Helsinki Homicide: Vengeance

by Jarkko Sipila

“Okay, you organize it, I’ll come.”

  Salmela glanced at his phone. No missed calls. It would come…for sure. Probably tomorrow. He’d find out where the shipment was stashed, and just forward the location to the buyer. Hell, no. He’d have to meet the mule at the harbor, of course. That’s how it went. Then he’d have to hide it somewhere, but not at home. Maybe bury it somewhere. Then he could sell the location of the stash. That’s how it’d be. He reminded himself to focus.

  Then he’d pay his debts and focus on retirement without any threats or obligations.

  The pain at the juncture of his skull and spine began to throb again. Best not to think too much. He tried to empty his head of thoughts.

  Hey, he was among friends at the Corner Pub. Things would work out. No worries, no woes.

  He emptied his pint. “Hurry up, you old fools. The next round is on me.”

  “Wow,” Macho grunted and tossed back his mug. Ear-Nurminen finished last by three seconds—his glass had been the fullest.

  CHAPTER 5

  THURSDAY, 5:20 P.M.

  PASILA POLICE HEADQUARTERS, HELSINKI

  This Zubrov was still one strange bird. There was a Sergei Zubov who played in the NHL, but that was definitely a different guy. Over the course of the day, Suhonen had drunk half a dozen cups of coffee, made about fifteen phone calls and sifted through as many police databases as possible.

  Now he was even more pleased he had gone to Tallinn, even if only for a small morsel of data. He had found nothing in the Finnish databases.

  Of course, there were other possibilities. Perhaps Zubrov had changed his name or had several identities. Suhonen had searched using the names “Sergey, Serghey, Zhubrov,” as well as many other alternatives and combinations. He didn’t buy the notion that Zubrov was just a law-abiding citizen, meeting Gonzales at the Velodrome to chat about the weather.

  Something was up, and it drove Suhonen nuts that he didn’t know what.

  Joutsamo returned. He had no idea where she had been, nor did he care.

  “You find anything on that Sergei?” the Sergeant asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Well, we at least know what he looks like if he ever actually commits a crime.”

  “Yup.”

  Joutsamo’s attitude irritated Suhonen. Organized crime investigations should focus on these “Zubrovs” earlier and nail them for crimes in the making. Once the murder, robbery, assault or drug deal had taken place, it was too late.

  Suhonen believed that the police lacked preventative tools and needed more capable undercover officers. He had spent a lot of time thinking about it, and inevitably, the United States and September 11, 2001 came to mind. Intelligence organizations had several indications of a possible terrorist attack, but they were unable to connect the dots. On top of that, the U.S. intelligence community had forgotten the importance of human assets in the field. Because they had relied too heavily on technology, which the enemy had learned to circumvent, the connections between the terrorists and their plot remained undetected until it was too late. Effective prevention required field work.

  To Suhonen, the emphasis of criminal investigations was misplaced. Organized crimes should be prevented, not pursued after the fact. Even if the perpetrators were never charged, at least a crime would have been stopped.

  Typically, the police had to wait until a crime was committed to get started. But by then, the damage was already done. Detectives would prioritize the cases based on the severity of the crime and available evidence, then go after the most dangerous suspects. Even with the Finnish police solving 95 percent of homicide cases, there were still many dead victims and many criminals left on the streets. For Suhonen, undercover work was an essential part of police work.

  Zubrov’s case gnawed at Suhonen because he didn’t know what it was about. Or was he paranoid? Who could tell him more about this character without word of his interest drifting back to Zubrov himself? Somewhere, someone knew more about the man. At least Toomas Indres had promised to dig up more. At some point, he’d have to put in a follow-up call to Estonia.

  Suhonen had also considered a possible connection from Zubrov—through Gonzales—to the Skulls. The Skulls carried out their own hits, so they didn’t need a hit-man. Recently, the sphere of the Skulls had only included drugs, extortion and debt collection contracts anyway. This was primarily because the gang’s brains, Tapani Larsson, had been behind bars. Now, however, he was back on the streets.

