James Patterson - Postcard killers

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.

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.

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."