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.”
“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.”