“Genuine Ray-Bans, they’re yours.”
Raid slipped them on.
“You never told me the story about these.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore. Now they’ll have a new story that you can either tell or not tell.”
Nygren took a wallet out of his coat pocket. He opened it, slipped a car key out of the coin pocket and pressed it into Raid’s hand.
“The spare key to the Mercedes. It’s yours now, you’ll make your own story for it.”
“Thank you.”
Nygren dug around in his wallet some more and pulled out a folded receipt and a photograph.
“Your fee has been wired to your account. Here’s your receipt.”
Raid took the paper and shoved it in his pocket without looking at it.
Nygren clasped his hands over his chest so they cradled the photograph. Raid could see that it was the picture of Nygren’s daughter with the black-and-white cat in her lap.
“When you were baptized, the pastor reminded us godparents of the responsibility we were taking on. He said a godparent’s most important job is to keep his godchild on the path of righteousness. We godparents were supposed to live as good examples for our godchildren. I remember holding you in my lap and thinking, Poor thing…best not take any lessons from your old uncle. I saw your mom looking at me kind of stern, and I’m sure she knew what I was thinking. As you got bigger, things went just the opposite of the way they were supposed to. You started imitating everything I did, both good and bad, especially bad. I noticed it, but for some reason it gratified me and I couldn’t be strict enough. I’ll never forgive myself for that.”
Raid took off the sunglasses. “I had so little to be proud of.”
“I understand that now.”
“When you came to visit, I wanted to take it all in. I’d tell anyone who’d listen that you were my godfather. I told them you were rich and lived abroad. The other boys were jealous because it seemed like you were from another planet. You drove an expensive car, had nice clothes and bought me the kinds of presents other kids never got.”
“You only saw the glamorous parts, and I don’t blame you. That’s what I wanted to show you. And that’s why I feel responsible for your turning out the way you did.”
“I made that decision myself.”
“I set an example and opened the door. You let a kid run loose in a candy store, you can’t blame him for stealing.”
“I’d have never made much of an upstanding citizen anyhow.”
“You had a good father and an even better mother. Maybe things would’ve turned out different if they’d lived. You were too young to be on your own.”
“Adversity was a good teacher.”
“I know it’s too late to be a good godfather, but I still have to try… I didn’t want you along on this trip to be my driver or my bodyguard. Not much left of my body to protect and the Benz has always gotten me where I need to go. You’re here because I want to show you the road I’ve taken, and that I regret every turn.”
Nygren took Raid’s hand.
“The truth is that I’ve been happiest when I’ve lived an ordinary person’s ordinary life. Gone to work in the morning, come home in the evening. Held my daughter in my lap, played with her and read her a bedtime story. Done everything I considered dull then, not realizing it was the best life had to offer. Somehow I convinced myself I was destined for some other glamorous life full of riches and fame. And so I was never able to enjoy what I had.”
“I’ve always been proud of you.”
“But for no reason. I haven’t done anything to make anyone proud.”
“You rescued a church from a scam-artist and helped the kid with the big shoes. Those were good deeds.”
“And I did them solely for selfish reasons…because I’m afraid. So I’d have something to put in the empty end of the scales. It’s the same reason I’m preaching to you right now, even though it’s fucking difficult for me. If I were you, I wouldn’t listen to a single word. I would think, oh, the old man’s rambling again.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“I certainly do. And the more you follow in my footsteps, the more I owe you.”
“Every man is responsible for his own life.”
“Believe me…you’re wrong. I am responsible for you, and you for someone else.”
“I absolve you of all responsibility.”
“I’ve always wondered why your mother asked me to be your godfather… She believed in me even when she knew what I was…the blackest sheep of the family.”
“She was your sister. She knew you better than anyone, better than you knew yourself.”
Nygren fluffed up his leaf-pillow and found the most comfortable position possible, with his hands folded over his chest. He looked at Raid.
“The letter’s in my pocket.”
Raid nodded.
“And don’t forget the follow-up inspection. That’s part of the deal.”
“Right.”
“It’s a good day to die,” Nygren said in English.
Raid smiled.
“Didn’t I say you’d do it?”
Nygren smiled and closed his eyes.
Raid slipped a pistol out of his pocket, held it just shy of Nygren’s temple and fired. The echo rumbled over the fells.
Raid stood up, arranged the pistol carefully in Nygren’s hand and fired it toward the sky. Then he picked up the empty casing and put it in his pocket. He took hold of the birch that was bowing over them and shook it, dropping a shroud of yellow leaves onto the body.
From somewhere off in the fells, Raid heard the approaching thuk-ka-thuk-ka of a distant helicopter. It closed in quickly, looked briefly for a landing spot, then touched down in a small clearing in the birches. The current from the rotors beat against the tiny trees.
The door of the helicopter opened and out hopped Lieutenant Kempas. The pilot shut off the engine and the roar began to die down. Kempas hurried over to Raid, pressing his hat onto his head. When he saw Nygren’s body, he stopped and slowly took it off.
