Vengeance hh-2

by Jarkko Sipila

  Suhonen had heard about the incident while abroad at a seminar on criminal gangs. Apparently, Aalto had attended the same one.

  “Salme… Uhh, Salmiakki is a long-time criminal, primarily running stolen goods. He’s divorced, done time, and his son was shot to death in a drug deal gone bad. I believe his story; he wants out of the game, but can’t because of his debt. As a result, he has to depend on someone stronger, and since the Skulls betrayed him, the cops can step in.”

  “Not exactly levelheaded, then,” Aalto remarked.

  “Not exactly,” said Suhonen. “But he’s not dumb, either. And don’t bother appealing to his sense of justice. For him, the opportunity to break out of his current circumstances will be enough.”

  Nykänen interjected. “But he understands that more than likely, he’ll wind up in prison?”

  “Yeah. We went through that yesterday. Salmela…”

  “Salmiakki,” Aalto corrected him.

  “Salmiakki knows he’ll take the rap for the twenty ounces-for his own security. It wouldn’t look good if we busted everybody else and he got off scot-free. I promised him we’d make things comfortable for him in prison.”

  Aalto frowned. “We can’t promise him anything.”

  “We talked about it,” Suhonen reworded. “But it’s kind of awkward if he’s expecting results and all he gets is talk.”

  “We’ll try to help him afterwards, of course,” said Nykänen.

  The word “try” was a big problem for Suhonen. If an informant put his life on the line for society, it wasn’t enough for the police to just “try.” The system should have clear rules.

  Aalto went down his list. “At any rate, it’s clear that we’ll be overseeing the case. The fact that Suhonen is so close to the subject is a clear conflict of interest.”

  Takamäki nodded. “We’ve talked about that.”

  “That way we can be sure the situation will be handled professionally, and that the informant has a genuine desire to talk to the police. He won’t be doing this just to please Suhonen anymore, but only for the sake of revealing important matters to the authorities. That works for his own benefit, too.”

  This case might even work out, thought Suhonen. If he didn’t believe that, he would never have given up his own informant. True, Salmela’s head injury had already driven him to the sidelines, so he wasn’t privy to much valuable intel anymore. He spent most of his time at the corner table of the Corner Pub. But Suhonen’s primary concern was Salmela’s welfare. The operation would provide a chance, however slim, for Salmela to get out-not through the front door, but through the back.

  Aalto went on, “I’ll be one of his handlers myself. Another one, a specialist, will come from my own group. Both of us will attend all meetings with Salmiakki. We’ll pay all of his expenses in cash and his real name will go in the NBI’s safe. Does this Salmiakki happen to have a dog?”

  “No,” said Suhonen, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the thermos.

  “Pity. Walking the dog is always a convenient way to meet. We’ll think of something else. For security reasons, it’s imperative that NBI agents are the only ones to meet with Salmiakki. Is that clear, Suhonen?” Aalto stressed.

  Suhonen nodded.

  “I have the informant’s address and phone number here. Do you have any idea where Salmiakki is now?”

  “I’d bet on three spots. He’s either at home, at the Skulls’ compound or on the way there,” said Suhonen.

  “You don’t have Salmiakki under surveillance?”

  Takamäki shrugged. “No. We don’t have enough resources for that. And there’s been no need for it.”

  Aalto’s expression was grave. “So let me get this straight. Your informant is at the headquarters of a criminal organization with no security measures?”

  “Why should there be?” Suhonen asked. “I don’t have time to babysit them all. These guys are criminals-they don’t like being followed. They come to me when a competitor tramples on their toes or they want to get back at someone. The third reason is when another criminal is completely out of control and the related police activity is bad for business.”

  “Pretty old-fashioned thinking,” Aalto remarked.

  “Maybe so, but that’s how you get street intel. Maybe you guys should invest some time in traditional police work yourselves.”

  Aalto looked over at Nykänen, who seemed uneasy. “The NBI takes care of organized crime. You take care of the street crimes.”

  Suhonen wanted to ask him where, exactly, organized crimes occurred. If not in the streets and alleys, then where? The NBI could have all the white collar criminals they wanted.

