Raid and the Blackest Sheep (7 page)

    
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.”

    
“Something’s not right. Nygren’s mostly a con-man, but he knows how to take care of himself. He’s never needed a bodyguard before. Now they’re going around like two cheeks on the same ass.”

    
Kempas made no attempt to hide his displeasure. He knit his eyebrows and forehead till his face was a sea of knots. His gray eyes flashed angrily from beneath his bushy brows.

    
In bold strokes, he scratched out strange patterns on the notepad in front of him, practically assaulting the pad with his pen.

    
Sergeant Leino tried to steal a glance at the pad, but only managed to glimpse a blackened sawblade pattern and a drawing that resembled a toy car. Kempas flipped the pad over. He didn’t like to show his cards to friends any more than enemies. The more knowledge he had, the more powerful he was; and the less others had, the weaker they were. For Kempas, that was the pinnacle of philosophy.

    
“I’ve known Nygren for over twenty years. He was the first big crook I ever bagged. Back then, I was just a street cop and celebrated it for three days. The next time I nabbed him was ten years ago and now he’s out laughing at us again. He won’t laugh long.”

    
It seemed to Susisaari that Kempas was taking the matter too personally. The police should loathe crime and wrongdoing, not the criminal.

    
Susisaari had been involved in several chilling murder investigations, which the news media had portrayed as monstrous. In each case, the perpetrator was caught, and they always seemed like people, not monsters.

    
Susisaari often recalled a lecture she had attended at the police academy, held by an experienced homicide detective. The lecturer had reminded them that every murderer was someone’s child, someone’s son or daughter. They didn’t have to accept the crime, but they did have to try to understand it. That understanding helped them solve other crimes.

    
Leino seized his chance to speak.

    
“We’ve chatted with Nygren’s friends—nobody knows anything. The only thing we can do is follow the two of them and see what they’re up to. Every department in the country has been alerted. They’ll keep us up to date.”

    
“Up to date on what? That Nygren was doing sixty in his Benz down the straights of Highway 5 and he wears size forty-three Mexican boots? We wouldn’t get far on that. I want intel with a capital ‘I.’ That means wiretaps, surveillance and mindreading if you can figure it out. Whatever it takes to keep him from getting away with something.”

    
Leino and Lunden glanced at one another, then simultaneously at Kempas. The man could get worked up sometimes, but he seemed to be in a frenzy over Nygren.

    
“It’s a little tough to tap his phone when he’s on the road all the time.”

    
“He’s gotta sleep somewhere. Try to anticipate their route. He’s got expensive tastes. Always stays at the best hotel in the area. Put a microphone to the wall and tape their discussions. Go through his cellphone records, too. The calls will tip us off on where they’re headed. And try to find out if he has any friends along the way. I know he’s got a daughter somewhere around Kuopio and an ex-wife somewhere.”

    
Kempas fidgeted, his body buzzing with excess energy.

    
“You still need me for anything?” asked Susisaari.

    
“Get me Jansson’s binder on Raid.”

    
“There’s not much there, and I doubt what we have would be very useful.”

    
“Someone told me Jansson and Raid are friends.”

    
“Someone’s wrong.”

    
“Can’t you at least find out how Raid and Nygren know each other?”

    
Susisaari swallowed “at least” with a straight face.

    
“I can put in a call to Sweden.”

    
“He has cancer,” said Officer Lunden, having waited for just the right moment to drop this bit of information.

    
“Raid?” Kempas asked.

    
“Nygren.”

    
“So what?”

    
“If the guy’s dying, why would he be planning another gig? Rumor has it he’s got at least a million stashed away from past jobs. That’s enough to get him all the way to judgment day.”

    
Kempas weighed Lunden’s argument and accepted it, but with reservations.

    
“If we added up all the cash these crooks would need stashed away, even Nokia’s executive stock options wouldn’t be enough. Everyone talks about millions, even if all they stole were lollipops. A crook is a crook solely because he has no moderation when it comes to money. He blows it all, and when the money’s gone, he does another job. Nygren’s no exception, no matter what kind of big shot he’s supposed to be. It’s a retirement job. Say what you will. He’s planning a retirement job.”

    
Lunden objected, though he knew Kempas disliked objections when he was chomping at the bit.

    
“All the cops ever recovered from the Stockholm bank robbery was about a hundred thousand kronor. They got away with almost six million. And that armored truck in Helsinki netted almost half a million euros. Nygren was behind both of those. He doesn’t gamble anymore, doesn’t do drugs or drink too much. Sounds plausible that he’d have money stashed away.”

