Nygren was more merciful. He took a carton of milk from the refrigerator and poured it onto the man’s coffee-soaked pants.
Slim crawled toward the exit, leaving a trail of sugar and jam. Raid intercepted him and tore the car keys out of his pocket. Then he bent down and shook him by the hair.
“If we meet again, I promise it won’t be pleasant.”
He hit him on the right cheek first, then the left. The man’s eyes started to roll back.
“That’s enough.”
Raid eased up and let go. He followed Nygren outside, hurled the keys into a thicket behind the station, and the gun even further.
Nygren sat in the front seat for a change. He looked somber.
“Less would’ve probably been enough.”
“I doubt it.”
“Roasted nuts. That’s gotta hurt like hell.”
“Better his nuts than his soul.”
“Sariola’s the vengeful type. He won’t stop chasing me.”
“Maybe so, but at least he’ll move a little slower.”
“Next time he’ll play it safe, which makes him more dangerous. He’ll know to be more careful now.”
Whatever the case, Nygren knew he owed Raid a debt of gratitude.
“Well done, though. I suppose I made the right choice.”
“I suppose so.”
* * *
The police were waiting for them about ten miles from the gas station. The cruiser was parked at a bus stop with its blue lights flashing. On both sides of the road were open fields of plowed clay-heavy soil. A tractor was turning over a fresh row with a flock of screaming gulls close behind. Two officers were standing in front of the squad car. One was holding a small stop-sign in his hand, which quickly rose when the Mercedes came into view.
Nygren’s face darkened.
“I should have guessed. Where’s the gun?”
“It’ll turn up when we need it.”
Raid snapped on his right blinker and stopped about fifteen feet from the cruiser. The cops stood at the ready, their right hands resting on the butts of their guns.
One of the officers was young, the other a seasoned cop about twenty years older.
The younger one approached the car while the other hung back. The lessons from the police academy had stuck. Raid pushed a button, and with a soft hum, the window slid down.
“License and registration,” said the officer.
Raid handed over his driver’s license. The cop looked it over, comparing the photo to the live model.
“Registration too.”
Raid handed over the Mercedes’ registration. The younger officer gave the documents to his partner, who sat down in the cruiser to call them in.
“Out of the car.”
Raid and Nygren obeyed.
“Were you guys at the Ellu gas station about fifteen minutes ago?”
Nygren perched his sunglasses on his forehead.
“Not sure if it was Ellu, but some station at any rate. What’s going on?”
“What happened over there?”
“We had coffee and donuts. Bargain price.”
“There was no incident?”
Nygren shook his head.
“We got a call about a fight and heard somebody pulled a gun. The guys from the neighboring station are over there and said somebody had to be taken to the hospital for burns.”
“Sounds awful,” said Nygren. “I burned my own ass on the sauna stove once when I was drunk.”
The other officer chimed in.
“They’ll be here soon.”
“The description of the car matches this one. Don’t see older Benzes like this every day. Why don’t you put your hands on the car and spread your legs.”
The younger officer checked both Raid and Nygren, but found nothing.
He pulled his partner aside and they exchanged a few words before returning.
“Alright with you if we search the car?” asked the younger one.
“Wouldn’t that call for a search warrant?”
“Not if we suspect you have a radar detector.”
“Do you?”
The officers glanced at one another. The older one shook his head, but the younger one took a harder tack. He drew a pair of thin white gloves from his pocket and fanned out his fingers like a magician preparing for a card trick.
“Yes, we do. Open the trunk.”
Raid opened it.
The younger officer leaned in and lifted Nygren’s suitcase out onto the pavement.
He rummaged through the spare tire compartment and a toolbox. Then he circled around to root through the cabin, glovebox and under the seats. After finding nothing, he turned his attention to the suitcase.
“Just dirty socks and underwear in there,” Nygren warned.
The cop didn’t believe him and spilled the contents onto the pavement.
“Where you guys headed?” asked the older officer.
“To Lapland, to see the leaves,” said Nygren.
“With what gear?”
“The colors look just as nice from a restaurant window, and the trip from the cabin to the restaurant is enough hiking for us.”
Just then, the officers from the neighboring station pulled up. A blue and white police van stopped behind the other two cars and two cops in coveralls hopped out. One of them slid open the side door and jerked out a reluctant-looking Lehto, his shirt collar still splattered with jam and sugar crystals.
“These guys look familiar? They the ones that scalded your friend?” asked one of the cops in overalls.
Lehto peered over at Nygren and Raid.
“I already told you my friend knocked over the coffee pot by accident. These guys might have been there, but they didn’t do anything.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“The station owner had a very different story. Why would he lie?”
“Maybe he scarfed down too many jelly donuts,” Nygren volunteered.
“The guy’s whacked,” agreed Lehto.
“So you don’t know these guys?”
“Complete strangers.”
Lehto looked Raid over once more, pretending to search his memory.
“That one looks familiar, but that’s just ’cause he looks like my second cousin. Same chin and nose.”
The younger officer stared at Raid.
The older cop smiled, but said nothing.
