Raid and the Blackest Sheep (3 page)

    
The first night there, Jansson figured out why Huusko had been so eager about rehab. There was a certain nurse he knew from before. Their affair had been hot, but fleeting.

    
The woman had cared for Huusko after he sustained a gunshot wound five years earlier. Huusko had stopped a man suspected of a recent stabbing when, without warning, the man pulled a gun and shot him three times. Though the weapon was only a .22, one of the bullets had hit him in the heart.

    
For a moment, Huusko had breathed his last, but a doctor had revived him in the back of an ambulance. A quick surgery had saved his life. Another bullet had hit him in the shoulder blade and the wound had required a month of physical rehab. A man like Huusko couldn’t bear such a close relationship with an attractive woman without trying something.

    
The nurse’s husband had discovered the relationship and filed for divorce. Afterwards, she had moved from Helsinki to the small town near the
physical
rehab center and began practicing
there.

    
Jansson glanced at his watch. Ten past three. Only three hours since lunch and he was already hungry. The food at the clinic was light and healthy. For lunch, they had had cabbage soup, and the dinner menu included steamed rainbow trout and vegetable stew. Jansson was sure he would suffer from withdrawal if he didn’t get a proper steak dinner soon, but the nurses had imposed a strict diet and monitored it aggressively.

    
At half-past three, Jansson called his wife at work to complain about the conditions and slow passage of time, but he didn’t get the sympathy he was looking for. As she was just on her way to a meeting, she cut the conversation short. Jansson promised to call back in the evening.

    
Feeling vaguely restless, Jansson got dressed and went to look for something to do.

    
Half a dozen war veterans were sitting at a table near the window in the lobby, clinking coffee cups and sipping lemonade.

    
The recreation area featured a billiards table, ping-pong and a small library and reading room. Jansson picked up a copy of
Technology Today
and tried to focus on reading, but when he realized he had been staring at the same paragraph without reading a single word, he tossed it aside.

    
Jansson felt abandoned. His wife didn’t care to talk to him and Huusko spent his time chasing his physical therapist. He felt alone, as if in the middle of a dark forest, useless and forgotten.

    
Jansson was in search of a suitable scapegoat for all his recent troubles.

    
“You’re not getting any younger.”

    
Jansson clung to his wife’s every word.

    
He was fifty-four. Did she think he was too old? She was only four years his junior, after all.

    
Jansson was slowly coming to terms with the fact that his despondency had stemmed from his wife’s comment. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but at that moment, it had struck a nerve and lingered, gnawing at his mind.

    
He had strained his back while slaving away at the compost pile, despite his wife’s warnings. Her sarcastic reminders about it hurt more than she realized. Jansson himself had noticed how heavy his breathing had been while climbing the stairs. His wife described his gait as a crawl. Even the suggestion of any slightly more complicated sexual positions had made her laugh in his face.

    
That laugh had sent both his prowess and passion reeling.

    
Jansson had convinced himself that he was just out of shape, but after her remarks, he had had to admit to himself that his age was as much to blame.

    
The previous week, a colleague—two years his junior—had undergone bypass surgery. Jansson and Huusko had been to see him at the hospital.

    
As they left the hospital, Jansson had heard Huusko whispering to himself: Good luck with retirement, Gramps.

    
Though the comment had grated on Jansson, he hadn’t said a word, but Huusko had noticed.

    
“Did I say something wrong?”

    
“I’ll let you know when you don’t.”

    
“You know I got a good heart. I only hurt people by accident.”

    
“Huusko, you really think Leppä’s a gramps?”

    
“He didn’t hear that.”

    
“
I
did. He’s a year and a half younger than I am.”

    
“He looks a lot older,” was Huusko’s slippery response.

    
“I don’t buy it.”

    
“You wanna know what I think?”

    
“No.”

    
“I think you’re one of those ‘forever-young’ types.”

    
“I don’t want to be young.”

    
“And not old either?”

    
“Not yet.”

    
That’s when Huusko had started to coax Jansson into coming along to the rehab center. People would see Jansson as a new man, he promised.

    
Jansson walked into the lobby where the patients were gathering for dinner. The trout smelled fishy, and in the worst way.

    
It crossed Jansson’s mind that his wife and his colleagues might be conspiring against him.

    
Huusko entered the lobby swinging a duffle bag and wearing a gray tracksuit, running shoes and his trademark black leather jacket. His step was light, his manner unspoiled by any trace of worry. He had come from the direction of the staff dormitories—Jansson could guess which room.

    
Huusko spotted Jansson standing by the bulletin board, studying it with his arms crossed.

    
“I found something for us to do tonight.”

    
“For us or you?”

    
“You think I’d forget the man on whose goodwill my entire future hangs? Got us a window table at the Millhouse Tavern. Tonight we’ll have meat.”

    
“Didn’t you already get some?”

    
“C’mon, I’m talking about food. They got pepper steaks with creamy garlic mashed potatoes on the menu. On the way back we can stop by the deli for meat pies and fried sausages.”