“I met your uncle in the hospital in Sweden a couple months back. He’d just found out he had but two months to live. I promised him a peaceful departure. Even though he didn’t want me to, I’ve been trailing him. I wanted to be there if he got stopped before the end of the road. This looks like the end.”
“That’s right.”
“Your uncle asked me to pray for him after he died. I made the mistake of promising, so I’ve been up many nights thinking about what I might say. I don’t know how preachers think of a new sermon every single day.”
“They get paid for it.”
Kempas cleared his throat and folded his hands. He bowed his head and looked at the ground. Then he bent down next to Nygren’s body and turned toward Raid.
“An autumn hike. Sure is beautiful weather.”
Raid nodded.
“If I had my choice, I’d die on a day just like today…nothing wrong with the spot either. Not too many get a choice, though.”
“Right.”
“I’m guessing you don’t need a ride,” said Kempas.
He held out his hand. Raid hesitated before shaking it.
“Your uncle was a good man, better than most people knew. I knew him for twenty years.”
Kempas climbed into the chopper and the engine roared to life. Then it rose into the sky and flew off over the fells.
* * *
Hiltunen gaped at Jansson.
“Nygren doesn’t hate Kempas. He thinks Kempas is a nice guy.”
“Are we talking about the same Lieutenant Kempas?” Huusko demanded.
“Yeah, the undercover boss. Those two are friends.”
“Fuck!”
“If ever cops and robbers were friends, those two are.”
“You’re full of shit!” Huusko roared.
Jansson shot Huusko a stern look.
“Huusko!”
“I’m tellin’ you…they’
re friends. Nygren saved his life once.”
“Kempas’ life?” Jansson wondered. “When and where?”
“You should know, shouldn’t you?”
“How’s that?”
“If you investigated the casino shooting…”
“What happened there?”
“Don’t you know?”
“No.”
“Well, Kempas was trying to bust the casino along with Nygren and Salmi for illegal gambling. Those two owned the place. Kempas was still just a regular cop back then…not that he’s ever been that regular. So he finds the place, stakes it out for a week, and arrests some professor. You couldn’t get in without knowing somebody, so Kempas made the professor take him in… He gambles for a couple hours and then some guy walks in, recognizes Kempas, pulls a gun and is about to shoot. Nygren was there and stepped into the line of fire just as the guy popped one off. The bullet hit Nygren in the gut before Kempas managed to shoot the guy.”
“So Kempas shot Luotola?”
“Don’t know the guy’s name, but he wound up in the hospital half-dead. Nygren said he and Kempas came up with a story for the cops. Nygren and the other guy kept mum and the cops bought it hook, line and sinker. Nygren and Kempas have been friends ever since.”
“Have they met up since then?”
“Many times.”
“When was the last?”
“Nygren said Kempas paid him a visit in Sweden not too long ago.”
* * *
“Think he’s telling the truth?” said Huusko as they got back to the car.
“I knew Kempas was involved with it somehow and we investigated the incident together. Even back then I had the feeling he wasn’t telling me everything, but it never occurred to me he might be conspiring with Nygren. I figured he was protecting one of his informants.”
“Couldn’t they identify the weapon based on the bullet? Kempas probably used a standard police-issue firearm.”
“We determined the model and make, but plenty of people have the same weapon. Over a dozen police-issue guns had gone missing at the time, too. And we had no reason to believe Kempas had been at the casino.”
* * *
Huusko watched a low-flying helicopter approach in the rear-view mirror. The chopper swept overhead at an altitude of about thirty feet. Further up ahead, it circled and landed at a rest stop.
“I thought I saw Kempas,” said Jansson.
“I had the same nightmare,” said Huusko. He braked and coasted up the exit ramp toward the helicopter. Kempas stood next to it with his hat in his hand. He looked relaxed, like someone who’d spent his whole life flying around on the tax-payer’s dime.
“It’s Kempas alright.”
Kempas smiled, looking somehow like a different man…softer.
“You must have been on an old trail if you went to see Hiltunen.”
“Old, but hot,” said Huusko.
“More like cold. Nygren’s dead.”
“Dead,” said Jansson and Huusko at the same time.
“Shot himself in the mountains.”
“What about Raid?”
“Gone.”
Jansson was suspicious.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Nygren was on a trip to the fells to die the whole time. Some fancy of his. Raid was along to drive him there. Along the way, Nygren settled up with himself, paid virtue with virtue, and vice with vice.”
“And what was your role?”
“I met him in Sweden while he was at the hospital. He told me he wanted to die in Finland and I promised to help. I suppose Hiltunen told you why.”
“Yeah.”
“Nygren saved my life…and he could’ve got me in deep shit. It’s hard not to respect a man like that.”
“What now?” said Jansson.
“He left a full confession and a gun. That closes Rusanen’s case and Sariola’s too. We have nothing on Raid.”
“I guess not,” said Jansson.
Kempas looked Jansson directly in the eyes.
“Now you know my secret. What are you gonna do?”
Jansson glanced at Huusko.
“Hardly seems anyone would be interested in such an old case.”