“And you? You speak?”
“When the time is right.”
“Now’s the time.”
“I’m sure I’d remember if I’d met him before. Can’t forget a face that stupid.”
“I’ll second that,” said Nygren.
The younger cop started to get skittish and he pulled Lehto in front of himself.
“He might be stupid, but we sure aren’t. Both this guy and his buddy with the burns on his nuts are former felons; we’ve confirmed that. You guys look like the same sort, frankly. I can tell just by looking at you.”
“Appearances can deceive,” said Nygren.
The cop jostled Lehto.
“You guys fighting over money? Someone get bilked?”
“What’s a former felon? What does ‘bilk’ mean?” Lehto asked, his expression admirably oblivious.
“Don’t give me that.”
Lehto gazed off toward the shore where a storm front was rolling in.
“Looks like rain.”
“Maybe we should bring the whole posse downtown.”
“What posse?” said Lehto.
The younger officer could feel the situation slipping through his fingers. This only angered him more and he shook Lehto all the harder. His partner stepped in and clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“That’s enough.”
“I’ll say. Go ask my friend what happened back there before you start accusing people. He’s the one in the hospital.”
One officer escorted Lehto back to the van and the others gathered at a distance to discuss. One of them made a call on his
cell phone while the others looked on.
Nygren approached the group.
“How long do we have to wait? It’s getting cold out here.”
“You can wait in the car. Won’t be long.”
Nygren and Raid sat down in the car.
“Where’s the gun?” Nygren muttered from the corner of his mouth.
“What gun?”
Further down the road, more flashing blue lights came into view. The weary cops were suddenly revived.
“Could’ve seen this coming,” said Nygren.
“Right.”
A third squad car, this one a Ford wagon, joined the other two.
The driver opened the liftgate and out hopped a scruffy-looking German shepherd. One of its ears was folded over and it had a mild look in its eyes.
Nygren and Raid knew the drill and stepped out of the car.
The dog sniffed Nygren first, then Raid, but found nothing interesting. The officer brought the dog over to the Mercedes and opened the door.
“Hopefully you’ve trimmed his nails,” said Nygren. “Leather repair costs a fortune.”
The dog sniffed through the rear seating area, then the front. The cop opened the trunk and the dog hopped inside.
“Open the hood.”
Nygren pulled the hood latch in the driver’s side footwell, then reached under the hood and released the catch. The powerful motor and its trimmings completely filled the engine compartment.
The dog rose up on its hind legs, leaned against the wheel well, and craned its snout toward the engine. It circled round to the other side, but soon its enthusiasm waned and it lowered itself, returned to its handler’s side and sat at his feet. The officer patted the dog on the head and offered it a small treat.
He shook his head at the other officers.
The younger officer came over to the Mercedes with a sullen look.
“Get the fuck outta here while you still can.”
4.
When Lieutenant Kempas took charge of the Helsinki undercover unit, it seemed to be by genetic design. Curious to the core, he took interest in every crumb of intelligence, and he never forgot even the smallest detail. He was diligent, a good judge of character, cunning and brave. Furthermore, he had plenty of impudence with a pinch of well-hidden humanism.
Tall and thin, he stood so ramrod straight that he always seemed to be falling backward. His hair was the color of a dirt road, and was combed straight back from his broad, furrowed brow. The tops of his cheeks were deeply scarred by acne, which had struck at a time when good skin and healthy teeth were just a lot of fuss from city folks. In his case, the nearest pharmacy had been too far away.
There was something vaguely Native American about his appearance. He often stood with his arms crossed over his chest, surly, like the last surviving Apache, his land lost to the white man.
His outfit consisted of black slacks, a burgundy wool coat and a light-blue collared shirt. His tie was navy blue. Overall, his appearance was very neat, but upon closer inspection, tiny balls of lint were visible on his wool coat, two buttons had been sewn on with different colored thread and his tie had a grease stain.
For Kempas, this outfit was unusually casual, almost Bohemian. Ordinarily, he dressed in suits, the origins of which were the subject of plenty of gossip.
The fact that, at fifty years old, he was still a mere lieutenant was due only to Kempas’ abrasiveness. He lacked the ability to put himself in his superiors’ position, and in any given situation, he did as he saw fit without asking for permission or direction.
While working in the theft unit one year, he had exceeded his budget by a factor of three. Among the expenditures was a helicopter ride worth ten thousand euros.
Despite impressive conviction rates and favorable newspaper articles, his career was at a standstill. Nobody could imagine what he would have done as chief of the department. Helsinki was too small and poor a city for men of large ideas and the balls to execute them. Men who, if the standard-issue 9mm wouldn’t do, would gladly take up a bazooka instead.
Every police department in the world had at least one Kempas, but two of his kind was one too many.
Kempas gazed out the window into the yard. A group of gypsies—three men, two women and two children—were filing out of the courthouse. In no apparent hurry, they seemed to be basking in the warm autumn sun.
Kempas felt he’d been given a heavier burden to carry in life, and a gloomier fate than most. He had always taken responsibility for others, which, though it chafed at him, he accepted. Some were weaker than others.
