Vengeance (22 page)

    
“It’s not because it’s fun. Anyone afraid of prison doesn’t belong here. We get money, and of course, trust is the most important thing. I have to be able to trust every man here. No betrayals. That’s what it’s all about. Respect.”

    
Now it was Larsson’s turn to laugh. “So that’s our brand.”

    
Steiner lunged to his feet and a stiletto appeared in his hand. “You wanna go?” he snarled. He looked serious.

    
Aronen crept up from the side and kicked the knife out of Steiner’s hand. He landed a straight right on the man’s jaw and Steiner collapsed on the couch.

    
“Don’t we have enough to do around here without fighting each other?” Aronen said calmly.

    
No sooner had he said it than Larsson walked from the table and threw a quick left hook into his gut. Aronen instinctively started to strike back, but he managed to stop himself.

    
“Conversations between Steiner and myself are none of your business,” Larsson growled. “Remember that.”

    
Aronen clenched his teeth.

* * *

The Skulls’ toilet was literally shitty and it stunk. Salmela had hung his leather jacket in the broom closet, leaving only jeans and a T-shirt. The ex-con scoured the bowl with a toilet brush soaked in detergent. He was no stranger to this, having worked as a custodian in the brig in his younger days.

    
Salmela breathed through his mouth to keep from vomiting again. The toilet bowl took five minutes and he moved on to the floor and then the tiled walls. Last would be the sink and mirror.

    
Fuck this, he thought. Well, at least it came clean.

    
He drank some rusty-tasting water from the tap. The pipes were due for replacement.

    
Salmela stepped out of the bathroom and wondered what to do next. He caught sight of Niko at the bar, divvying up fifty-euro notes between Roge and Osku, but quickly looked away. Salmela decided to clean the sticky glass on the pinball machine as he had been ordered.

* * *

A fifty-something maintenance man stood in front of the stairwell in his overalls. The light-brown stucco apartment building, located behind the Central Fire Station, was built in the latter half of the fifties. Above the door, illuminated by the light from the stairwell, was a sign with the number 6. The lamp was crooked. The building was situated perpendicular to the street, and in front of the building was a rocky outcropping with a few pines growing on it.

    
A blue and white Volvo police station wagon pulled up to the front door. Leaning up against the wall was an orange bicycle with a large chain and padlock hanging from the frame.

    
Suhonen got out of the passenger side. Johan Strand, an immense uniformed officer sporting a mustache, circled back to the hatch and let out Esko, his German shepherd. The dog immediately heeled beside its handler. Suhonen had requested the help of a drug-sniffing dog.

    
Further off on the outcropping, a man in a baseball cap walking his collie was closely following the events in front of the building.

    
Strand also lifted out a heavy pipe, about three feet long and six inches in diameter, with hand grips in the middle.

    
“I see you brought your own key,” the maintenance man rasped. Strand nodded, a dark wool hat stretched over his bald head.

    
Suhonen had explained the matter over the phone so the maintenance man asked no questions, just led the policemen into the stairwell.

    
The dog’s claws scraped on the marble stairs. Karjalainen’s apartment was on the third floor. The maintenance man got out his keys, but Suhonen stopped him.

    
“Let’s ring the doorbell first.”

    
It was possible that the police database was out of date and someone other than Vesa Karjalainen was living in the flat.

    
They heard the muffled chime of the doorbell. Instinctively, the cops took their positions on both sides of the door.

    
A moment passed before the sound of shuffling came from behind the door. The dog shifted anxiously at its handler’s side.

    
The maintenance man was standing directly in front of the door and Strand jerked him out of the potential line of fire.

    
The door cracked open a couple of inches. The security chain was engaged.

    
“Who’s there?” a woman’s voice asked.

    
“Helsinki police,” Suhonen announced and showed his badge through the crack in the door. A woman with tangled blonde hair and a black hooded sweatshirt peered out. Suhonen estimated her age at forty.

    
“What do you want?”

    
Suhonen immediately concluded that they were dealing with a repeat customer. An ordinary citizen would open the door without any further questions.

    
“May we come inside?”

    
“Why?”

    
Suhonen wondered how to put it. He couldn’t really say they were looking for Vesa Karjalainen, because if the woman was his wife or girlfriend, he’d end up delivering the bad news. “Vesa Karjalainen?” he uttered.

    
“Not me,” she said.