    
“Sounds good. We taking a taxi?”

    
“Yup. To celebrate payday.”

    
Jansson returned to his room and chose his best outfit: black pressed pants and a dark blue nautical blazer.

    
Jansson had laid his clothes on the bed when his cellphone rang on the nightstand. The caller was unidentified—the display read only an asterisk.

    
“Jansson.”

    
“Kempas here. I heard you’re at rehab. Your old bones bothering you?”

    
Kempas was a veteran lieutenant in charge of the Helsinki Police Department’s undercover operations. He had a reputation for being difficult.

    
“Was there something you wanted to talk about?”

    
“I hear you know a torpedo by the name of Raid.”

    
For some reason, Kempas’ style grated on Jansson.

    
“So?”

    
“Working on a case over here and ran across his name. We need some background on him.”

    
“What case?”

    
“He’s travelling with Nygren, an old ex-con. I’d like to know why.”

    
“And I’m supposed to know?”

    
“I’ve been told you know Raid better than anyone in the department. They say you’re almost pals.”

    
“Not enough that he calls me up to give regular updates.”

    
“Can’t you venture a guess?”

    
“Raid sells protection. Maybe he’s along as a bodyguard.”

    
“Nygren’s never needed one before.”

    
“Sorry, that’s my best guess.”

    
“Maybe Raid’s helping Nygren with a job? Nygren has a record in Sweden too. Hasn’t Raid been living in Sweden for quite some time?”

    
“There and Denmark.”

    
“Maybe they know each other from there.”

    
“Maybe.”

    
“Well, we could use the names of anyone in Finland who knows Raid, and of course, anything else pertaining to him. You’re the one who investigated the Imatra Castle Hotel and warehouse shootings. Wasn’t Raid a suspect in those?”

    
“Yeah, but tell me this… If Nygren and Raid haven’t done anything wrong, why are you after them?”

    
“If Nygren hasn’t done anything yet, he’s about to. The guy’s been in the business for almost forty years, and I’d just as soon the bastard spent his retirement in a cell.”

    
“What do you have against Nygren?”

    
“Cops hate crooks like cats hate mice.”

    
Jansson’s heart went cold. He knew Nygren, and didn’t consider him the worst of criminals. A career criminal, yes, but in his own way, he was entertaining.

    
The first time Jansson met Nygren had been nearly twenty years earlier, while investigating a gunfight in an illicit Helsinki gambling house that attracted a host of shady characters.

    
Nygren had been working the card table when a fight broke out among the gamblers. Two were shot; one of them was Nygren, who took a bullet in the stomach and nearly died.

    
Jansson suspected that Nygren was the second shooter. There had to have been two, since two types of bullet casings had been found. The guns, however, were never recovered. When the shooting occurred, there were about twenty people in the casino, but all had fled before the police arrived. Only the wounded were left.

    
As soon as Nygren’s condition had stabilized, Jansson interrogated him, but to no avail. The other victim had kept his mouth shut as well. The case had remained unsolved and had often troubled Jansson over the years.

    
Nygren’s rakish style and sense of humor had made an impression on Jansson. In a way, he was a kind of gentleman criminal with his own moral code, which he stuck to.

    
In Jansson’s opinion, Nygren wasn’t violent, though he’d been involved in a couple of big cases.
He was a suspect in a Stockholm robbery three years
earlier, in which eight million kronor were stolen from the central train station. Sufficient evidence against Nygren was never found.

    
“I don’t think I’ll be of much help,” Jansson replied.

    
“Alright if I call you back when we find out more?” Kempas asked.

    
“Suit yourself.”

    
“Get better.”

    
“You too.”

    
Dressed in his best, Jansson crossed the hall and knocked on Huusko’s door. Huusko was still in his underwear with a towel around his neck. A half-empty bottle of vodka and a barely-touched bottle of grapefruit juice were on the table.

    
“Help yourself.”

    
“Apparently you’ve already helped yourself to a few.”

    
“Working on the third, all pretty weak.”

    
Huusko’s clothes were uniformly scattered across the floor. By his carefree organizational system, it was easy to tell he was still a bachelor.

    
Jansson took the clothes that were spread out on the chair, piled them on the bed and sat down.

    
Huusko put on a pair of tight black jeans. The scar from his heart surgery seemed to have been cut with a scythe. Despite his unhealthy eating habits, Huusko’s upper body was as muscular as any athlete’s. Huusko noticed Jansson sizing him up enviously, and he flexed his right bicep.

    
“Solid steel!”

    
“Right, right…”

    
Huusko did a few shadowboxing steps, parried and counter-punched, then calmed down and pulled on a dark-blue jean shirt. He stopped to appraise Jansson’s outfit.

    
“Skipper look? Nice try, but the cowboy look is in right now. Check out my genuine Texas boots—and don’t drool.”

    
“Kempas called.”

    
“Let’s forget work, huh?”