Raid and the Blackest Sheep by Harri Nykänen Page A

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