Authors: Jarkko Sipila
The reporters had glanced at each other. Had the matter not been so serious, somebody would surely have cracked a smile at his legalese.
This time, Honkala had answered a few questions. One reporter had asked him to comment on the extraordinariness of the recent crime wave. Honkala had responded that, since five people had died in a short period of time, it had been extraordinarily violent.
Takamäki opened the elevator door and Honkala stepped inside. Takamäki waved his access card past the sensor and pushed the button for the fourth floor.
“Anything new on Salmela?”
“He’ll make it,” said Takamäki. “Suhonen will be at the hospital till this evening, maybe overnight.”
“I’d say he’s earned a couple days of sick leave.”
“A couple days—no more.”
At the 9:00 A.M. meeting, the cases had been divided up so that the NBI would take the car bombing and the incidents at the Skulls’ compound, and the Helsinki police would take Ear-Nurminen’s murder and the torture at the storage shed. All of the investigations would fall under Honkala’s purview.
Their objective was clear: put all living members of the Skulls behind bars. Honkala and Takamäki believed it was possible, though two mid-level members were still unaccounted for.
Salmela’s drug offense was a separate case, which would be handled by Narcotics. Honkala felt that if Salmela would agree to testify against the Skulls, he could talk the prosecutor into a suspended sentence. There was no more need to conceal Salmela’s informant role, since it had already been revealed.
The elevator stopped at the fourth floor and Takamäki stepped out just ahead of Honkala.
“You in a hurry?” asked Honkala.
“Not especially. Why do you ask?”
“Let’s go to Meilahti Hospital. We can visit Aalto. He’s pretty weak, but I’m told he’s conscious and might need some cheering up.”
The agent had lost his hand and one of his eyes in the explosion. It was possible he might never work again.
“Sure, I’ll go. We can drop in on Suhonen too. Joutsamo was there this morning and said he was a little hopped up on pain killers.”
* * *
Sanna Römpötti was sitting in the front seat of the camera van. The live broadcast of the press conference was over and one assistant had stayed to pack up the equipment.
“Where to now?”
“First let’s shoot some footage of the storage building and then head over to the Skulls’ compound. After that, we can go to the site of the murder in Kallio.”
“You have the addresses?” said the cameraman as he dug out his GPS.
Römpötti remembered Sami Aronen and took out her phone. His number was in the address book.
It rang several times, but nobody answered. Maybe Aronen was in jail too. She could check with Takamäki later.
The cameraman turned on the ignition and pulled away from the police station.
They were in for a long day, she thought. It would be well into spring before any of these cases went to court.
* * *
A semi truck was roaring along a three-lane rural highway toward St. Petersburg. The Russian M-10 Highway, flanked by tall spruces, was wide and had little traffic. The trucker was a forty-something man with short, bristly hair, sunken cheeks, a sleeveless T-shirt, and tattoo-covered arms. He was listening silently to a CD of mournful Russian numbers. Next to him sat Sami Aronen, who didn’t care to chat, since the Russian spoke English poorly. Though the gangster was exhausted, he felt compelled to stay awake.
Yesterday evening, Aronen had picked up Niko Andersson from the harbor, dropped him off at the compound and then continued to his garage to work on his new motorcycle. When stressed, the ex-soldier liked to tinker. Not that he had much else to do anyway.
Mike Gonzales had called at around midnight in a panic to ask what had happened. The news had reported a shooting at the compound. Aronen didn’t know anything about the incident, but with Gonzales’ help and a few phone calls, the scope of the catastrophe had become apparent.
Aronen had asked Mike to arrange a ride across the Russian border. There, he’d have time to think and plan. Mike had found him a semi with an empty passenger seat, which was slated to leave Helsinki at 5:00 A.M. Passport checks on both the Finnish and Russian sides of the border hadn’t been a problem, since the stowaway had been hiding in a secret compartment built into the cab.
The ride wasn’t cheap, but Aronen could afford it. He had emptied three caches in the woods near his garage. All together, they contained 80,000 euros in cash and thirteen pounds of amphetamines.
Raiding the gang’s stashes would’ve been a bad idea. If the cops had raided the compound and found the GPS locators, they probably would have already found the stashes too. His three caches had been his personal insurance policy.
The road was straight and Aronen was exhausted. His eyelids drooped shut. He had tried to come up with another plan, but knew that, at times, retreat was the only real alternative.
Gonzales had wanted his money immediately, so Aronen had driven to the man’s house. There, Gonzales had attempted to squeeze more out of him, but Aronen wouldn’t pay. That the guy had tried to take advantage of his position had irritated him. Five grand to Gonzales and five grand to the driver—that would have to do.
The semi would take him to St. Petersburg, and from there, he could make his way to Moscow, Kiev or anyplace else where he could disappear. He had swiped an additional thirty thousand from a poorly hidden stash in Gonzales’ apartment, so there was no shortage of cash. He was actually in the black.
The tattooed trucker lit up a cigarette and the smell of Russian tobacco filled the cab. Aronen cracked his window. The driver said something Aronen didn’t understand, so he just smiled back.
He’d have to get some sleep and hatch a plan. Staying in Finland wasn’t an option, since the cops would find him sooner or later. The Scandinavian countries and Europe were also out of the question. But the Wild East—that would work. There, money meant something.
Aronen had his arms folded across his chest and his duffel between his feet. As the semi cruised along steadily, his eyelids sank shut. The next bump would toss his head to the side, and they would open, but soon they would close again.
Aronen didn’t know how long he had slept, nor did it matter anymore. In the middle of a dream, he noticed that the semi had come to a stop.
A Bowie knife sank into his throat, and amidst the pain, he could feel the blood filling his windpipe, taste it in his mouth. He opened his eyes to see the tattooed trucker, smiling wistfully. After that, everything went black.
The semi was parked in the back yard of a run-down industrial building. Ten yards away was a wooden outbuilding, and beside that, an old well.
Sergei Zubrov put out his cigarette, reached across to open the passenger side door and pushed Aronen’s body out. It fell headfirst in the dirt. He dragged the body by its feet to the well and heaved it in.
Zubrov returned to the truck and glanced at the duffel. It had just been too easy. The tired Finn hadn’t even resisted. Zubrov grinned as he turned the ignition.
* * *
The doctor said Aalto was in the OR for another operation, so there would be no visitors until the day after tomorrow. Salmela was sleeping, but Suhonen was awake.
She led Honkala and Takamäki into the room where Suhonen was lying on the bed. He was the only patient in the room.
The officer’s eyes were closed, but he opened them when Takamäki and Honkala came in.
“How you feeling?” asked Takamäki.
“Light,” said Suhonen. “They gave me a bunch of pills for the pain. Feels like I’m floating over the bed.”
The doctor smiled broadly. “No permanent injuries and no need to amputate.”
“Good.” Takamäki turned to Suhonen. “The case is in the bag. Every Skull is in custody except for Aronen, who vanished. We’ll find him sooner or later.”
Honkala nodded at Suhonen. “Well done.”
Suhonen said nothing. In truth, with the body count as high as it was, the case hadn’t gone all that well.
“Take it easy for a couple days,” said Takamäki.
“Then back to work, right?”
The doctor was already shooing Takamäki and Honkala out of the room.
“Yeah,” Suhonen managed before closing his eyes. He was damned tired. At last, he could sleep in.