Raid and the Blackest Sheep (15 page)

    
Kempas was wearing a narrow-brimmed hat straight out of the 1960s, a long, dark-grey coat, white shirt, and narrow-cut necktie. With his slim suitcase, he looked like a gangster out of a 1960s British thriller.

    
In a weak moment, Kempas had revealed that he had inherited his uncle’s estate: about ten nearly unused suits and other clothes. Once they had fallen out of fashion, his wealthy uncle had abandoned the suits to a wardrobe, but Kempas was no slave to fashion.

    
“Should we stop at the hotel before going to the hospital?” asked Leino.

    
“The hospital first.”

    
Lunden took the wheel and Leino slid in beside him. Kempas took the back seat for himself.

    
“How’s Sariola doing?”

    
“He had surgery on his hand. Just flesh wounds in the shoulder. Nothing serious.”

    
“Is he talking?”

    
“He claims he doesn’t know who shot him, nor is he accusing anyone.”

    
“What about Nygren and his friend?”

    
“We’re searching ’round the clock, but nothing. If Nygren has a phone, it’s not in his name.”

    
Kempas wrinkled his brow irritably.

    
“Nice going. The crooks are having a laugh.”

    
“According to Jansson, this Raid called him from a prepaid cell phone and the caller ID was blocked. I think he’s telling the truth.”

    
“He’s hiding something. Not sure what, but I can smell it.”

    
“How long’s this gonna take?” Leino ventured to ask. “I only ask because the wife is turning forty in three days.”

    
“As long as it takes.”

    
As Kempas was not in a chatty mood, Lunden and Leino thought it wisest to remain silent. Kempas took a notepad from his pocket and began jotting notes with a look of consternation on his face. Every so often, he underlined a few words with bold strokes.

    
“Is Sariola under protection?” said Kempas without raising his eyes from the notepad.

    
“No. We don’t have the authorization or grounds for that. He should be safe here in the hospital.”

    
“Either one of you could’ve stayed to stand guard. I only need one driver.”

    
In a bad mood, Kempas was like a wife who knew her husband’s every weakness, knew how to hit him where it hurt the most.

    
“What about this other guy, Lehto?”

    
“We have an APB out on him.”

    
“An actual APB... It’d be nice if he were actually found.”

    
Irritated by Kempas’ comment, Lunden let out the clutch too fast and he ground the gears.

    
“Is that the car’s fault or the driver’s?” Kempas scoffed.

    
Lunden recalled a particularly harsh teacher from his grade school years. The cranky old man had employed a similar tone of voice, but had bolstered his message by twisting students’ ears or yanking the hair at the napes of their necks. Lunden swept his hand instinctively across his ear. He remembered all too well how the bullying felt.

    
“One thing’s for sure, the car’s a piece of shit,” he said.

    
“I doubt you’d make the police racing team either.”

    
“I would if I could get some decent sponsors.”

    
Kempas’ expression softened. Lunden caught it in the rear-view mirror and commended himself for the quip.

* * *

Sariola had been furnished with a private room. He lay on the bed with his upper body in bandages. The thigh on his right leg was also bandaged. On the nightstand was a pitcher of juice, a mug, a banana and a package of salmiakki salt licorice. Kempas took a chair and seated himself next to the bed. Lunden and Leino remained standing.

    
“Sorry we didn’t bring flowers. How are you feeling?” Kempas began.

    
“Like shit.”

    
“A familiar feeling. I’m Detective Lieutenant Kempas from the Helsinki police. I’m not interested in you or even this shooting. I’m looking for Nygren.”

    
“Good.”

    
“With your help, I can put him in some deep shit.”

    
“Even better.”

    
“What’s Nygren planning?”

    
“How the fuck should I know?”

    
“You’ve been on a few jobs with him. You know him pretty well.”

    
“I ain’t no mindreader. Not that it would hold up in court anyway.”
 

    
“Who shot you?”

    
“I wish I knew.”

    
“I gotta say, I’d think you’d be able to hold your own against an old guy like Nygren. He’s almost sixty… And to think someone claimed you’re a pretty tough customer.”

    
“Think whatever you want.”

    
“And there were two of you guys, too. Pretty sad.”

    
Leino had to admit, the scorn in Kempas’ voice was every bit as difficult to resist as scratching a juicy itch.

    
“We arrested Lehto,” Kempas lied. “You wanna see him?”

    
“What the hell for!”

    
“I figured you’re friends since you’re always together. Lehto’s a softy; he’s worried about you.”

    
Sariola didn’t respond.

    
“Do you know who Nygren’s friend was? The one who poured hot coffee on your nuts?”

    
Sariola’s eyes blazed, but he didn’t respond.

    
“We do. You wanna know?”

    
Sariola nodded.

    
“Not sure if I should bother telling you. The guy actually did a good deed.”

