Suhonen and Nykänen had checked Salmela’s apartment, as well as a few other places where the guy might be hiding. The informant wasn’t answering his phone.
They drove past the metro station, westward toward Töölö.
“What about the Corner Pub?” Nykänen suggested.
“If we go there, half the town will know we’re looking for him. Too many guys over there know I’m a cop.”
“What if I go?”
“You don’t know him and his friends. They know you, though.”
Nykänen took his foot off the gas and watched a man in a leather jacket walking down the sidewalk. “Well, I’ve seen his mug shot.”
“That’s not what I meant, I…”
Nykänen chuckled. “Yeah, I got it.”
Nykänen had been interviewed on TV as an NBI agent, which complicated his ability to go undercover.
“Let’s go anyway,” said Suhonen. “We’re sure not getting anywhere here.”
After a few minutes, Nykänen parked the car in a semi-legal spot across from the Corner Pub. The giant stickers on the windows of the bar promised a pint of beer for €2.50 all day long.
The officers stepped inside and Suhonen headed past the bar into the back room. He immediately spotted the bony Macho-Mertala at the corner table,
wearing a ragged jean jacket over a plain white T-shirt.
A younger man with dark hair was sitting across from him. In all likelihood, Macho was blathering on about his old robberies, which at this point had gone from grocery stores to appliance stores and would eventually turn into jewelry stores.
“Hey,” said Suhonen, startling Macho-Mertala.
“Shit! Don’t sneak up on me like that. You’ll give me a heart attack.”
You’ll get one anyways, thought Suhonen and sat down in an empty chair. Nykänen took a seat beside him.
The younger one looked inquiringly at the two.
“The police,” Macho-Mertala explained.
The man took his beer and made tracks.
“No need for threats, blackmail or bribes. Let me guess,” said Macho. “You’re looking for Salmela.”
“How’d you guess?”
“You’re not the first. A couple gangsters were here a half-hour ago looking for him, too. At first, I thought they had come back.”
“What gangsters?” asked Nykänen.
“They didn’t leave their business cards, but if I had to guess, I’d say they belonged to a certain gang. Pretty sure the baldy was Tapani Larsson.”
“And the other?” asked Nykänen.
Macho took a swig from his mug. “White hair, thin face. That enough?”
Nykänen nodded. If the first was Larsson, the other was Rolf Steiner.
“What did they want with Salmela?” asked Suhonen.
“Probably the same as you guys-wanted to know where he is.”
The officers waited for him to continue, but he only sat there, casually sipping his beer.
“So where is he?”
“He took off a while ago with Ear-Nurminen. Not sure where they went. Maybe to his place.”
“Does Nurminen still live over there on Siltasaari Street by the Kallio church?”
“Yeah. Hasn’t been evicted. But you’re a good thirty minutes late.”
“You got Nurminen’s number?” asked Suhonen.
“Yup, but it’s not gonna help. I tried calling both of them, but neither has his phone on,” he said, sounding bored.
Suhonen turned to leave, but Mertala stopped him. “You think it was worth twenty euros?”
Suhonen dug a wrinkled blue note out of the pocket of his jeans.
* * *
Nykänen fired up the car and stepped on the gas, not wanting to end up behind the approaching bus. From Helsinki Avenue, he swung left at the next intersection toward the fire station.
“Thirty minutes is a long time when the trip only takes three,” said Nykänen.
Suhonen held onto the hand-hold over the window as Nykänen floored the gas pedal. “Wonder what the Skulls want out of Salmela now.”
The acceleration proved pointless-directly ahead of them was a stopped streetcar, and another approached from the opposite direction. No way to get around them. Nykänen drummed on the steering wheel as the passengers filed on and off.
“Apparently enough that both Steiner and Larsson are after him.”
They continued along behind the streetcar to the corner of a park, where Nykänen swung right past the fire station. In front of them was the gray-granite Kallio church, built in the early 1900s. The massive building accommodated 1,600 people, but the last time Suhonen had been there-at an old ex-con’s funeral-only four were in attendance: Two of the dead guy’s friends, himself, and the pastor.
“Pull up slowly and park in front. Let’s look around a bit first.”
At the corner, Agricola Street led to the left and directly ahead rose a six-story white stucco building.
“Not this one-the next one down on the right,” Suhonen directed. Nykänen coasted down the hill and double-parked. Though the street was quiet, the curb was packed. The eight-story building, built in the sixties, seemed too new for the streets of Kallio. Suhonen bounded up the entry stairs, which were tucked into a recess. He noticed a gap between the doorjamb and the glass door. With a credit card, he slipped the lock aside and pulled it open. From the street, it appeared that he had simply used a key.
“You got a skeleton key?” Nykänen smirked. Suhonen could sense the man’s uneasiness.
“Doesn’t work on too many doors anymore, now that the maintenance guys have learned how to do things right.”
The stairwell was dark and Suhonen snapped on the lights. Both men checked their weapons instinctively. They didn’t want backup; they’d take care of this one on their own. When Nykänen was still with the VCU, the two had occasionally worked as partners.
Though Ear-Nurminen lived on the fourth floor, Nykänen and Suhonen opted for the stairs, which skirted the wall on the right-hand side. The climb took a few minutes. The stairwell was clean, as was the fourth floor landing. Surprisingly, the tag on the door actually read “Nurminen.”
The door was ajar and a light was on inside.
Suhonen took up his position to the side of the door with Nykänen just behind him. He slowly opened the door and peeked inside. Nobody. Suhonen recalled that the apartment was a studio. The bathroom was in the hallway on the left, and the only room was around the corner on the same side.
Suhonen pulled out his black Glock and went in. He gestured for Nykänen to check the bathroom and continued on to the living room. Behind him, he heard Nykänen open the bathroom door. The worst thing he could encounter in the living room would be two bodies on the floor. The second worst thing would be Salmela and Nurminen on their knees with Larsson and Steiner holding pistols to the backs of their heads.
The same quick peek around the corner. The room was messy and nobody was there. Huh, thought Suhonen as he advanced into the room. A bed, a plastic dining table and a TV were the only furnishings. There was nothing on the floor but clothing and newspapers.
The search was over quickly. “Nobody in the living room,” he hollered.
“Come in here,” Nykänen shouted back.
Suhonen hurried back to the hallway and entered the bathroom.
Nykänen didn’t need to say anything. In the bathtub lay a fat, naked man. It wasn’t Salmela, who was substantially thinner. The man’s face had been beaten so badly that Suhonen wasn’t able to recognize him as Ear-Nurminen.
The bathroom was covered in blood and some had pooled at the bottom of the tub. Countless lacerations covered his body. There was no point in speculating on the cause-of-death without forensics. Oftentimes, knife wounds only became evident once the blood was wiped away, especially when there were multiple stab wounds.