“An old case,” Huusko repeated.
Kempas nodded.
“Thanks.”
With a wave of his hand, he signaled the pilot and the helicopter’s rotors began to whirl.
“I can give you a ride to Helsinki,” said Kempas.
“No, thanks.”
He climbed into the chopper and gave a wave as he shut the door.
“I wish I could be there when he gives the chopper bill to his boss,” said Huusko.
“Me too.”
21.
Huusko dropped Jansson off at his house around six in the evening. Jansson took his suitcase out of the back seat and thanked Huusko for the ride.
“Best not to gripe about your back for a little while,” said Huusko.
“Right.”
Jansson saw the drapes flutter in the upstairs window. He climbed over the fence and cut across the lawn. On the way, he picked an apple, took a juicy bite and tossed the remains under the hawthorn hedge.
His car was parked in the driveway and the front door was unlocked. Jansson set his suitcase on the entry bench and kicked off his shoes.
“I’m home,” he hollered from the kitchen.
On the kitchen table was a bottle of sparkling wine on ice, and next to the cooler was a small plate of crackers topped with smoked salmon and roe. Jansson inhaled one in a single bite and washed it down with wine.
He heard some music coming from upstairs and recognized Placido Domingo. The first checkmark was hanging on the stair railing: his wife’s panties,
black, little and lacy. There was no mistaking the invitation.
Jansson inhaled another cracker, took the plate in one hand, tucked the bottle under his arm, and took the wine glass in his other hand.
A black thigh-high stocking was dangling from the bedroom doorknob. The door was ajar enough that Jansson was able to bump it open with his knee.
His wife had drawn the curtains and left on only the bedside lamp. She lay on her right side in the classic come-hither position, dressed in something that should be banned for anyone under fifty.
The three tenors raised their tremolos to the highest imaginable frequency. His wife lifted her hand to her hip and caressed it.
“Show me what kind of shape they got you in now.”
“You wanna cracker?” asked Jansson, offering the plate.
“No.”
“What about some bubbly?”
“No.”
“Isn’t the music a little loud?”
“No. Aren’t you a little overdressed?”
“Sometimes you think you know a person, but you really don’t…”
“What are you talking about?”
“Lieutenant Kempas.”
“Forget Kempas and pay attention to your wife.”
Jansson set the bottle on the nightstand and the plate of crackers next to it. He loosened his belt and unsnapped his pants. He couldn’t get any further before his wife yanked them down.
“What about foreplay?” Jansson asked.
“Forget it.”
“Right down to business, huh?”
“Right down to business.”
22.
The collection plate in Turku’s Elia Church completed its rounds more brimming than ever. Complete forgiveness of sins, new hearts, washed in the blood of the lamb, new souls, as white as heavenly linen. New joy and jubilation as the sinners received grace. Verily, verily, was there good reason to slay the fatted calf and call the guests to partake in the joys.
Only the pastor was old. The same old suit, the same thick gold chain on his wrist, the same slick part in his hair, the same greed and cynicism.
Pastor Koistinen stood behind the lectern, his hands in the air, palms up.
“For my enemies have retreat
ed, fallen to the ground and turned to dust in front of thine eyes. Thou hast granted me the authority and championed my cause. Sit on thy throne, oh righteous judge. My enemies have been destroyed, cast into eternal ruin, their cities overthrown, their memories vanquished…”
The double doors opened and Raid strode inside. He walked up the center aisle to the middle of the church. One by one, the voices hushed, and at last Koistinen came out of his rousing tirade.
Koistinen stretched out his arm and leveled a finger at Raid.
“I have received grace and a new life in heaven, you have no power over me…”
“You get a new wallet too?”
“Seek salvation, heal thyself and turn away from sin! Your life is as brief as the grass in the field; today it grows and tomorrow it’s cut. God alone knows when the harvest will come.”
“God and I.”
Raid drew a gun from beneath his coat, cocked it and fired two quick shots into Koistinen’s chest, directly into his heart.
Koistinen crumpled to his knees before pitching forward onto his face. Then he was no more. He was like the grass in the field, which yesterday grew and today was cut.
Raid turned and walked out.
In front of the building was an old Mercedes, a car with a tale. One day, he would tell the tale to someone who was entitled to hear it. And he would add his own parts to it and it would become richer.
He drove down the neon-tinged main street, through a sleepy suburb and banked to the right into the current of the highway.
Also by Ice Cold Crime:
Helsinki Homicide: Against the Wall
Jarkko Sipila
292 Pages, $11.95
An abandoned house in Northern Helsinki, a dead body in the garage. Detective Lieutenant Kari Takamäki’s homicide team gets a case that looks like a professional hit but they are perplexed by the crime scene.
Takamäki’s trusted man Suhonen goes undercover as Suikkanen, a gangster full of action. In pursuit of the murderer, he must operate within the grey area of the law. But, will the end justify the means? Following in the footsteps of popular Scandinavian writers, Jarkko Sipila is introducing his critically acclaimed Takamäki series in the United States.
Raid and the Blackest Sheep Page 18