
“Fifty less than yesterday.”

    
Suhonen wondered what that meant, but decided not to pry—at least not yet.

    
After a few minutes, he spotted the Turkish place, situated on the corner of Topelius Street, near the Töölö library. There were no parking spots, but the street was wide enough that Suhonen was able to double-park in front of the restaurant.

    
“Now’s your chance to take that nap,” Suhonen said stepping out of the car. Above the windows of the restaurant were thick yellow letters, spelling “Pizza.” Functional sign, he thought. Even if the owners change, the sign can stay.

    
Ten minutes later he returned with two kebabs wrapped in foil and slid back into his seat. He handed the food and plastic forks to Salmela and pulled a bottle of water out of his pocket.

    
Suhonen started the car and put it in gear. He decided to drive to the soccer fields on the north end of the Hietaniemi beach. Salmela unwrapped his kebab and immediately began forking it into his mouth. The sweet smell of the dressing filled the car.

* * *

Lieutenant Jaakko Nykänen was sitting in his cramped office at the NBI bunker. His left hand massaged his whiskers, and his right rested on the mouse. He was skimming through intelligence reports, which had been uploaded into the database throughout the day. Some of them were just routine police reports. A criminal flagged for surveillance had been stopped for speeding, or say, drunk driving.

    
Some had more valuable intel: who met whom, for example, or who called whom. Every day, the Finnish police had dozens of ongoing phone-tapping operations. Not every piece of information ended up in the database, of course, but the bulk of the most important ones did. The bigger problem was that they didn’t always know which criminals they should have under surveillance, and when.

    
Nykänen knew—by name—at least a thousand outlaws tied to organized crime. Of those, a couple hundred were hardened criminals. When needed, he could create a computerized diagram of the connections and contacts between selected individuals. The computer was a wonderful tool.

    
One report in particular had caught Nykänen’s attention. He had read it once already, but returned to it again.

    
According to the report, black market operator Mika Konttinen, aka Mike Gonzales, had met Ilkka Ranta that afternoon. The encounter had been observed in Tampere, at the restaurant in the Ilves Hotel. Working on another case, NBI investigators had followed a different suspect into the same restaurant. They had spotted Ranta and a man, later identified as Gonzales, together.

    
Ranta was an exceptionally interesting character. The man had made his money during the recession of the early ’90s, and even more after the tech stock bubble burst in 2000. During rough economic times, the situation for men of money was even easier than in good times. The fundamental rule for getting rich still applied—buy low, sell high.

    
That morning, Suhonen had mentioned Gonzales’ connections to the Skulls and to some Russian-Estonian man. Nykänen had forgotten the name and was unable to check it in the computer. Why couldn’t Suhonen enter his leads into the database, Nykänen brooded. The police employed too many old-school cops who didn’t grasp the importance of sharing information.