    
“Has this cancer claim been verified?”

    
“The doctor is sticking to patient confidentiality, but it’s been supported by other accounts. The tumor is malignant.”

    
“What about Lehto and Sariola? They just bumped into Nygren by accident? They used to work together, you know.”

    
“According to our sources, they got into a fight,” said Lunden.

    
Kempas was innately distrustful.

    
“A bluff?”

    
“Sariola ended up in the hospital with scalding hot coffee on his nuts. The burns sure weren’t bluffing. According to the station owner, it was about money. Sariola was demanding cash and Nygren wouldn’t pay. So Sariola threatened Nygren with a gun and Raid flattened him.”

    
“Isn’t that enough reason in itself to have Raid along?” said Susisaari. “Nygren has bread and his old cronies want a piece of it.”

    
“Nygren’s done fine on his own before. And brains are always better than brawn.”

    
Unable to sit still, Kempas strode over to the window. The gypsy family was still flocked around the old van. One of the men was sitting behind the wheel. The women were in the rear and the children were playing on a nearby sidewalk. Kempas concluded that one of their entourage must be awaiting a sentencing in the courthouse. Tight-knit family as they were, they were loath to leave one of their own behind.

    
“You two can devote all your time to Nygren, but I don’t want any overtime filed. If you need to hound him across the countryside, that’s fine; do whatever you deem necessary. And feel free to spend the night in a hotel, but three stars max.”

    
Susisaari got up.

    
“I doubt you’ll have any use for me anymore.”

    
Kempas was so preoccupied he hardly noticed her departure.

    
“Can we use the helicopter?” asked Leino.

    
Kempas shot a look at Leino, who immediately regretted the joke. Then a smile spread over Kempas’ face.

    
“Sure…as long as I can ride along.”

5.

“This the one?” Raid asked, stopping next to a chain-link fence. A sign on the fence read: Mara’s Auto Inc.—Plain Honest Car Sales Since 1998.”

    
Behind the fence were a couple dozen cars and a large camper. No customers were in sight, but somebody was in the camper.

    
“The day I find an honest car salesman, they’ll have Mardi Gras in heaven.”

    
Nygren pried himself out of the car and lit a cigarette.

    
“Let’s do it.”

    
Raid closed the fence gate and flipped the sign over so it read, “Closed.” The door to the building opened and a man dressed in a designer sweater and pressed pants stepped outside. The man was over fifty years old and portly. His thin, greasy hair was combed with mathematical precision over as much of his bald spot as possible, and he was smoking a ragged cigar. His other hand fiddled with a ring of keys in his pocket. Raid could hear the keys jingling.

    
“The one and only Mara,” said Nygren.

    
“The one and only Nygren. I was wondering who’s this yuppie shutting my gate, but…”

    
“Just came to do some inventory.”

    
A couple of years of honest car sales taught more about reading faces and gestures than ten years at a university. Mara looked at them with the same couldn’t-care-less look that he used to soften up customers wanting to trade in old cars.

    
“Inventory?”

    
Further back, two men in black leather jackets stepped out onto the porch.

    
“Three salesmen and not a single customer. No wonder the place isn’t pulling a profit.”

    
“Just a couple friends who dropped by to say hello.”

    
Nygren glanced at the men. They didn’t look like anybody’s friends.

    
Mara tried to manage a friendly smirk, but the attempt fell flat.

    
“Good timing. Just made coffee…”

    
Nygren peeked inside a BMW 740 parked next to the building. “A hundred thousand miles, and of that, fifty thousand driven backwards. Otherwise the odometer would say one fifty, right?”

    
“Phhh. That’s my own car.”

    
“Mara here’s notorious for the fact that whenever a car comes in the front gate, fifty-thousand miles go out.”

    
“What if the car’s been driven less than fifty?” Raid asked.

    
“Then the buyer gets free miles—a car that’s been driven less than zero miles.”

    
Mara’s friendly face started to fade.

    
“Can I help you guys with something? Pretty busy here…”

    
Nygren scanned the empty lot.

    
“Looks like it. Didn’t you get word?”

    
“I heard something from the boys, but I didn’t quite follow your reasoning.”

    
“What’s so complicated about it?”

    
“They said you want a hundred grand, but they must have heard you wrong. I ain’t got that kinda money. Lucky if I can afford coffee and a few biscuits.”

    
Mara’s buddies chuckled.

    
Nygren held out his hand.

    
“The money.”