Vengeance (2 page)

    
He smiled and decided to circle the high school and swimming pool before returning to the car. For a moment, he considered staying longer to observe the pair, but then decided against it. A more extensive surveillance operation would have demanded more units anyway, and there was no need.

    
Suhonen didn’t know if the photos would be useful, but they couldn’t hurt either. Gonzales was a player of some stature, and a meeting in the parking lot of the Velodrome was probably not connected to legitimate staffing negotiations. Suhonen had a vague notion that this “buzz cut” was Estonian, Russian or a mixture of the two. The man’s tough presence gave that impression. His stern facial expression, too, hinted at more eastern origins.

    
That vague notion might come into focus if someone could identify the man from the photo.

* * *

It took a few seconds for the computer to upload the photos from the camera. Suhonen was sitting at his own workstation in the back corner of the VCU’s shared office at Pasila Police Headquarters. Time had left this building behind as well. A massive remodel was in store.

    
He had taken off his leather jacket and draped it over the back of his chair, leaving only a black T-shirt. His pistol and holster were in the bottom drawer. Unlike in American TV shows, exposed weapons were not carried in the hallways of the Violent Crimes Unit. That would have called for a referral to a police psychologist for an excessive show of force.

    
Suhonen’s computer sat on a small, otherwise empty desk. The other officers in the room had more space, but they had more paper to fill it, too.

    
Mikko Kulta, a tall man with a shock of blond hair, sat nearest the door with headphones in his ears, poring over an interrogation transcript. Sergeant Anna Joutsamo was talking on the phone, and Kirsi Kohonen’s spot was empty. Suhonen seemed to recall that she was on vacation.

    
A teammate on vacation had no effect on Suhonen’s workload. Of the four officers on Detective Lieutenant Kari Takamäki’s team, Suhonen was the only one who didn’t deal with the daily grind: domestic abuse, missing persons, cause-of-death investigations and other routine cases. He carried out his work on the streets of the city, collecting intelligence at the behest of others or on his own hunches. Captain Karila, the head of the VCU, had often suggested that Suhonen should be transferred to the surveillance group, which fell under Narcotics, but Takamäki, Suhonen’s direct supervisor, was strongly opposed.

    
“They found him,” said Sergeant Anna Joutsamo, somewhat in disbelief. Joutsamo was in her thirties and wore blue jeans and a black wool cardigan. Her dark hair was swept into a loose ponytail.

    
“Who?” Suhonen asked. He didn’t know what case she was on, but finding someone or something was usually a positive development in police investigations.

    
“Mauri Laukka.”

    
“Should I know who that is?” Suhonen asked.

    
Kulta had interrupted his work and taken the headphones off. “Suhonen, I thought you knew it all.”

    
Suhonen ignored the ribbing. “Who is he?”

    
“You haven’t heard about this case yet, but last week we received an inquiry from Norway about an unidentified corpse. A month ago, the Oslo police found a dead man at a local beach. No papers, nothing. Supposedly about twenty years old and fairly clean. Nothing seemed to indicate homicide. Well, the fingerprints didn’t match anyone in their database, so they were at a loss. Sharp as they are, a week later they realized that a rented Mitsubishi with Finnish plates was still sitting in the parking lot.”

    
“Promising,” Suhonen noted.

    
“Yes, it was,” Joutsamo went on. “The case was being handled by Magnus, someone I know in Oslo, who called to ask if I could find out who rented the Mitsubishi. That’s when this Mauri Laukka stepped into the picture.”

    
“The guy who rented the car?”

    
“Correct. His age matched the body, and on top of that, he had been reported missing about a month ago. His father couldn’t get a hold of him and contacted the police. So I chatted with the investigator at the Vantaa PD, who told me that Laukka was a troubled kid suffering from depression. Booze and pills, et cetera, but nothing criminal, which is why he wasn’t in our database.”

    
“And…”

    
“And with the depression and all, I was absolutely convinced that the body was this Laukka. Anyway, I was only a middle-man between Oslo and Vantaa—between the two, they were taking care of the DNA and the other formalities. So I was chatting with a friend at the
National Bureau of Investigation
records department last Friday and I asked about him. Well, she just called me back to say that they’ve received a communiqué through the Foreign Ministry about this guy. Sometime between Friday night and Saturday morning, Mr. Laukka got into a drug-induced brawl in Nice, punched a cop in the face, and is sitting in a jail in Southern France.”

    
“So the corpse in Oslo…”

    
“Is not him.”

    
Suhonen snickered. “No way. Who is it, then?”

    
Joutsamo shrugged. “No clue, but yet another example of why you should
never assume
.” The foursome had made a hobby of repeating their Lieutenant’s favorite phrase.

    
“Laukka sounds like a good candidate for the police academy,” Suhonen chuckled. “Hey, come take a look at this photo.”

    
She walked over to Suhonen’s desk and he stepped aside.

    
“You know these guys?”

    
Joutsamo sat down in his chair. He stood behind her and detected the sweet scent of her perfume, which conjured visions of spring.

    
“That one’s been running with the Skulls. Thinks his dad is some Argentinean. Was it Gomez?”

    
“Gonzales. He’s the darker one. What about buzz cut here?”

    
Joutsamo turned and looked up from the chair. “Should I know who he is?”

    
Kulta came up from behind to look over their shoulders.

    
“No. I don’t know either,” said Suhonen.

    
Kulta smirked. “That’s twice already today.”

    
Joutsamo ignored the comment. “Doesn’t look like a local. Based on his features and clothing, I’d bet he’s Estonian or Russian. Toomas might know.”

    
“Not familiar to me either,” Kulta said, though nobody had asked. “I’d also suggest you get in touch with Toomas.”

    
“Alright, I’ll do that.”

    
Toomas Indres was an Estonian policeman who had been with the Helsinki VCU on an exchange program. He had returned to Tallinn six months ago.

    
Joutsamo stood up and Suhonen stepped back. Kulta returned to his desk.

    
“When was that photo taken?” Joutsamo asked.

    
“Half an hour ago in the Velodrome parking lot.”

    
“Of course,” Joutsamo smiled. By the way, did you hear about today’s sentencing in the Skulls’ extortion case?”

    
“Not yet. Do tell.”

    
“Alanen got three years and two months and Lintula two years and ten months. Captain Karila himself came to congratulate us on a job well done.”

    
Suhonen scratched his head at the captain’s visit. “Oh really? I wonder which leadership program taught him to do that.”

    
“He even brought coffee and cookies. There’s probably some left in the conference room.”

    
“That’s okay,” said Suhonen. “We worked hard on that case—glad they were convicted.”

    
Alanen and Lintula were Skull prospects who had extorted protection money from a north Helsinki pizzeria owner. Key evidence had been obtained by planting a hidden camera in the restaurant. Obtaining the terrified proprietor’s consent for the camera had been the most difficult part of the case.

    
“Yep, they’ll be off the streets for a while,” Joutsamo remarked.

    
“True. But what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

    
Joutsamo grinned. “I think I’ll make myself stronger with a jog tonight.”

    
Suhonen felt a pang of guilt. He, too, should take better care of himself, but jogging was not his thing. At least he managed to play hockey with some other cops a couple of times a week.

    
“You going alone?”

    
“Yeah. You live alone, you jog alone.”

    
Both of them were single. Though they had had many relationships, most had broken down due to the demands of their work. Or it could be that both just preferred the single life. That way, they answered to nobody.

    
“Why don’t you come along?”

    
“You asking me on a date?”

    
“No, a jog.”

    
Suhonen paused. “Aaah, maybe not; I probably couldn’t keep up.”

    
Joutsamo shrugged. “You got that right.”