  “One more thing we should make clear, so we all understand,” Suhonen said. “Under no circumstances does Salmiakki want to wind up testifying in court. We can only use him for getting intel, which will guide further police operations.”

  Nykänen nodded. “We’ve been thinking the same thing. With Salmiakki’s help, we’ll know where to be, and when, but nobody else will know about his role.”

  “Any questions?” Aalto inquired.

  Takamäki cleared his throat. “Meetings. Where and when?”

  “Here at NBI headquarters. I’ll let you know when,” Nykänen said. “Anything else?”

  Suhonen drank the last of his coffee. “Are you guys going to be taking the drug case too?”

  “No,” said Nykänen. “Our objective here is the Skulls and anyone affiliated with them, especially Mike Gonzales. Narcotics will continue to investigate the drug trafficking case. We can combine the cases later as necessary.”

  * * *

  The Skulls’ compound was quiet. Salmela was alone at the bar, wiping down the counter. From a custodian’s perspective, the previous night had been rather mellow-the place didn’t look much different from the way he had left it.

  He had arrived at the compound at just past nine. With walking, the bus commute had taken nearly an hour. The previous night, Salmela had skipped the Corner Pub, bought a six-pack of beer and watched TV. He had burned the letter to Suhonen. It was irrelevant now. The conversation with Suhonen replayed continually in his head, but he didn’t let it bother him. Nowadays, things just happened, and he didn’t have much control over them.

  Roge, who was on guard duty that morning, had opened the door. Salmela hadn’t earned the code for the keypad yet, and likely wouldn’t for a long time.

  Roge had wanted to talk about last night’s hockey games, but that fizzled quickly since Salmela didn’t know the scores. Soon, Roge got bored, turned to his billiards, and Salmela hung his jacket in the broom closet and got to work. The toilet was an easy task now that the first big cleaning was out of the way.

  Salmela could tell by the smell of the ashtrays that someone had been smoking weed. A few spent doobies confirmed it. He stuffed the butts in his pocket. By saving a few weeks worth of remnants and rerolling them, he could have a couple new joints to sell. That would fetch him a few euros.

  At the corner of the bar was a plastic garbage pail half filled with empty cans and bottles. If nobody emptied it, Salmela planned to do it himself and keep the deposits.

  The steady crack of the billiard balls stopped and Salmela looked up. Roge was chatting with a bald, tattooed man whose back was turned to Salmela, but he recognized him as the same Skull he had met in prison.

  Roge said something and Tapani Larsson turned to look at Salmela. Larsson nodded and strode briskly toward him.

  Salmela considered his options quickly: bottles, both full and empty, were all about, but Larsson likely had a gun, and Roge certainly did. He’d have to make do with words, and if there was trouble, he’d either survive or not. He was powerless. Others made decisions for him, just like in prison.

  Larsson approached the other side of the bar.

  “Hey there,” the man flashed a grin. “I guess we’re old friends.”

  “Yeah,” said Salmela. “Helsinki Prison, right?”

  Larsson nodded. “I
remember you. You did a few jobs for us-and very well.”

  “Still am.”

  “Gotta pay your debts, huh?”

  Salmela wiped the counter. “I’m thankful I can settle them like this. I do good work.”

  “Hopefully… One thing-were you here yesterday already?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you cleaned the toilet?”

  “Yeah.”

  Larsson clapped his hands a few times. “Goddamn. You should get ‘employee of the year’ for that. The air even smells fresher in here. I don’t know what kind of poison you use, but you sure do fine work.”

  “Thanks.” The praise had seemed genuine. There hadn’t been much of it in recent months-or in recent years. Come to think of it, not much in the last forty years.

  “Hey, Eero,” said Larsson.

  Salmela was surprised that the gang boss even remembered his first name, much less used it. “Yeah?”

  “There any coffee here?”

  “Not made. I’m not sure where it’d be. I haven’t cleaned the cabinets yet.”

  “Will you find some?”

  “If it’s here I’ll find it.”

