Authors: Jarkko Sipila
“Very strange,” Aronen remarked.
“That fucking Suhonen is still alive,” Larsson ranted.
Steiner sat on the sofa and drew a small cigar box from his pocket. He took out a joint, lit it up and took a long drag.
“So what?” he asked, sending forth a stream of smoke.
Larsson scowled at the blond-haired man. “I want that shithead dead, but the fact that the NBI is after us is pretty damned interesting too.”
“You can say that again.”
Aronen’s remark earned him a sharp look from Larsson. Stating the obvious angered him.
Steiner nursed his joint quietly. “The NBI, Helsinki VCU, Espoo PD, the Sheriff of Lapland… Same difference. They’re all packed with the same dickheads.”
Even if he was right, Steiner’s attitude irritated Larsson. “Go get Salmela. I got some questions for him.”
Steiner stared at Larsson. “Only if you drive.”
Larsson fingered the 9mm in the pocket of his leather jacket, but let it be. “Let’s go.”
“I’ll drive,” said Aronen. “The last thing we need is for you to end up in jail for a DUI.”
Larsson waved him off. “The pigs don’t have time to bother with DUIs right now.”
Aronen tried to remember how much Larsson had drunk. A few shots and a beer…sure, he’d stay on the road.
Larsson turned back to Aronen. “You pick up Niko at the harbor. The ship from Tallinn is docking at seven.”
“What’s he doing in Tallinn?” asked Roge.
“Pleasure cruise,” said Larsson as he followed Steiner out. “We’ll take care of this.”
CHAPTER 22
MONDAY, 7:20 P.M.
PASILA POLICE HEADQUARTERS, HELSINKI
“Well, I’ve got a little time now,” said the NBI’s Captain Honkala as he sat down at the table in the VCU break room. Takamäki had stopped into the conference room earlier, but the captain had been busy.
It seemed to Takamäki that the legs of his chair had been cut down as, even while sitting, Honkala’s head hovered well above his own.
“Any progress?” asked Takamäki, gazing up at the other’s face.
“Nothing substantial. Forensics is looking further into the explosives. Apparently, it was stolen construction dynamite or something of that sort.”
“Judging by what little was left of the car, I’d bet there was five, maybe seven pounds of the stuff.”
Honkala nodded. “Round about there. The detonator is a tougher nut to crack, but we should find out within a few weeks, maybe a month.”
“Were you briefed on our undercover case?”
“More or less. There was an ongoing investigation into the Skulls, and you guys planted an informant named Salmiakki.”
Takamäki outlined the conversation he had had in the cafeteria with Nykänen and Suhonen, that this could have been a revenge bombing aimed at the Helsinki VCU.
“It’s an interesting possibility. We should track down Salmiakki.”
Nobody else was around. “We can dispense with the code name game now,” said Takamäki, pausing for a moment. “Suhonen and Nykänen left an hour ago to look for Salmela.”
“Really. I thought…”
Takamäki cut in, “Salmela has been Suhonen’s informant for years and he knows his friends. If the man is still alive, Suhonen will track him down.”
“But…”
“The Skulls are probably after Salmela, so we’ve got to get him under police protection. The best man for the job is Suhonen.”
“Is it possible Salmela is working with the Skulls, perhaps by force?”
“Anything is possible, but it’s not probable. It’s more conceivable that they fed Salmela a false lead.”
“The Skulls will certainly deny any involvement.”
“Of course, but we’ll worry about that then,” said Takamäki. “We’re not going to solve this case on confessions. Somehow, we have to nail the Skulls for this. Of course, the ideal would be some forensic evidence linking them to the bombing.”
Honkala backed off. “Well, let’s see where the investigation takes us. And if your guys find Salmela, tell them to bring him here. If he doesn’t come voluntarily, arrest him on suspicion of accessory to murder.”
* * *
Helsinki Avenue was lively, especially for a Monday evening, and people were loitering on the sidewalks. Suhonen had noticed a few shady characters, which, on any ordinary night, would have captured his attention, but he didn’t have the time for them now. Nykänen was behind the wheel of a dark green Toyota and Suhonen was riding shotgun.
