The Postcard Killers

    “It’s not unusual for art students to blend them together. We had several cases like that a year or so ago.

    “First there was a girl who faked a nervous breakdown in a psychiatric ward as part of her degree show for the Art School. She had the resources of a whole ward focused on her for an entire night. Anyone who was sick or really suicidal had to wait because of her act.”

    “You’re kidding,” Jacob said.

    “Nope. Then we had a guy who smashed up a car on the subway. He covered it in black graffiti and broke several windows. He filmed the whole thing and called it ‘Territorial Pissing.’ Believe it or not, it was exhibited in an art show. The cost to repair the car was one hundred thousand kronor.”

    “And I thought we had a monopoly on crazies in the States,” Jacob said, looking at his watch. “Speaking of the States, there are a few things I have to check on there. Do you know where I can get hold of a computer?”

    She looked at him, her eyes large and green.

    “I’ve got one at home,” she said.

Chapter 74

    IT WAS THE FIRST TIME in nearly six months that he’d been in somebody’s home.

    It felt odd, almost a bit ceremonial. He took off his shoes by the door because that’s what Dessie did.

    She lived in a minimally furnished four-room apartment with very high ceilings, a lot of mirrored doors, ornate plasterwork, and a wood-burning stove in every room.

    Jacob couldn’t help whistling out loud when he entered the living room. Three large windows opened onto an enormous balcony with a fantastic view over the entrance to Stockholm harbor.

    “How did you get hold of a place like this? It’s great.”

    “Long story,” she said. “The computer’s in the maid’s room. There’s no maid, of course.”

    She gestured toward a little room beyond the kitchen.

    “Have you got any wine around here?” he asked.

    “Nope,” she said. “I don’t drink that much. Maybe I will after this.”

    She turned the computer on for him. He noticed she smelled of fruit. Citrus. Very nice.

    He sent two e-mails on the same subject: one to Jill Stevens, his closest colleague on the NYPD, and one to Lyndon Crebbs, the retired FBI agent who had been his mentor once upon a time, and maybe still was. He asked them rather bluntly for information about Sylvia and Malcolm Rudolph, residents of Santa Barbara, California, and about Billy Hamilton, Sylvia Rudolph’s former boyfriend, reportedly living somewhere in western Los Angeles. Everything, no matter what it was, was of interest to him, absolutely everything they could find.

    Then he went back out to the kitchen, where Dessie was rummaging around.

    “I found a bottle of red,” she said. “Gabriella must have left it. I don’t know if it’s still good.”

    “Yeah, of course it is,” Jacob said.

    She seemed unfamiliar with how to extract a cork, so he helped her. They sat down on the sofas in the living room, leaving the lights off, admiring the stunning view.

    Jacob leaned back, sinking into her cushions.

    A white boat plowed toward the center of Stockholm out on the water.

    “A view like this makes coming home worthwhile,” he said. “What’s the long story you mentioned?”

Chapter 75

    DESSIE FINGERED HER WINEGLASS. SHE’D never told anyone the whole truth about how she bought the apartment, not even Christer or Gabriella. So why should she tell Jacob Kanon?

    He was a cop on top of everything.

    “I inherited a large sum of money a while back,” she said. “From my mother.”

    Jacob raised an eyebrow.

    “I thought you said she worked with the elderly and the sick?”

    “That’s right, she did.”

    “So you’re upper class,” he said. “I hadn’t guessed that.”

    She knew exactly what he was thinking. He thought her mother was the sort who jangled their jewelry in front of the poor at charity galas.

    “You’re wrong,” she said. “Do you really want to know this story? I don’t do chitchat very well.”

    “I really want to know.”

    She put her glass down on the coffee table.

    That security van raid I mentioned yesterday - you remember?”

    He nodded and emptied his glass, then filled it again.

    “Three of my uncles were involved,” she said. “They got hold of almost nine million kronor, which was something like eight and a half million more than they were expecting, and they panicked. They didn’t know what to do with all the money. They buried some of it, but they put most of it in my mother’s savings account.”

    “What!” Jacob exclaimed, almost choking on his wine. “You’re kidding me.”

    “It was pretty smart of them, as it turned out. All the money they buried was found, but no one thought to check my mother’s account.”

    She watched carefully for his reaction. Was he about to turn his back on her? Dismiss her as the daughter of a scheming criminal?

    “Your uncles can’t have been the sharpest knives in the drawer,” he said. She avoided his gaze as she went on with the story.