Vengeance (25 page)

    
Neither man noticed the Fiat Ducato van parked on the other side of the street. Juha Saarnikangas sat in the front seat, the collar of his army jacket flipped up. Some teenage druggie was supposed to bring him two laptops, for which Juha had promised to pay a hundred euros. The kid was late, but it didn’t matter anymore. This was much better.

    
Juha knew both Salmela and Suhonen, but hadn’t been aware that they knew each other. That was valuable information.

* * *

It was nearing eight o’clock and Lieutenant Takamäki was sitting on the couch at home. He had been watching Channel 4 news, which was no less depressing than the others: only gloomy economic stories. From a policeman’s perspective, that wasn’t all bad—recessions reduced alcohol consumption, which, in turn, lowered violent crimes. As understaffed as they were, however, the VCU wouldn’t feel a reduction of a few percentage points.

    
He was thankful that news broadcasts were short.

    
The forty-eight-year-old Takamäki lived in a townhome in Espoo’s Leppävaara district. His wife was out and the older of his boys was doing homework in his upstairs room—or so Takamäki hoped. More likely, he was listening to music or playing video games.

    
The door opened and his younger son squeezed in with a hockey bag over his shoulder and a stick in his hand.

    
“Hey,” Joonas called out from the door. “Anything to eat?”

    
“It’s on the stove. Stick it in the microwave if it’s cold.”

    
Though Joonas had played hockey most of his life, he wasn’t talented enough for the Espoo Blues junior traveling team. Now he only played in a recreational league. As far as Takamäki was concerned, three practices a week for a sixteen-year-old were better than six or seven.

    
Takamäki sifted through the pile of mail on the table: magazines and bills. Nothing especially interesting. The television was on commercials.

    
Joonas came into the living room with a plate of food and sat down on the sofa next to his dad.

    
“How’d your day go?”

    
“Not bad,” Joonas shrugged. “Just hung around at the mall. Oh yeah, got my math test back on Friday. B+.”

    
“Pretty good,” said Takamäki. “And practice?”

    
“Just goofed around again.”

    
“Uh-oh,” Takamäki said. Their coach wasn’t able to control the group of teenage boys, all of whom had quit the elite team for a rec league. Practices didn’t work without discipline.

    
“He tried to get us to do skating drills, but Ripa and the others said they wanted to scrimmage—so we scrimmaged. But it was pretty weak.”

    
“So Ripa’s the boss?” Takamäki said. Through the years, Ripa had played hockey with Joonas from mites onward and had quit the traveling team at the same time.

    
Joonas shoveled down his chicken pasta without responding.

    
“Listen, Dad,” he began. “I need a new phone.”

    
“Is that so.”

    
An iPhone ad was flickering on the screen.

    
“That 3G one there. Ripa’s got that one.”

    
Takamäki was about to say “is that so” again before deciding to take a more active role. “Where did he get that? Did his dad buy it for him?”

    
“No, his brother bought it. He gives Ripa money too.”

    
“His brother bought it? Pretty nice brother. Does he have a job? How old is he?”

    
Joonas chewed his food as he talked. “Osku’s a little over twenty and he has a job…sort of.”

    
Takamäki was interested. A guy in his early twenties buys an expensive phone for his little brother, and he sort of has a job. “What do you mean by that?”

    
“Nothing really. I’ve never met him, but Ripa bought us Cokes after practice. Apparently, his brother always has a lot of money and has his own car. He’s moved out.”

    
“I believe it. If the guy has the money to buy his own car and a phone for his brother, then I doubt he lives with his folks. But what does he do?”

    
“I don’t know exactly,” Joonas answered, annoyed. “It’s probably connected to your job, even. He hangs out with that gang, the Skulls, and supposedly was in prison. By the way, Ripa said Osku could get us some phones for really cheap, but I figured I’d ask you first.”

    
“That sounds really great. An ex-con selling phones for dirt cheap…”

    
Takamäki’s cell phone rang.

    
“You could use a new one too. That thing is ancient,” Joonas pointed at his phone.

