James Patterson - Postcard killers

Sara Hoglund looked distinctly pleased.

"That business with the shadow worked very wel," she said.

"A shame we made it up," Jacob said. "Otherwise we real y would have a case. Anyway, it's a start."

"Now we just have to hope that they get tangled up in their various lies and explanations," the head of the crime unit said.

The theme music to the 4:45 Eko news bul etin came over the radio, and Mats Duval turned up the volume.

The lead story was the "questionable arrest" of the two American art students traveling through Sweden.

The newsreader's voice sounded stuffy and pompous.

"According to reports received by Dagens Eko, the suspects have solid alibis for several of the murders in Europe. Video recordings from security cameras in the Grand Hotel show that the Dutch couple were stil alive when the brother and sister left them on Wednesday afternoon…"

The air in the room had turned to ice.

Obviously, someone in, or very close to, the investigation had talked to the press.

No one looked at anyone else. They al just stared straight ahead or down at the table.

Dessie felt a sense of unease creeping up her spine.

She was the one whom these detectives would suspect of leaking information. And because it was against the law for the authorities to investigate the media's sources, no one would ask her straight out, but she knew what they were thinking. She was the journalist, the outsider, the one who was the most likely to be disloyal.

From now on, she wouldn't be welcome here, that much was clear to her.

The superintendent's face stiffened into a mask that grew more rigid the longer the broadcast went on.

The chair of the Swedish Bar Association gave a statement, seriously criticizing the fact that "the two American youngsters" hadn't been given a lawyer until late this afternoon, a whole day after they were taken into custody.

Sara Hoglund was quoted saying in an irritated voice that the investigation was proceeding – a sound bite that was probably taken from the very last minutes of the press conference, when she had already answered the same question umpteen times.

Then the Dagens Eko bul etin turned its attention to criticism of the media.

The newsreader's voice was ful of indignation as he trumpeted the next item.

"In a letter that has received harsh criticism, a newspaper reporter at Aftonposten, Dessie Larsson, attempted to buy an interview with the suspected kil ers.

"For one hundred thousand dol ars, almost a mil ion kronor, she wanted to secure an exclusive interview with the American youths. The chair of the Journalists Federation, Anita Persson, considers the development a scandal that should be investigated."

Dessie felt the floor sway beneath her. Her mouth went dry and her pulse was racing.

"Dessie Larsson has brought shame on the entire profession," Anita Persson said over the radio. "She should be expel ed from the Journalists 112 Federation right away."

The author and journalist Hugo Bergman was next to be interviewed. He added to the criticism, saying that Dessie Larsson was "a lightweight" and "a useless journalist."

Everyone in the room turned to look at Dessie.

Hugo Bergman clearly didn't like being spurned when he had paid for wine and dinner at a fancy restaurant, she thought. It was a hel of a price to pay for mashed potatoes.

Dessie stood up and went toward the door.

"I'm not even a member of the Journalists Federation," she said.

Jacob fol owed her out through the door.

Dessie could see the satellite dishes on the television crews' vans, some of which had come al the way from Gotgatan. What a waste of time, money, and gas.

The media storm had settled right outside her door, blocking the whole of Urvadersgrand. She stopped, her bicycle beside her, and stared at the crowd.

Jacob caught up with her and let out a quiet whistle.

There were unfamiliar figures with huge microphones and col eagues she had met at the Association of Professional Newspapermen, photographers with long lenses, and radio reporters who looked like giant beetles with their broadcast antennas mounted on their backs.

"Impressive," Jacob said drily. "You must be the hottest date in town."

"I can't go in there," she said.

"They'l go home when they get hungry," Jacob said. "Come on, let's go and get something to eat in the meantime."

They headed toward Mariatorget. The sky was ful of dark clouds; there was rain in the air.

They stopped at a steak house on Sankt Paulsgatan, where Jacob ordered barbecue ribs and Dessie corn on the cob.

"Is that al you're having?" Jacob said when the food arrived.

"I don't think I can even get this down," she said in a quiet voice.

He looked at her with something in his eyes she hadn't seen before. If she didn't know better, she'd say he was actual y worried about her. 113 "I know you're finding this unpleasant and unfair," he said, "but you should know that you did the right thing. You've probably already prevented some murders."

She finished her glass of wine and poured some more.

He put his hand on hers.

"Dessie," he said, "listen to me, please. Kimmy was kil ed by these monsters, and you're one of the reasons they've been caught. I thank you for that. I owe you my life."

Jacob's hand was dry and warm, burning on her skin. She looked up and met his gaze.

"You must have loved her very much," Dessie said before she could stop herself.

He shut his eyes tightly and squeezed her hand. For a few moments she thought he was going to start crying. She felt terrible for making him suffer like this.

"Yes," he whispered, weaving his fingers through hers. "Yes, I did. It was just her and me…"

Dessie kept hold of his hand.

He stared out through the window, seemingly losing himself in his memories.

She looked at him and wondered what he was thinking.

"What happened to her mother?"

"Lucy? Yes, I've often wondered that, too."

He pul ed back his hand. The air in the restaurant suddenly felt cold on her skin.

He met her eyes and gave a little smile.

"I wasn't the one who leaked that stuff to the Dagens Eko," she said.

"I know that perfectly wel," he said, emptying his glass. "It was Evert Ridderwal."

She blinked.

"What makes you say that?"

"He'l change with the wind," Jacob said. "He doesn't have any principles, he just wants to avoid criticism. That leak was a test. He wanted to see what the media think of the Rudolphs."

His knee ended up between hers under the table.

Neither of them changed position.

"Did you hear who they want as their lawyer?" Dessie said, emptying her second glass of wine. "Andrea Friederichs."

"And?" Jacob said, fil ing her glass.

Dessie took a deep sip.

"She isn't an expert on criminal law. She's a copyright lawyer. Doesn't that seem a bit strange to you?"

The media crowd outside Dessie's front door hadn't gotten any smal er. It actual y seemed bigger. It was starting to resemble the mob that gathers outside courtrooms for notable court cases in New York. Jacob knew al about them. He'd had to fight his way through a phalanx of reporters and microphones on numerous occasions.

"Okay," she said with a sigh. "I take it they aren't hungry yet. Nobody's leaving."

She was standing close to Jacob, hiding behind him so as not to be seen from the top of the narrow street.

He resisted an impulse to push a strand of hair away from her face.

"I don't know that I want to see myself darting into a doorway in all the papers and newscasts tomorrow," she said in a low voice.

"No need," he said.

She looked at him with her big eyes. He took a deep breath before going on.