  “Wanna go to the gym?” Joutsamo asked. She had a black coat in her hand and a gym bag over her shoulder. She had noticed Suhonen’s duffel bag on the floor. “Thought I’d do some bench presses and I need a spotter.”

  “Just pumping iron? No stationary bikes?”

  Joutsamo shook her head and smiled. “Not even a treadmill.”

  “Yeah. Alright, I’ll come. Not getting anywhere here,” he said and started to shut down his computer.

  Still, that didn’t shake off his nagging uneasiness. Suhonen kept thinking that somebody had to know this Zubrov, but who? He couldn’t escape the thought that he should have tailed the man after the meeting at the Velodrome.

  * * *

  Suhonen was lying on his back on the leg press in a white T-shirt and black shorts, his ponytail hanging off the bench. He was at the end of a set and his face was flushed. With every press, the forty-something cop exhaled hard and as he lowered the weight, he inhaled.

  Joutsamo sat at the foot of the bench press in gray sweatpants and a red top, drinking water from a plastic bottle.

  It was quiet in the station’s dated gym. The smell of sweat had permeated the space, much the same as a men’s locker room.

  Besides the two VCU officers, an immense, bald-headed traffic cop with whiskers was hitting the heavy bag. Suhonen knew his name was Strand and that he had a K-9 named “Esko.” Occasionally, they had worked together on raids. The men had exchanged nods.

  Suhonen finished his set and lowered the weights. He got up, slid the plates off and walked over to Joutsamo.

  “Well, your turn.”

  She laughed. They had been hard at it for nearly an hour.

  “Maybe one more set.”

  Suhonen’s phone rang next to the leg press, about six feet off. “Of course,” he grumbled and snatched his phone.

  Again, the caller was unidentified. No surprise. The majority of cops and criminals alike had set their phones to block caller ID.

  “Yeah,” Suhonen snapped into the receiver.

  “Hey. Toomas here,” said a man with an Estonian accent. “Bad time?”

  Suhonen glanced at Joutsamo, who was waiting under the bar for him to spot her. “No. Go ahead.”

  “About Zubrov,” he began. “We’re still digging for more, but I did hear that a woman from his circle is arriving in Helsinki tonight with a smallish batch of speed.”

  Suhonen wanted to ask where he had gotten the info, but Toomas wouldn’t have told him anyway. “Smallish?”

  “A few pounds. We don’t have the resources to go after it, nor would we want to risk exposing our informant for a small-time deal like this.”

  “I understand.”

  “Just thought I’d call you. Hopefully, this will open up some new leads for you.”

  “Hopefully,” said Suhonen, his gears already turning. “Who’s the woman?”

  “I’ll send you an email with a photo and some other info on this Marju.”

  A shock ran through Suhonen’s body—he tried to calm himself. Marju was a relatively common name in Estonia. It couldn’t be his Marju. No way.

  “OK. When is she due in?”

  Joutsamo was looking inquiringly at Suhonen. The traffic cop was still beating the bag.

  “This evening. The Tallink Star leaves here at eight and should be in Helsinki by ten P.M.”

  “Good. I’ll talk to Takamäki about what to do.”

  “What’s that noise in the background?”

  Suhonen chuckled. “I’m at the gym.”<
br />
  “Hmm. You guys have time for that?”

  “One more question. What exactly is this woman’s connection to Zubrov?”

  “We don’t know for sure. This Marju has been going to his parties and our surveillance has spotted Zubrov and her eating together. She’s not his girlfriend, but not a prostitute either. Probably somewhere in between.”

  “The tip is good, though?”

  “I wouldn’t have called otherwise. I’ll send someone to the harbor to check out what kind of clothes she’s wearing and call you later.”

  “Good. Thanks.”

  The conversation ended and Suhonen hung up.

  “Who was that?” Joutsamo asked.

  “Toomas. A small shipment of speed is coming over this evening. Somehow it’s connected to Zubrov.”

  “You should probably call Takamäki.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, come over and spot me. I’ll do a set of ten and then let’s go.”

