Postcard killers

by James Patterson

"I'm your slave," she whispered. "I just don't want to end up in prison. I couldn't bear to be without you, Mac."

  They walked across the bridge over Strommen back to the Old Town.

  Sylvia had both her arms around Mac's waist, which made it hard to walk as she stumbled along the edge of the quay.

  Final y Mac cheered up and put his arm around her shoulders. "You're forgiven."

  They walked to the 7-Eleven on Vasterlanggatan, tucked in among al the medieval buildings, and Sylvia bought the day's papers while Mac got half an hour on the Internet.

  "Is there anything about Oslo?" Sylvia asked.

  Mac tapped quickly on the keyboard.

  "Nope," he said.

  Sylvia turned to pages 6 and 7 of Aftonposten, recognizing the house in the picture.

  "You know something?" she said. "We left the Dutch couple with the bil."

  Mac laughed. Then he logged in and set to work.

  Chapter 41

  The shop assistant at nk was a forty-year-old woman from Riga named Olga. She had bleached-blond hair and big earrings, held a goldsmith's diploma, and was fluent in five languages. Swedish wasn't one of them. She had gotten the job in the jewelry section of the department store during the tourist season to take care of foreign customers.

  Two days before, she had sold an Omega watch, a Double Eagle Chronometer in steel and gold with a mother-of-pearl case, to the murdered German tourist Rolf Hetger.

  Now she was sitting in the interrogation room on the fourth floor of Stockholm's police headquarters, clearly il at ease.

  Jacob studied the woman from his position by the wal.

  She looked considerably older than her forty years. The question was, Why was she so nervous?

  "Can you tel us about your encounter with Rolf Hetger?" Mats Duval 58 asked.

  The Latvian licked her lips.

  "He wanted to look at a watch. That's pretty much it," she said. "There was another man with him. They spoke English to each other. They were both very stylish."

  She blushed.

  "Can you describe the other man's appearance for me? Please."

  "The American? He was blond and real y fair. He looked like a film star.

  He was very charming. Humorous, attentive."

  She looked down at the table.

  Jacob felt his muscles tense: the kil er was a flirtatious American? Of course he was.

  "What made you think the fair-haired man was American?" the superintendent asked.

  Olga fingered one of her earrings.

  "He spoke American," she said.

  "Are you sure of that?"

  She blushed deeper.

  "He sounded… he looked… like that nice actor with long hair… from Legends of the Fal."

  Mats Duval looked confused.

  "Brad Pitt," Jacob said.

  The superintendent cast a surprised glance in Jacob's direction.

  "What happened at the store? Tel us everything. Please."

  "They looked at watches. The German was thinking of buying a Swatch at first, but the American persuaded him to buy a different one. So that's what he did."

  Over 22,000 kronor for an impulse buy, Jacob thought. The kil er was very persuasive.

  "Did Rolf Hetger sign for it or use his PIN?"

  Olga breathed deeply for a few seconds.

  "He used his code."

  "And where was the American while this was going on? The purchase transaction."

  "He was standing right next to him."

  "Do you think you'd recognize the American if you saw him again?"

  She hesitated, then nodded.

  "Why's that?" Mats Duval asked.

  Olga looked at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

  "You must have hundreds of customers every day. How come you remember these two in particular?"

  "Not hundreds," she said and seemed slightly annoyed, "and not many of them buy expensive Omegas."

  She looked down and Jacob could tel that she was lying.

  Olga remembered the men because they were young, wealthy, handsome, and had flirted with her.

  He knotted his hands. This was what he'd been waiting for: a mistake.

  They'd been sloppy and had made themselves visible. They had final y left a trail. Now could he fol ow it?

  "Have you got the equipment to do electronic composite pictures?" he asked.

  "Two floors down," Mats Duval replied. "We can do anything you can do in America."

  They ended the session.

