James Patterson - Postcard killers

There was a deathly silence in the room.

He had managed to get their attention, though. Now he had about ten seconds before he would be thrown out.

"You've probably worked out that the victims' passports and wal ets are missing," he said. "Jewelry, cameras, and other valuables are gone. Their bank accounts have been emptied, their credit cards taken right to the limit with cash withdrawals. When you go through their credit-card transactions, you'l discover at least one large purchase before the cash withdrawals take over."

He paused. No one moved.

"What you're looking for is a very attractive couple around twenty-five years old," he went on. "Maybe even younger. A man and a woman, English speaking. They're wel off, probably white, posing as normal tourists."

Mats Duval cleared his throat. Then he spoke in nearly perfect English.

"I should explain to my col eagues that this man is a homicide detective from the New York police. His name is Jacob Kanon, and he has been tracking al the investigations since New Year's. He has personal reasons -"

"My daughter, Kimberly, was one of the victims in Rome," Jacob said.

He looked around the group. Their shock at his appearance had started to turn to anger in a few of the faces. One of the older men, a bald man in a suit and vest, seemed particularly irritated.

"This is Sweden," the bald man said now. "The Swedish police are 52 responsible for official business here. We don't need any lessons in investigative technique, not from the FBI, nor from any other New York cowboys."

"Cross-border cooperation is absolutely vital if these kil ers are going to be stopped," Jacob said. "Al we've got to go on is their pattern, and we need coordination for that to become clear."

"That isn't necessarily true," the bald man said. "What we need is a decent, honest investigation, and we're very good at that here in Sweden."

Jacob stood up so abruptly that his chair toppled over behind him.

"I'm not here to take part in some pissing contest," he said in a gruff voice. "And New York doesn't have cowboys, by the way!"

The bald man in the vest also stood up. His forehead was sweating and his eyes were narrow and smal.

"Evert, let him speak."

The woman in the suit had said this. Her voice was low and calm. She stood up and walked over to Jacob.

"Sara Hoglund," she said, holding out her hand to him. "Head of the National Crime Investigation Department. You'l have to excuse Prosecutor Ridderwal, he's an extremely dedicated judicial investigator."

The prosecutor sat down and ran his hand angrily over his scalp.

The woman in the suit looked Jacob careful y up and down.

"Detective Kanon from New York City," she said. "What district?"

"Thirty-second," Jacob replied.

Her eyes lit up in recognition.

"Harlem," she said.

He nodded. The police chief knew her NYPD.

She turned to Mats Duval.

"We need al the help we can get on this case," she said. "Formalize Mr.

Kanon's status with Interpol. These bastards have to be stopped."

Jacob clenched his fists in triumph.

He was on board, and his intuition had been correct – something was going to break here in Stockholm. He hoped it wasn't him.

Washington confirmed Jacob's status and Berlin verified that he had been linked to them in their investigation into the German case, and a couple of phone cal s later, he was formal y accepted as part of the group, albeit on strictly limited terms.

"You've got no mandate to make your own decisions on police business,"

Mats Duval clarified. "You can't be armed, so I must ask you to hand over your sidearm. And you have to be accompanied at al times by a Swedish col eague."

Jacob looked at him steadily.

"I haven't got my sidearm with me. You'l get it, though," he said. "Who am I going to be working with?"

Mats Duval looked at everyone.

"Gabriel a, you've been on the case from the start?"

Gabriel a Oscarsson tightened her lips until they formed a harsh line.

"Good," the superintendent said, distributing sheaves of photocopies around the table.

The atmosphere in the room was tense and uncomfortable. Serious runthroughs of an entire case like this almost always contained elements of hierarchical squabbling, and Jacob realized that his actions hadn't made things easier.

Mats Duval cleared his throat and continued going through the victims' credit-card transactions. He spoke in English for Jacob's benefit. None of the others objected, but they couldn't have liked it.

The last purchase had been made in the NK department store around lunchtime on Saturday. Claudia Schmidt had been shopping at the perfume counter, and Rolf Hetger in the jewelry department.

After that, there was a gap of a few hours before the cash withdrawals began.

Jacob studied the printout. It was in Swedish, but the times and amounts were clear enough. And it was the same damn pattern as in the other cities.

In fewer than six hours, the kil ers had managed to trick their victims out of their bank cards, drug them, kil them, steal their possessions and rental car, drive off in the vehicle, and start emptying their bank accounts.

"The Germans died between the perfume counter and the cash withdrawals," he clarified.

Prosecutor Ridderwal leaned forward across the table.

"The preliminary autopsy results haven't been able to pinpoint the exact time of death," he said. "Are we real y going to sit here and guess?"

Jacob put the papers down and looked at the fat little man, at his aggrieved expression and smal, hostile eyes. He needed to set some firm boundaries with these people from the beginning.

"Are we going to run through the investigation," he said, "or are the two of us going to go outside and fight in the yard? I like to fight, by the way.

Golden Gloves in Brooklyn."

Gabriel a gave an audible sigh and muttered something that sounded like "Good god."

The prosecutor didn't reply and remained seated. So Jacob picked up the papers again.

Rolf Hetger had spent 22,590 kronor in the jewelry department – almost $3,000.

"What did he buy?" Sara Hoglund asked.

"We've got people at NK right now," the superintendent said. "We'l know soon."

They moved on to the next sheet and went through the cash withdrawals.

The addresses meant nothing to Jacob.

"Where are these cash machines?"

"In the city center."

Jacob nodded. Thus far the kil ers were fol owing the pattern exactly. That was good news, he believed.

"Some of the machines have camera surveil ance," Gabriel a Oscarsson said. "We've requested the recordings for the times in question."

"What did the cameras in the other cities show?" Mats Duval asked.

Jacob fished out a notebook from his sports bag. He replied without opening the book; he knew the answer by heart.

"A tal man with brown hair, a cap, and sunglasses. He's wearing a dark, medium-length coat, and light shoes."

"Every time?" the superintendent asked.

"Every time," Jacob said.

They went through the valuables that, according to the victims' families, had probably been stolen from Dalaro.

"The make of camera? What karat ring?" Jacob asked.

"The parents are going to go through old receipts," Gabriel a said, irritated. "They've just lost their kids. Surely some level of sympathy…"

Jacob looked at her and felt his jaw clench.

Silence fel on the room. Final y Sara Hoglund took over.

"How do we proceed from here? Suggestions?"

Jacob swiveled in his chair for a few seconds before replying.

"We have to break their pattern somehow," he said. "We have to provoke them to start making mistakes."