    
“Is this Karjalainen’s apartment?”

    
“Sometimes. He’s somewhere downtown now.”

    
Suhonen had a warrant signed by Takamäki to search the residence used by Karjalainen. In Finland, the police could search homes based on warrants executed by a lieutenant, with no further authorization from a judge. In principle, even though he was already deceased, the man could be suspected of drug use. Determining the cause of death also granted them the right to search the premises.

    
“Will you please let us inside? This is an important matter.”

    
The door moved no further than the end of the chain. “
What
is?”

    
Suhonen’s patience was beginning to wane. Given Karjalainen’s background with drugs, the woman’s conduct was making her look very suspicious. Her listless eyes vouched for that, too.

    
“Ma’am, I’m sorry. Vesa Karjalainen was found dead this morning in a bathroom in downtown Helsinki. That’s why we’re here to search the apartment.”

    
The woman closed the door, but the noises inside indicated she had left the entryway. Suhonen guessed what was happening. “Open up,” he said.

    
The caretaker bent down in front of the doorknob. His hands were trembling and the keys clattered to the floor. Strand shouldered the man aside and swung the battering ram into the lock. The door splintered ajar, but required one more blow near the security chain before it burst open.

    
“Esko! Go!” Strand commanded. The dog shot inside, barking.

    
Inside, the woman shrieked and shouted, “Call off the dog or I’ll kill it!”

    
Strand went first, a Glock pistol at the ready, and Suhonen took up the rear. The dog was barking and snarling.

    
The entryway was about ten feet long, and strewn with jackets and bags of garbage.

    
“The bathroom,” said Strand, and Suhonen ducked inside to check it out while Strand went ahead. He noticed some blood on the sink, but no people.

    
Suhonen heard the dog barking in the kitchen and Strand’s bellowing voice, “Please put down the knife.”

    
“Get the hell out of here!”

    
Suhonen glanced into the bedroom. Stuff was strewn everyone, but nobody there either.

    
“Drop the knife!” Strand commanded again.

    
“I’ll kill that dog!”

    
Suhonen came into the kitchen and stood next to Strand. The woman was wearing black sneakers and a hoodie. Her hair was greasy and knotted. Suhonen revised his estimate of her age to 35—drug use had left its mark, making her appear older than she really was.

    
“Call off the dog,” Suhonen said calmly. He saw an opportunity. She was no career criminal, just scared.

    
Strand kept the Glock leveled at the woman. “Esko. Heel.”

    
The dog barked once more, then backed up ten feet and sat at his handler’s side.

    
She clutched the knife for a moment longer before it clattered into the sink.

    
Strand worked fast, twisted her arms behind her back and clapped the cuffs on her wrists. Suhonen pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and sat her down on it.

    
“What happened?” he asked.

    
“I’m afraid of dogs,” she stammered. “Is Vesa really dead?”

    
“Yes,” he said, sitting down opposite her. “Overdosed and died in a train station bathroom stall.”

    
Tears welled up in the woman’s eyes.

    
“What’s your name?”

    
“Mari. Mari Simola,” she managed to say.

    
“Mari, are there any drugs here?”

    
“N-no.”

    
Suhonen glanced at Strand. “Search the place.”

    
The woman burst into tears.

    
“You can probably guess that Esko’s not just a

K-9, but a drug-sniffing dog as well.”

    
Strand commanded the dog to search. His training had involved a game in which the dog received a reward for finding drugs. He was taught to identify hash first, then other narcotics.

    
The dog went eagerly to work and soon began clawing and barking at one of the base cabinets in the kitchen.

    
“What’s in there?” Suhonen asked the woman.

    
“Vesa’s speed. I don’t know where he gets it, but a couple days ago he got a big shipment. I don’t do that shit.”

    
Strand slid open the bottom drawer, and using latex gloves, removed a Ziploc bag of white powder and set it on the table. Suhonen guessed it to be one to two ounces of amphetamines.

    
“What’s your drug of choice?” Suhonen asked.

    
“Just weed. Can’t handle the other stuff.”

    
Suhonen glanced around the filthy apartment. “Where’s your stash?”

    
“There’s a couple joints in the bedroom nightstand. Nothing else.”

    
Suhonen and Mari stayed in the kitchen while Strand and the dog continued the search. The woman seemed to be realizing the gravity of the situation.