Suhonen and Nykänen had checked Salmela’s apartment, as well as a few other places where the guy might be hiding. The informant wasn’t answering his phone.
They drove past the metro station, westward toward Töölö.
“What about the Corner Pub?” Nykänen suggested.
“If we go there, half the town will know we’re looking for him. Too many guys over there know I’m a cop.”
“What if I go?”
“You don’t know him and his friends. They know you, though.”
Nykänen took his foot off the gas and watched a man in a leather jacket walking down the sidewalk. “Well, I’ve seen his mug shot.”
“That’s not what I meant, I…”
Nykänen chuckled. “Yeah, I got it.”
Nykänen had been interviewed on TV as an NBI agent, which complicated his ability to go undercover.
“Let’s go anyway,” said Suhonen. “We’re sure not getting anywhere here.”
After a few minutes, Nykänen parked the car in a semi-legal spot across from the Corner Pub. The giant stickers on the windows of the bar promised a pint of beer for €2.50 all day long.
The officers stepped inside and Suhonen headed past the bar into the back room. He immediately spotted the bony
Macho-Mertala
at the
corner table,
wearing a ragged jean jacket over a plain white T-shirt.
A younger man with dark hair was sitting across from him. In all likelihood, Macho was blathering on about his old robberies, which at this point had gone from grocery stores to appliance stores and would eventually turn into jewelry stores.
“Hey,” said Suhonen, startling Macho-Mertala.
“Shit! Don’t sneak up on me like that. You’ll give me a heart attack.”
You’ll get one anyways, thought Suhonen and sat down in an empty chair. Nykänen took a seat beside him.
The younger one looked inquiringly at the two.
“The police,” Macho-Mertala explained.
The man took his beer and made tracks.
“No need for threats, blackmail or bribes. Let me guess,” said Macho. “You’re looking for Salmela.”
“How’d you guess?”
“You’re not the first. A couple gangsters were here a half-hour ago looking for him, too. At first, I thought they had come back.”
“What gangsters?” asked Nykänen.
“They didn’t leave their business cards, but if I had to guess, I’d say they belonged to a certain gang. Pretty sure the baldy was Tapani Larsson.”
“And the other?” asked Nykänen.
Macho took a swig from his mug. “White hair, thin face. That enough?”
Nykänen nodded. If the first was Larsson, the other was Rolf Steiner.
“What did they want with Salmela?” asked Suhonen.
“Probably the same as you guys—wanted to know where he is.”
The officers waited for him to continue, but he only sat there, casually sipping his beer.
“So where is he?”
“He took off a while ago with Ear-Nurminen. Not sure where they went. Maybe to his place.”
“Does Nurminen still live over there on Siltasaari Street by the Kallio church?”
“Yeah. Hasn’t been evicted. But you’re a good thirty minutes late.”
“You got Nurminen’s number?” asked Suhonen.
“Yup, but it’s not gonna help. I tried calling both of them, but neither has his phone on,” he said, sounding bored.
Suhonen turned to leave, but Mertala stopped him. “You think it was worth twenty euros?”
Suhonen dug a wrinkled blue note out of the pocket of his jeans.
* * *
Nykänen fired up the car and stepped on the gas, not wanting to end up behind the approaching bus. From Helsinki Avenue, he swung left at the next intersection toward the fire station.
“Thirty minutes is a long time when the trip only takes three,” said Nykänen.
Suhonen held onto the hand-hold over the window as Nykänen floored the gas pedal. “Wonder what the Skulls want out of Salmela now.”
The acceleration proved pointless—directly ahead of them was a stopped streetcar, and another approached from the opposite direction. No way to get around them. Nykänen drummed on the steering wheel as the passengers filed on and off.
“Apparently enough that both Steiner and Larsson are after him.”
They continued along behind the streetcar to the corner of a park, where Nykänen swung right past the fire station. In front of them was the gray-granite Kallio church, built in the early 1900s. The massive building accommodated 1,600 people, but the last time Suhonen had been there—at an old ex-con’s funeral—only four were in attendance: Two of the dead guy’s friends, himself, and the pastor.