  Chapter 42

  A police inspector took the woman to the expert whose computer was ful of noses, eyes, and hairlines.

  "That went pretty wel," Mats Duval said as they walked back toward his office. "A breakthrough, real y. A victory for street-level policing."

  "Partly," Jacob said. "Olga wasn't being completely honest with us."

  Mats Duval raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

  "She isn't Latvian. I know Latvians from my old neighborhood," Jacob said. "I think she's from farther east, Russia or Ukraine, which means she's here on a false passport. And she isn't forty. She's more like fifty. I'd find a way to hold her, question her more. She knows something she isn't tel ing us."

  The superintendent sat down behind his desk and switched on his computer.

  "We don't just hold people as we like in this country, and certainly not on the basis of vague suppositions about false passports."

  "It's not because of the passport," Jacob said, making an effort not to shout. "We've scared the hel out of her. Didn't you see that? She'l disappear as soon as she gets the chance."

  Mats Duval typed something on his computer and didn't reply.

  Jacob took a couple of long strides toward the superintendent's desk and leaned over the screen.

  "This is the first time anyone's seen the kil er and remembered him so 60 clearly," he said. "If she disappears, then so do our chances of identifying him."

  Mats Duval looked at his watch.

  "Time to head off to Aftonposten again," he said.

  Chapter 43

  Dessie couldn't believe her ears.

  "You can't be serious," she said. "I can't do that. The paper can't do it."

  She was sitting at the table in the conference room behind the sports desk.

  She was there with the editor in chief, Stenwal, Forsberg, the news editor, Jacob Kanon, Gabriel a, and Mats Duval.

  "This doesn't have to be a unanimous decision," Robert Stenwal said.

  "The editorial team is agreed, so the matter's set. We're publishing a letter to the kil ers tomorrow. We al feel the letter should come from you. You're the one they chose to contact, after al."

  Dessie stood up at the table. She was beside herself.

  "Offer money to those bastards? Can't you see how unethical that is?"

  "We believe this is a good way of getting them to communicate," Mats Duval said. "The murderers want mass-media coverage. Otherwise, they wouldn't send those letters and postcards."

  Dessie looked at their faces. They were closed, their eyes turned away.

  They had already made their decision, she realized, without even consulting her.

  "It isn't the media's job to do the work of the police like this," she said.

  "We're supposed to report murders, not solve them."

  "We see this as a chance to do both at the same time," the editor in chief said in a rather strained voice. "People are dying, Dessie."

  She crossed her arms over her chest.

  "Then I think you should sign the letter," she said. "Why should I have to put my name to it?"

  Forsberg twisted uncomfortably in his chair. He didn't like disagreements.

  "They chose you," Mats Duval said. "It won't have anything like the same impact if someone else does it."

  She stared at the floor.

  "This is wrong," she said. "It's wrong to pay them for their crimes."

  "Dessie," Gabriel a said, "come on. They won't get any money. It's just
to lure them in."

  "And if I refuse?"

  Suddenly Jacob stood up, took her arm, opened the door, and pul ed her into a corner of the sports section.

  Dessie looked back over her shoulder and had time to register the editor in chief's surprised expression and Gabriel a's pursed lips.

  "For god's sake," Jacob said. "You've got to go along with this. We've never been so close to the kil ers. Your editors are doing exactly the right thing by publishing this. They're doing what they've got to do."

  Dessie shrugged free of his grip.

  "Like crap, they are!" she said. "Stenwal 's just thinking of the extra sales.

  He wants to be quoted in the Washington Post. It goes against every moral principle!"

  The American's eyes darkened. He took a step toward her, his breath hot.

  "You're talking about principles. I'm talking about saving lives. If you do this in the right way, you can get them to break their pattern, and that's exactly what we need. This'l be where they make their mistake."

  She looked into his eyes, which were glittering like wild stars.

  "Do you realize how much shit I'l get from my col eagues for this?" she said.