  Larsson cracked a smile. “Good. I’ll have a little milk with mine. And if there isn’t any, knock on the office door and ask Roge to go get a truckload. We don’t drink Nescafe here,” he laughed.

  In prison, Nescafe was the most sensible choice because no valuable grounds were lost at the bottom of the pot. Mixed in a cup of hot water, every last drop of caffeine was consumed.

  Larsson slipped into the office just as Salmela’s phone rang in his pocket. He snatched it up before the first ring was over and answered. On the other end was a man’s voice, asking first if this was Eero Salmela.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m Suhonen’s friend. My name’s Aalto and I’d like to meet with you.”

  “Call back later.” He’d have to remember to turn off his phone when he was at work.

  “I’ll call you at about three in the afternoon to give you instructions. Is that okay?”

  Salmela glanced around. Nobody seemed interested in his conversation. “Sure.”

  “Good. I’ll get back to you,” the man said.

  Salmela shut off the phone, put it back in his pocket and went back to cleaning the counter. Oh yeah, the coffee, he remembered.

  A black-haired man wearing a white sport coat over a black T-shirt came through the saloon doors at the top of the stairs. Osku followed him in and got a nod from Roge.

  The man’s eyes scanned the room and stopped on Salmela for a moment.

  The goateed Osku directed the stranger to the office door and knocked. Somebody barked something from inside, but Salmela didn’t catch it.

  Osku opened the door and Salmela heard him ask if it was okay if Mike Gonzales came in.

  Apparently it was. The black-haired man disappeared into the office. He heard some brief conversation and Osku ordered Salmela to make a couple of extra cups of coffee.

  The door closed, muffling their words. He found a pack of filters in the cabinet and a brick of Presidentti coffee. The coffeemaker was next to the sink.

  In the back room, Larsson greeted Gonzales.

  “Do you know the guy who was standing by the bar?”

  “No,” Gonzales replied. “New recruit?”

  Larsson shook his head. “New janitor, an ex-con. Name’s Eero Salmela. He was in prison the same time as I was. Ask around a bit and see if you can find out what he’s up to nowadays.”

  “In what respect?”

  “Just generally. Who he hangs out with, who he meets.”

  “Sure. I’ll put someone on it.”

  Gonzales drew a small notepad out of his breast pocket and wrote, “Eero Salmela?”

  * * *

  “So we’re off the case, then?” Suhonen asked. Takamäki was taking his turn at the wheel. The rain persisted, jamming up the ordinarily lazy Sunday traffic on Beltway Three.

  “Somehow I got that impression when Nykänen said they’d call us if they need us. But let’s give them some space. Stay away from Salmela, at least for now.”

  “Yeah,” said Suhonen. “Of course.”

  Takamäki wasn’t very reassured by Suhonen’s tone of voice.

  “Helsinki PD still has the drug case, of course. I’ll probably go chat with Narcotics about that,” Suhonen continued.

  “And we still have an open investigation on that train station death, was it Karjalainen?”

  “Yep. We’ve requested his phone records.”

  “Careful, though. Don’t give them the opportunity to push the blame on us if something goes wrong.”

  “If something goes wrong, you’ll be carrying Salmela’s coffin with me.”

  The car circled a massive interchange onto Tuusula Road.

  “By the way, do you know a Skull by the name of Osku, probably pretty new?” asked Takamäki.

  Suhonen looked at the lieutenant. “Osku Rahkonen. New recruit, about twenty years old. Why?”

  “What else do you know about him?”

  “The database has quite a bit on him, but his background is pretty typical. He’s from the Kilo district of Espoo, or at least he’s lived over there for some time. I remember reading in some report that his father has a rap sheet for assault and battery. The kid followed in the dad’s footsteps, wound up in juvie for aggravated assault, and there he met his buddy Roge, or Roger Sandström. Of the two, Roge is bigger-built like a bull. But I wouldn’t say Osku’s the brains. I understand neither has much to brag about upstairs, which makes them great candidates for the Skulls. So, why you interested in Osku?”

  “His little brother Ripa plays hockey with our Joonas. Supposedly, this Osku has lots of money.”