    
Takamäki glanced at the display then slipped into the hallway to talk. He closed the hall door so his voice wouldn’t be heard in the living room.

    
“Hello.”

    
“Hi, Nykänen here. You at work, or am I bothering you at home?”

    
Takamäki said he was at home. The NBI agent teased him about the old days when they were both still in the office at eight P.M. every night.

    
“I’ll get to the point. I think you’ve got something with that case of yours, so let’s get going on it right away. We just have to find a way to get the informant on the inside.”

    
Takamäki glanced instinctively through the patterned glass of the door. It would muffle the sound, but wouldn’t prevent his voice from being heard in the living room.

    
“Suhonen called about that earlier. He said it’s taken care of.”

    
“Good. How?”

    
“Listen, Jaakko. If it’s all right, we’ll stop by tomorrow morning.”

    
Nykänen understood. “Okay. Too many ears over there, huh?”

    
“Exactly.”

    
They settled on a time and Takamäki returned to the living room.

    
Joonas looked at his dad with curiosity. “You working on a good case?”

SUNDAY,

OCTOBER 25

CHAPTER 16

SUNDAY, 9:00 A.M.

HOTEL PASILA, HELSINKI

There was plenty of space in the restaurant at Hotel Pasila. Reporter Sanna Römpötti had arrived early and fetched herself coffee and toast from the buffet. The stench of Saturday night’s booze still hung in the air over many of the tables, but Römpötti was alert. Last night, she had limited herself to two glasses of merlot, as the meeting ahead promised to be interesting.

    
Sami Aronen ambled down the aisle from the bar in wide strides and caught sight of Römpötti. He would’ve recognized the attractive brown-haired reporter from TV anyway, but she had texted him that she’d be wearing a black pantsuit and a white blouse. On her chest was a rather large silver brooch with a black pearl. Römpötti didn’t care much for the brooch, as it made her look matronly. But there was a reason for her choice of jewelry.

    
Aronen greeted her politely, and she suggested that he get some breakfast. He accepted, and hung his leather coat over the back of his chair.

    
Römpötti couldn’t help but notice the back muscles beneath the man’s black sweater as he turned away.

    
She was sipping her coffee when he returned with some orange juice and a croissant. Behind her back, a streetcar rattled past the window.

    
“I’m glad that this worked out,” she began.

    
Aronen smiled. “When the media calls, the citizens come.”

    
The gangster glanced around: no cameras in sight and Römpötti was clearly alone. If the reporter had backup, they would have to be among the hotel guests.

    
“Right, right,” Römpötti smiled, stroking her hair. She had intentionally left an extra button open on her blouse.

    
“I just now put the name and the face together,” said Aronen. “You were the one on that dance show last winter.”

    
Römpötti laughed. “Yes, I’ve been hearing about that all year. Did you watch it?”

    
“I watched part of one and saw the pictures in the papers, of course. In that samba episode—or was it rumba—you had on that short black skirt?”

    
Römpötti confessed. “I didn’t actually choose it myself; they have a stylist who picks the costumes.”

    
“Good stylist, but it can’t be that hard to pick out clothes for a body like yours.”

    
“Thank you. But let’s talk about you a little…”

    
“You’re much more interesting.”

    
Römpötti cut the flattery short with a stern look then drank her coffee in a way that was just short of flirtatious. The gesture worked every time with men.

    
“Alright, then,” said Aronen. “We’re just talking about background info, right?”

    
Römpötti nodded. “We can do a proper interview on camera later.”

    
“Maybe,” Aronen said, smiling again.

    
Römpötti wondered how to proceed. Aronen’s story was an interesting one: from the peacekeeping forces to organized crime. But she didn’t want to start with that.

    
“So, um,” she began haltingly. “The police have deemed the Skulls a criminal organization. Is that true?” The question was dumb, but it would help her get the conversation going. Maybe.

    
Aronen shook his head. “Don’t listen to the police. They exaggerate everything for their own purposes. We’re not a criminal organization.”

    
“Quite a few members are serving prison sentences, though?”

    
“It’s none of the group’s business what people do on their own time. We’re not responsible for others’ actions.”