James Patterson - Postcard killers

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."

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."

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.

"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."

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."

Dessie showed him the photocopy. She saw his eyes open wide and his face go as white as the wal s.