  “Wouldn’t doubt that,” said Suhonen.

  “He bought Ripa some fancy phone and now Joonas has to have one.”

  The car zoomed under an overpass. A lighted sign on a brick building displayed the temperature: 41° F.

  “Sounds like more of a problem for dad than for Detective Lieutenant Takamäki,” Suhonen chuckled.

  CHAPTER 17

  SUNDAY, 4:00 P.M.

  OLYMPIC STADIUM, HELSINKI

  Salmela was fed up. He rounded the north end of the soccer stadium and headed toward the Olympic Stadium. According to his directions, he was supposed to come to the statue of Paavo Nurmi, the famous distance runner who won nine Olympic gold medals in the ’20s.

  Salmela wouldn’t have complained if it weren’t for the rain, which only seemed to mock him. Over the phone, a man had told him to go to the Sörnäinen Metro station in East Helsinki, then take the subway downtown to the central train station, and loop through the Kamppi Shopping Center before taking the streetcar to the Olympic Stadium.

  The man had introduced himself as Aalto, and told him that they wanted to be sure that nobody followed him. So far, nobody had. And why would they, Salmela thought.

  He reached the agreed-upon corner just as a gray Ford Focus pulled up. The driver pushed a button and the window slid down. His eyes met Salmela’s. The driver was in his thirties, with neatly-trimmed hair and a baggy blue hoodie. “Get in,” he said.

  “Who’re you?”

  “The police are your friends,” he said simply.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No, that’s why I’m here. The situation has been deemed safe-you should get in now.”

  Salmela climbed in the passenger side. “How many of you guys are involved in this?”

  “Plenty,” the driver said and sped off. “As a matter of protocol, we’ve been watching, and nobody has followed you. I have orders from Aalto to bring you to the meeting place.”

  The driver turned northbound onto Urheilu Street.

  “What kind of a guy is this Aalto?” Salmela asked.

  “What kind of a guy does he seem like to you?”

  Salmela watched Töölö’s pale-green high school drift past on the left. “Pretty damn careful.”
r />   “That’s just how he is. Doesn’t take any risks, which is good as far as I’m concerned. That’s why I can’t talk to you.”

  “But you already have.”

  “Not anymore. You’re in the hands of professionals.”

  They passed the Finnair Soccer Stadium and continued northward. Salmela recalled his meetings with Suhonen. Those had been different-somehow peaceful, even. Often they had met over beers at the Corner Pub, but after his spell in prison, that had ended. Maybe Suhonen didn’t think the place was safe anymore.

  More recently, Suhonen had always picked him up at some agreed-upon spot and they had chatted at a gas station or some other public place. Last time, Suhonen wouldn’t even agree to meet at the usual Teboil café. And now this. Salmela wondered who had changed, he or Suhonen.

  They passed the Helsinki Ice Center on the right and the driver continued straight through the intersection. Oddly, having lived in Helsinki most of his adult life, Salmela had never been in this neighborhood before. The buildings looked like they were from the sixties. He wasn’t even sure what this part of town was called.

  What if this was just a test from the Skulls? Would they check to see if he’d talk to someone he believed was a cop? And if he did, well… Well, what then? He had already been to the cliff in the Nuuksio forest-what else could they do? Except, perhaps, to make his death more unpleasant than a bullet in the mouth.

  A painful death was something to fear, but Salmela no longer had anything to look forward to in life. He had no family to live for, nor was there any purpose for the rest of his journey. His own mistakes had cost him everything. His marriage had fallen apart while he was in prison. His son had been shot. He had no friends, save for the guys at the Corner Pub and Suhonen. They were the only ones who cared.

  And now, of course, the Skulls and the NBI. Damn.

  They passed a hospital on the right. Parked cars on both sides of the street narrowed the lanes.

  The wheels were spinning in Salmela’s head. He tried to gather his thoughts and quiet the pulsating pain in the back of his head. Suhonen was an old friend and things had always worked both ways with him. He gave Suhonen information the police needed, and in return, Suhonen helped him out from time to time. This exchange was mutually beneficial, and its scale minimal. Salmela had never considered himself a nark.