  He stared at her, speechless for a few moments.

  "So your career, your comfort, is more important than young people's lives?" he said.

  Dessie blinked.

  "No," she said, "that's not what I'm say-"

  "Yes it is," Jacob interrupted. "That's exactly what you're saying. You just said your reputation is more important than catching Kimmy's kil er and stopping the murder of others."

  He ran both hands angrily through his hair and turned away from her. He looked like he was about to kick something.

  She suddenly became unsure. What if he was right? Maybe her responsibility as a human being was more important than her responsibility as a reporter. Or her reputation, which wasn't worth that much, anyway.

  "What's the letter going to say?" she asked. "Apart from the offer of money?"

  He closed his eyes for a few moments.

  "You've got to chal enge them," he said. "Shake them up, provoke them into doing something irrational. I'l help you, of course. If you want my help."

  "What language? English or Swedish?"

  "Can you do both?"

  "I'm writing my doctoral thesis in English."

  They looked at each other in silence.

  "I'm going to regret this," Dessie said.

  "No," Jacob said, "not if we catch them, you won't."

  Chapter 44

  Tuesday, June 15

  Sylvia fluffed and adjusted the pillows on the queen-size bed, then opened the copy of Aftonposten. She let out a little groan of disappointment.

  "That's not very flattering at al," she said, looking at the composite picture of Mac that dominated page 6. "You're much more handsome in real life."

  "Let me see what I look like," Mac said, trying to take the paper from her.

  "Hang on a moment," Sylvia said, pul ing the paper back. "I want to read what it says."

  Mac was put out and went into the bathroom. Sylvia looked admiringly at his buttocks as he disappeared into the shower. She pushed aside the breakfast tray on her lap to read the story better.

  The letter was written in both English and Swedish, and addressed to the "Postcard Kil ers." The headline ran: "Accept My Chal enge – If You Dare."

  Sylvia ran her eyes across the page to see who had signed the letter.

  "Hey," she cal ed toward the bathroom. "Our new friend Dessie Larsson's written us a letter. How sweet of Dessie. How thoughtful she is."

  The shower started up. Mac didn't answer.

  Be like that, then, she thought, and started reading out loud.

  "You wrote to me, and now I'm writing to you. Unlike you, I'm prepared to put my name on my correspondence. I'm not hiding, I take ful responsibility for my actions. And I shal carry on doing that. So I and Aftonposten have chosen to reply to you with this letter…"

  She skimmed through the text.

  It said that the police were hot on their heels, that it was only a matter of time before they were arrested. That they had gotten too cocky, that they had started to make mistakes. That they were close to giving themselves away. That the Germans on Dalaro would be their last victims.

  She looked up to see Mac standing in the doorway with the bath towel around his neck, watching her read.

  "What does it say? Don't be such a control ing bitch. You know I don't like that."

  "Oh, sorry, baby. Most of it's bul shit," Sylvia said, "but the end is 63 interesting. She wants to interview us."

  Mac snorted out a laugh.

  "What a moron. Why would we let her interview us?"

  Sylvia passed him the paper.

  "They're offering us a hundred thousand dol ars."

  Mac's eyes opened wide.

  "No way," he said, taking the paper with both hands and sinking onto the unmade bed. "Fuck. A hundred thousand dol ars. That's pretty good!"

  Sylvia stood up and went over to the window of the hotel room. She stretched her slender arms above her head and yawned loudly, wel aware that she was ful y visible in al her nakedness. "Look at me," she whispered. "Here I am. Catch me!"

  On the other side of the street was a building constructed in the Swedish National Romantic style, with towers and a copper roof, its gril e-covered windows glittering in the morning sun. It was Stockholm's municipal courthouse, the place where clumsy criminals were taken to atone for their pathetic misdemeanors. She stood on tiptoe. Behind the courthouse was a creamy yel ow palatial building with pinnacles and a bel tower and decorative balustrades: Stockholm's police headquarters, where funny little officers were tearing their hair out in despair and thinking up lies to get them to give themselves away.

