James Patterson - Postcard killers

"It was more of a web project. I don't think anything ever came of it."

"What was their social life like otherwise? Family, friends, boyfriends, girlfriends."

Nicky Everett seemed not to understand, as though the very idea that he might possess such insignificant facts was completely ridiculous.

"Do you know if they were upset when their guardian died here in L.A.?"

"Their what?"

Jacob gave up.

"Okay, I think we're good," he said, standing up. "It's a shame the Rudolphs couldn't afford to stay on here. Imagine al the incredible art they could have created…"

He turned to go back to his car.

Nicky Everett had also stood up, and for the first time, a genuine expression showed on his face. "'Couldn't afford to stay on here'? Sylvia and Mac were exceptional talents. They both had scholarships. There was no problem with fees."

Jacob stopped short.

"No problem? So why did they leave, then?"

Everett blinked a few times, a sure sign that he was agitated.

"They created the work Taboo and were expel ed. They showed up the bourgeois limitations and the hypocrisy of our society, and of this institution, of course."

Jacob stared at the student.

"What did they do? What was Taboo? What was it that got them expel ed?"

Nicky Everett's mouth curved into a smile.

"They committed an act that was entirely relevant within the frame of their art. They had intercourse in a case in the exhibition hal."

Jacob sat in the car with the GPS switched off and his duffel bag beside him on the passenger seat. The more he found out about the Rudolphs' background, the weirder they became. Taboo went way beyond Territorial Pissing.

If he started with this latest piece of information, the signals he had picked up on from the recording at the Museum of Modern Art had been correct. The siblings had an erotic relationship. It was possible that people had different preferences within the world of conceptual art, but in Jacob's reality, you didn't have intercourse with your twin in public, not unless you had a whole toolbox ful of loose screws.

The long trail of slashed throats they had left behind them couldn't be a coincidence either. The question was, What came first, the chicken or the egg?

Had Sylvia discovered her murdered parents and been traumatized for life? Was she trying to get over the experience by repeating it, again and again, in the form of macabre works of art? Or was she the one who had kil ed her mother and father at the age of thirteen? Was that even physical y possible?

Would she have had the strength to do it? The neck was tough. It was ful of muscles, sinews, and ligaments. But above al, why would she have kil ed her parents?

He took it for granted that the twins had murdered the guardian who had embezzled the whole of their inheritance.

And who was Sandra Schulman, the friend mentioned by the gardener?

He would have to track her down, too. And the boyfriend, Wil iam Hamilton.

For some reason he suddenly saw Dessie Larsson before him, her long hair and graceful profile, her slender fingers, her vigilant green eyes.

Had the mob of journalists final y given up waiting outside Dessie's door?

Had she gone back to her old routine?

Was she thinking of him? Was she al right?

Irritated, he shrugged off the thought. He had more work to do in L.A.

William Hamilton,or Billy as his friends cal ed him, opened the door with his long, dirty blond hair standing on end and wearing nothing but a pink bath towel.

"What?" he said abruptly, blinking in the dim light from the stairwel.

"What now?"

"Police," Jacob Kanon said, holding up his badge, obscuring the NYPD.

"Can I come in? Of course I can."

"Shit," Bil y said, frowning, but letting the door swing open.

Jacob took that as a yes and stepped into the apartment.

It wasn't bad, the apartment. It was on Barrington Avenue, just a few miles from Westwood Vil age and the UCLA campus. It was at the top of the 146 building, with a large terrace overlooking the pool and a garden.

There was a fashionable kitchen/bar and an open gas fire.

"What the hel 's the matter this time? What do you people want now?"

Bil y sank into a white corner sofa facing the artificial fire. The towel slid open, revealing wel -muscled, suntanned thighs.

"Honey, who is it?" a woman's voice cal ed from one of the bedrooms.

"Mind your own business," he muttered under his breath.

"I'm here about Sylvia and Malcolm Rudolph," Jacob said, sitting down on the sofa without being asked. Bil y let out a low groan.

"What the fuck? I've already answered a load of dumb questions! When am I supposed to have found the time to slum around Europe? I stil don't have a passport. I've got a job here."

"Doing what?" Jacob asked, fighting an instinctive dislike of the guy on the sofa.

Bil y straightened his shoulders. "Actor," he said.

"Wow," Jacob said. "What have you been in?"

Bil y's shoulders sank a bit. He wiped his nose. "I'm a musician, too. And I'm working on a script for television."

Jacob tried to look impressed. He wasn't, not in the least. He thought that a baboon could probably write a script for television.

"You met Sylvia when you were studying performance drama at UCLA…"

Hamilton spread his arms.

"Okay, this is how it is: I tried to save Sylvia from her crazy brother.

Their relationship got seriously fucked up when Sandy disappeared. Malcolm was total y obsessed with her. You fol owing me, taking notes?"

Jacob interrupted him.

"Disappeared? Who disappeared? Sandra Schulman?"

Irritated, Bil y Hamilton got up and walked up and down in front of the fire.

"They were going up to the Mansion to get the last of their stuff, but I had an audition and couldn't go. They waited for her, but Sandy never showed up for the car trip. No one knows what happened to her. Mac took it real bad. We al did."

Jacob sat there without moving, trying to fit the information together in his head.

"Malcolm Rudolph and Sandra Schulman were a couple?"

"Wel, yeah. Ever since high school. She came from Montecito. They were neighbors."

"Darling, who are you talking to?" cal ed the woman in the bedroom. "I'm lying here waiting for you."

"Shut the fuck up!" Bil y shouted. "I'm busy!"

He sniffed and wiped his nose again. "I don't know what else to tel you, 147 dude."

Jacob took that as a signal to move on and started toward the door.

"Where was Sandra Schulman living when she disappeared?" he asked.

"Same place as Sylvia and Mac. Apartment on Wilshire and Veteran. Ask me, they might have been a threesome. Except that Sylvia was jealous of Sandy. Very… Hey, are you going? Already? What a shame."

"What was the number? The apartment on Wilshire?"

Hamilton looked scornful y at him.

"What do I look like, fucking Google?"

Jacob went back to his car and made a phone cal.

Carlos Rodriguez answered with the same crackling si as he had at the gate of the Rudolphs' mansion in Montecito.

"Jacob Kanon here," Jacob said. "NYPD? We spoke yesterday."

"Si, senor.?Que pasa? How can I help you, Detective?"

"Just one more question. It's about Sandra Schulman. You said she was with them at the Mansion that last weekend before the auction? Is that correct?"

"Si. Why?"

"You're quite sure?"

"Sandra used to play here since she was a little chiquitita. Of course I recognized her. She and Malcolm were boyfriend and girlfriend."

"How did Sylvia feel about her?"

"Oh, I don't know. She liked having Malcolm to herself. They were very close, brother and sister."