  Suhonen wanted to march straight to his computer and check his email for the woman’s picture. He hoped this had nothing to do with his lovely Marju. What would he do if it were the same woman?

  * * *

  The hallways of the Narcotics department were as gloomy as the VCU’s, one floor up: gray laminate floors, dirty walls and cold fluorescent lighting.

  Suhonen had spoken with his boss and his orders were clear. Drug smuggling was Narcotics’ business, not the VCU’s. Suhonen agreed with Takamäki, but that didn’t prevent them from cooperating. To the contrary, inter-departmental cooperation had always been encouraged.

  Immediately upon arriving at his desk, he had checked his email for the photo of the mule, and though this woman was also beautiful, dark and fit, she was luckily another Marju. Suhonen had taken a deep breath, and tried to calm his nerves.

  Narcotics Lieutenant Rauno Ristola’s office was halfway down the hall. Suhonen knew the veteran narcotics cop well, as they had worked together on a number of cases over the years.

  The door was open but Suhonen knocked anyway and the rugged, bald-headed lieutenant invited him inside. His office was just as small as Takamäki’s. On the desk sat a computer and a pile of papers. His bookcases held fewer binders than Takamäki’s.

  A half-empty cup of coffee was parked next to a small travel radio, which was playing hard rock. The sound quality was so shoddy that Suhonen couldn’t recognize the song.

  “So this dope deal,” Ristola muttered. He was dressed in a black sweater.

  Suhonen had already explained the key points over the phone. He had suggested that the mule should be followed to determine who would receive the shipment. He walked over to the window and sat on the sill.

  “The ship comes in at ten,” Suhonen answered. “Three hours from now.”

  “Time isn’t the problem.”

  “What is then?”

  “Men. Two of our teams are tied up on a coke case. I don’t have the manpower to take this on,” Ristola explained.

  “I could certainly…”

  Ristola laughed. “One Suhonen equals ten narcotics officers. Of course. But a real surveillance op in downtown Helsinki would call for a few more Suhonens. Tech can’t help either, since we don’t know what she’ll do once she’s off the boat...”

  “You know a Sergei Zubrov?” asked Suhonen as he slid a copy of the Velodrome photograph to the lieutenant.

  He looked at the photo. “This one here looks familiar. Gutierrez or something like that.”

  “Gonzales.”

  “Yeah, that’s it, but this Russian-looking guy I don’t know. Sergei Zubrov, huh?” Ristola said, handing the picture back. “What’s this about?”

  “I snapped these a couple days ago. Gonzales and Zubrov were meeting in the parking lot of the Velodrome.”

  “Do you have an open case on these guys?”

  “No. Just curiosity. Gonzales is interesting because he’s connected to the Skulls. I chatted with an Estonian colleague about Zubrov. He’s some kind of a drug boss in Tallinn, and somehow linked to tonight’s dope shipment.”

  “Can’t be that big if I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Apparently not. Though his association with the Skulls makes him an interesting customer.”

  “Of course, I get it. But I can’t pull guys off this cocaine case. They’ve been working on this for months. Surveillance eats up a hell of a lot of time,” Ristola explained. “Of course, we can’t let the dope into the country either.”

  “I suppose not,” said Suhonen.

  “Let’s take her out at the harbor and interrogate her. You can have one of our men. That should be enough.”

  Suhonen was disappointed. “Okay...”

  “One is enough?”

  “It’ll have to be.”

  Ristola stared at the wall opposite his desk, where several framed diplomas from the Scotland Yard and German Central Police drug trafficking courses hung. He was silent for a moment. “You know what, Suhonen?”

  “What?”

  Ristola turned to face him. “Our best times are behind us. Resources are constantly being cut and the cases are getting harder. Trivial protocol directives get tighter by the day, and on top of that, our undercover teams are stretched way too thin. The only thing missing is an American-style law that makes evidence inadmissible if some minor procedure is violated. It’s all going to hell.”

  Suhonen said nothing. Just wait until we adopt a law like Estonia’s, where a change in testimony expunges all previous statements. Then Narcotics will be in real trouble, he thought.