  "Sylvia," Mac said, "this is actual y worth considering. She's promising complete anonymity, that she wil never reveal her sources. And we could real y use the money. Look, there's a phone number for us to cal."

  She let her eyes roam across the gray-brown facade of the courthouse.

  "That's not a bad idea," she said, turning to Mac. "But why stop at a hundred thousand dol ars?"

  "Do you think she'd pay more?"

  Sylvia smiled.

  "Have you got that card the Dutchman gave you?"

  Mac blinked his long eyelashes.

  "Why?"

  She went over to the bed, got on al fours, and snaked her way slowly over to Mac. She bit him gently on the earlobe and breathed into his neck.

  Then she slid down onto him, warm and wet. "First things first, sweetheart."

  Chapter 45

  The brass doorbell gave A brittle little ring that fitted its setting perfectly.

  Dessie stepped into the gal ery on Osterlanggatan in the Old Town, holding her breath.

  "Hel o?" she cal ed cautiously.

  She always felt so grubby when she came here. The floor, ceiling, and wal s were al painted pristine white. Even the patrons' restroom and the staircase to the offices above were entirely white. She knew the reason why.

  She'd been told it was to "trap the light" and "do justice to the art."

  "Christer? Are you here?"

  She felt as though the il usion of purity would shatter if she cal ed out too loudly.

  "Hi, Dessie," said a surprised voice behind her. "What brings you here?"

  Dessie spun around. She hadn't heard him come in.

  Christer, her ex-husband, was dressed as he always was: black polo sweater, black gabardine trousers, and soundless moccasins. He looked like a caricature of a gal ery owner.

  "Sorry to intrude," she said with a slightly strained smile. "I need your help."

  They had been married for four years. The marriage had given Christer a wife he said he loved, and Dessie had been given a context to belong to. Parties to go to, people to talk to. Christer could be charming, but she had never been able to talk to him.

  He looked at her in astonishment.r />
  "Okay, what do you need help with?"

  She felt her palms sweating. Maybe this was crazy. Maybe her idea was completely mad. But she was excited about solving these murders. She felt passionate about it.

  "It's a bit complicated," she said. "It's just an idea I had…"

  She took a deep breath. She was here now, after al. "It's about a particular painting," she said. "I need your help identifying a painting."

  Chapter 46

  Christer held up his hands in a gesture of curiosity.

  "What painting? Have you got a picture of it?"

  Dessie hesitated.

  "No," she said, "not exactly. I can describe it. There's a woman sitting with a cushion on her lap, and there's a man lying on her lap with his head on the cushion."

  Christer looked none the wiser.

  She put her knapsack and bike helmet on the floor. Then she sat down next to them.

  "A woman," she said, "sitting like this."

  Then she lay down on the floor. "And a man, lying like this."

  She pul ed one leg up, spread the fingers of one hand, and stretched the other hand out.

  Christer blinked several times.

  "Dessie," he said, "what are you doing? What's this al about? Surely you're not decorating."

  Dessie sat up. She had the photocopy of the dead couple from Dalaro in her knapsack. She didn't want to show it to Christer. He was so sensitive about blood. He used to think it was unpleasant even when she had her period.

  "A picture," she said. "I'm after a picture or a painting with people in the positions I just showed you."

  He looked thoughtful y at her.

  She lay down again, stretching her right hand across the floor.

  "Like this," she said. "The man's holding something in his right hand."

  "Dessie," he said quietly, "why are you here?"

  Dessie felt her cheeks starting to burn. He thought the painting was a pretext.

  She jerked her neck, stood up, opened the knapsack, and pul ed out the photocopy.

  "Maybe you should sit down," she said.

  He took a step toward her.

  "Just say it," he said. "Tel me why you've come to see me. It's not about art, Dessie."