The gypsies stopped next to a battered van. One of the men opened the door and the women and children climbed inside. The men leaned against the van to chat. Each of them had a short black leather coat over a sweater and straight blue pants. All had flawless white collared shirts. The men’s idleness was so natural that they seemed almost to be enjoying an evening around a campfire.
Kempas recalled a funny gypsy joke, but he suppressed his amusement.
Sergeant Leino and Officer Lunden, sitting along the wall, glanced at one another.
“Ten after. What’s taking her?” wondered Leino.
A knock came at the door and Officer Sanna Susisaari stepped in. Kempas eyed her harshly. Susisaari’s blue-grey suit coat had a silver tiepin with a star-shaped Mercedes emblem, which she had received as a gift from Jansson. In Kempas’ view, a Mercedes was unfit for police work, as were all other luxury vehicles. An Opel was more appropriate: not too showy, nor too shabby, and perfectly ordinary.
“You made it after all.”
“I did.”
Since no seats remained in the office, Lunden stood up, and without ceremony, she took his spot.
“A fine collection,” she said, attempting to placate Kempas.
On the wall, over a hundred police patches were neatly arranged behind two panes of glass. The collection was the largest at the station and Kempas was plainly proud of it.
The praise worked immediately, and Kempas’ expression softened.
“We’re interested in the hit man who was a suspect in the Imatra Castle Hotel and warehouse shootings. You, Jansson and Huusko were involved in the investigation.”
“You’re talking about Raid?”
“Isn’t that what they call him?”
“Jansson knows him best… He’s in physical rehab, but you can give him a ring.”
“We know that. This Raid has been parading around Finland with an old con-man and thief by the name of Nygren. I want to know what they’re up to. I doubt they’re together for the sake of sightseeing.”
“I didn’t know Raid was back in Finland, and I don’t think Jansson knows either. He would have told me.”
“You must know something.”
The familiar gruffness returned to Kempas’ voice. His greatest weakness was his non-existent sense of humor and his inability to distinguish nuance. He was unable to soften his words with humor and often offended others unintentionally.
An astute female subordinate had observed two other major weaknesses besides his dysfunctional sense of humor.
Kempas was a conspiracy theorist. He believed that minorities, like homosexuals, Jews, gypsies, the Sami and the Swedish-speaking Finns, to name a few, formed cliques to benefit themselves at the expense of others. These groups were tacitly conspiring to undermine his work.
The homosexuals, Jewish intellectuals and the Swedish-speaking Finns in government coddled criminals by granting early releases, and he was forced to play dog catcher, trying to cart every last one of them back to the pound. Though he ran himself ragged, more than a few mutts always got away.
Kempas once had a nightmare that hundreds of sprightly little gypsy children had rained down from the sky, and immediately upon landing, they scampered about causing all kinds of mischief. But for every one he caught, a fresh batch of sneering faces appeared.
While in the sauna at a seminar on white-collar crime, having drunk a few beers and sev
eral shots, he had divulged the nightmare to some co-workers. They could barely breathe from laughing until they realized the dream was based on a genuine fear.
His other weakness was that he was blind to his own weaknesses. He couldn’t be brought to admit a single flaw, even if his own nose hairs were plucked out one by one with a needle-nose pliers.
Still, his subordinates liked him. His unit included some of the Helsinki PD’s most sought after positions. He was one of the entire department’s best investigators, and unlike many other supervisors, he supported his team even when they messed up. He never let the blame trickle down.
Furthermore, Kempas genuinely cared about his subordinates. He was familiar with each of their life situations, and whether concerning a car purchase or a marriage, he gave stiff but helpful advice. No one on Kempas’ team could have a child, a birthday or get married without his knowing it.
His team also appreciated the fact that Kempas encouraged fieldwork. He had no objection if his subordinates spent their evenings at bars frequented by criminals. Much to the contrary, if someone was spending too much time at their desk, Kempas would have a chat with them.
Rumor had it that Kempas had chewed out an officer for wearing orthopedic sandals to work. In Kempas’ opinion, orthopedic footwear was suited for clerks and stewardesses fearful of varicose veins. Certainly not for cops, who should always be ready to wade through mud and shit.
Kempas sat down behind his desk and waited for Susisaari’s answer.
“Actually, I don’t know anything. Call Jansson,” she replied.
“Why do you think Raid’s back in Finland?”
“If he’s with Nygren, then he’s protecting him. I can’t think of any other reason. And Nygren would have to be pretty afraid to turn to a guy like Raid.”
“Hasn’t Raid lived in Sweden for a while?”
“Fifteen years. Jansson’s got a whole binder on that. He got the files from the Swedish police.”
“Nygren lived there for a few years too, and spent time in jail there. Maybe that’s where they met?”
“Maybe.”
“Is Raid as dangerous as they say?”
“Based on Jansson’s stories, yes. But he’s no psycho killer. He’ll do what Nygren pays him to do as well as he’s capable, and he’s capable of a lot.”
Raid and the Blackest Sheep Page 4