  “Take Toukola with you to the harbor. Technically, he leads your little troop and this is my case. You can sit in on the interrogations with the woman. I assume Takamäki knows about this.”

  “Yeah,” said Suhonen. “Let’s just hope we find her.”

  CHAPTER 6

  THURSDAY, 9:45 P.M.

  HOTEL KALASTAJATORPPA, HELSINKI

  The room was dark. Tapani Larsson lay on his back on the hotel bed, watching the flicker of the television on the white plastered ceiling. Sara was still staring at the blaring TV, but Larsson didn’t hear a sound.

  In prison, he had had to learn to block out the noise from his ears and mind.

  He had lain the same way on the bunk in his cell. This one was just softer.

  The thick walls of the pen had smelled of pain. That he hadn’t been able to shut out. Now he smelled the sweet scent of champagne in a half-empty glass on the nightstand.

  Larsson recalled a line from the film Deer Hunter where a Frenchman named Julien remarked, “When a man says no to champagne, he says no to life.” In the film, Julien recruited players for Russian roulette.

  He had had plenty of time in prison to watch movies.

  The prison psychologist had wanted to meet with him. Larsson wondered why he had consented. Maybe just for something new. The shrink had asked about his childhood and adolescence. She had been especially interested in his relationship with his parents. Larsson had fed her a lot of crap, but he really hadn’t known what to say about his parents. He remembered them as cold and distant, though he recalled that his dad had slapped him on the ear when he was ten. Some years later, he hit back. But that episode was minor compared to the stories of other inmates.

  If he was wronged, he always took vengeance—maybe sooner, maybe later, but without question. He saw no alternatives, though he didn’t tell the shrink that.

  The psychologist had done her homework. She knew Larsson had gone to the Helsinki School of Economics and wondered why he had become a career criminal when he had the opportunity for honorable work.

  Larsson had ended the conversation then and there, and had asked the guard to escort him back to his cell. Honorable work. What was honorable about raking in five grand a month as the VP of some company? He didn’t want to be like his father. Damned middle-class dreams of a house and car. Larsson was interested in money and power, both of which he obtained through violence.

  Of course,
her next question would have been what it feels like to commit a crime. That was just a stupid question. It didn’t feel like anything. Was it supposed to feel like something? It just happened—nothing special about it. He could have proved it with a few left hooks, but that would just have lengthened his sentence.

  Larsson had never regretted the choices he had made. His fellow business students had been good customers of his small-time marijuana operation. At its peak, he had earned about twenty grand a month. Larsson had hunted down the guy who had ratted him out to Narcotics. His first stretch in prison lasted a year. After that, Tomi had paid for his betrayal in cash, and received two broken arms as a bonus. Say you fell on your rollerblades, Larsson had barked as he left Tomi groaning on the floor of his apartment.

  The rat hadn’t dared to go to the cops again.

  Maybe he should pay another visit to Tomi, just out of principle. Maybe the guy would have a wife, two kids, a house and a nice car. He could repo the car as additional compensation for the old offense. Interest was always accruing. At least it would be fun to see the look on Tomi’s face when he rang the doorbell.

  Tomi was sound evidence that nobody could be trusted. The guy had bought some weed and got busted soon after. Of course, the chump squealed on the spot. The Skulls were different, though. Trust was sacred within the brotherhood.

  Larsson laughed. Just look at Niko Andersson. The guy was fat, ugly and stupid. Years ago, when he was standing trial for a bank robbery, the prosecutor had asked him why he had robbed the bank. Niko said simply, “Because that’s where the money was.” The prosecutor had no further questions.

  Niko would never betray him, nor would any of the Skulls’ men. They wouldn’t dare. Tomorrow he’d see his brothers again.

  * * *

  The ship’s hull was neon green, with a giant ribbon pattern woven through the middle. It reminded Suhonen of the flames that biker gangs used to decorate their leathers. As it neared the wharf, the dull yellow floodlights of the West Harbor softened the bright paintwork on the ship.

  The undercover cop had heard from Estonia that the woman had boarded the ship alone. She had been wearing a dark red coat, a skirt and black leather boots.