    
“Eat shit.”

    
“How are your balls doing, by the way? Itchy? Why aren’t you scratching?”

    
Brazenly, Kempas helped himself to a handful of Sariola’s candy.

    
“Who is he?” Sariola bleated.

    
“You sure fucked up. He’s the wrong guy to play hardball with.”

    
“Who is he?”

    
“I hear you and Nygren argued about money. Did he scam you?”

    
“Tell me who that guy is, first.”

    
“You really wanna know?” Kempas jiggled his carrot.

    
“Tell me.”

    
“He kills bugs dead.”

    
“Raid! That guy was Raid?
The
Raid?”

    
“You oughta thank God you’re still alive. After a run-in with Raid, not many are.”

    
“Nygren claimed the guy was his nephew.”

    
Kempas let out a series of cackles.

    
“Nephew. And you swallowed it hook, line and sinker. Nygren’s a pretty sharp guy for a crook. While you both served time, the money earned interest in Nygren’s account.”

    
Sariola clenched his one good hand into a fist.

    
“Care for some coffee?”

    
“No.”

    
“Smoke?”

    
“No.”

    
“Candy?”

    
Kempas shook the package.

    
“It’s empty.”

    
Kempas glanced at Leino.

    
“When’s Lehto gonna be here?”

    
Leino glanced over at Lunden.

    
“I’ll go call.”

    
“You do that. If he behaves, he can see his friend.”

    
“I don’t wanna see that chickenshit.”

    
“How come?”

    
“It’s enough that I say no. This ain’t no prison, it’s a hospital. And I’m not a suspect. Or am I?”

    
“Not for anything other than stupidity. Help us get Nygren and you can get even.”

    
“How?”

    
“We’ll throw him in the clink.”

    
“Why? What’d he do?”

    
“That’s what I’m asking you. Give us a reason to lock him up. We could easily get him for attempted murder. Same goes for Raid.”

    
“I don’t know anything about his plans. He’s probably planning something, considering he’s got that thug with him.”

    
“What’d he say to you at the bar?”

    
“What do you mean?”

    
“What was that fight about?”

    
“I asked for a loan.”

    
“And Nygren wouldn’t help out an old friend?”

    
“Listen, I’ve been shot in two places. I could use some rest.”

    
“Where’s Nygren now?” Kempas persisted.

    
“No idea.”

    
“Where were you when Raid shot you?”

    
Sariola fell silent again.

    
“Alright…then we’ll find out when we talk with Lehto. I could’ve put a little gold star on your chart, you know. Stars are worth their weight in gold if you happen to need the cops’ help…mine for instance. Stars can get you a shorter sentence and other perks. But if you can’t appreciate it, I’ll give it to Lehto. I’m sure he collects stars.”

    
“Who told you Raid shot me?”

    
“I don’t need to tell you that.”

    
“Well, I might be able to tell you where they’re shacked up.”

    
Kempas glanced at Leino.

    
“Kari, grab us some coffee and pastries.”

    
Kempas turned to Sariola.

    
“Cream or black?”

    
“Cream and three sugar cubes.”

    
“Cream and three sugar cubes,” Kempas repeated. “And bring us a good map while you’re at it.”

* * *

Kempas, Leino and Lunden were at Nygren’s farm in just over an hour. They left the car behind a ridge and studied the house through binoculars.

    
“No sign of life and no car, unless it’s in the barn.”

    
They waited about fifteen minutes, but when nothing happened, Kempas went up to the house with his hand on the butt of his gun. He was needlessly cautious—the place was empty. He brashly busted the glass on the porch door and opened it.

    
It was evident the house had been occupied recently. The downstairs had been cleaned and the new dust hadn’t had time to settle yet.

    
Kempas took a look in the refrigerator. Inside were a few beers, a bottle of mustard and a stick of butter. A tabloid newspaper lay on the living room table. It was a couple of days old.

    
“We just missed them,” said Lunden.

    
Kempas went upstairs, searched every closet and glanced up into the attic.

    
He then went back outside and headed for the barn.

    
He didn’t need to break into the barn. The door was latched but not locked. Kempas climbed into the loft and kicked some hay around. He found a
Cocktail
men’s magazine from the 1960s that had been stashed in a hole in the wall. Kempas riffled through a few wrinkled pages. The naked women looked like German lot lizards. He tossed the magazine into the corner.

    
Next, Kempas stepped into the sauna building. Some soap had dried on the dressing room bench, and beneath it were three beer bottles.

    
“The neighbor might know when they left,” Lunden said. “The road goes right past the house.”

    
The nearest house was a few hundred yards away. In the yard was an orange Russian-made Lada from the 1980s, popular cars with Finnish farmers because of their low cost. A black moped stood nearby. A Spitz on a tie-out bounded up to them barking, and somebody parted the curtains.