First eBook Edition: August Little, Brown and Company is a division of . He turned his back on the window and looked down at the postcards spread out. marklund pdf ebook the postcard killers free download the postcard killers publishing pdf thu, 28 feb gmt postcard killers - tldr - free download. Europe is stunning in the summer but NYPD detective Jacob Kanon isn't there for the beauty. He's on a mission: to track down his daughter's killer.
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Editorial Reviews. Review. APPLAUSE FOR JAMES PATTERSON "The Man Who Can't $ Read with Our Free App; Audiobook. $ Free with your Audible He's on a mission: to track down his daughter's killer. NYPD detective Jacob. the postcard killers - the official james patterson site - the postcard killers marklund pdf ebook the postcard killers free download the postcard. for the ebook by liza marklund, katherine kellgren the postcard killers in pdf format 22,99mb the postcard killers free download scanning for the postcard killers.
Also available as: Not in United States? Choose your country's store to see books available for purchase. Europe is stunning in the summer. He's on a mission: But the sights aren't what draw him-he sees each museum, each cathedral, and each cafe through the eyes of his daughter's killer. Kanon's daughter, Kimmy, and her boyfriend were murdered while on vacation in Rome.
He's on a mission: But the sights aren't what draw him-he sees each museum, each cathedral, and each cafe through the eyes of his daughter's killer.
Kanon's daughter, Kimmy, and her boyfriend were murdered while on vacation in Rome. Since then, young couples in Paris, Copenhagen, Frankfurt, and Stockholm have been found dead. Little connects the murders, other than a postcard to the local newspaper that precedes each new victim. Now Kanon teams up with the Swedish reporter, Dessie Larsson, who has just received a postcard in Stockholm-and they think they know where the next victims will be.
With relentless twists and unstoppable action, The Postcard Killers may be James Patterson's most vivid and compelling thriller yet. Kill Me If You Can. James Patterson. Don't Blink. Now You See Her. NYPD Red 2. Private Games. Guilty Wives. Tick Tock. I, Michael Bennett. Those in Peril. Wilbur Smith. Private Berlin. NYPD Red. Private London. Private L. Merry Christmas, Alex Cross. The 7th Victim.
Alan Jacobson. Private India: City on Fire. Jonathan Kellerman.
The Postcard Killers
The Target. David Baldacci. NYPD Red 4. You're Not Safe. Mary Burton. Private Vegas. Truth or Die. A World I Never Made. James LePore. Private Paris. Field of Prey. John Sandford. The Christmas Wedding. The Drop. Michael Connelly. The Fifth Witness. Cross Justice. Carnal Curiosity. Stuart Woods. The Games. Love You More. Lisa Gardner. The Affair.
Lee Child. Zero Day. Mary Higgins Clark. The Sixth Man. Spider Bones. Kathy Reichs. Tough Customer. Sandra Brown. The Reversal. The Innocent. I, Alex Cross. Red Mist. Patricia Cornwell. Born To Die. Lisa Jackson. Suicide Run. The Litigators. John Grisham. Cross the Line. The Accident. Linwood Barclay. The Burning Edge. Rick Mofina. Flash and Bones.
Hell's Corner. The List. The Confession. Stolen Prey. Buried Prey. Confessions of a Murder Suspect. Private Down Under. Angle of Investigation. Vicious Circle. The Chef. Liar Liar. The 17th Suspect. Alex Cross. The 18th Abduction. April The President Is Missing. Juror 3. The First Lady. Texas Ranger. The House Next Door. How do you mean? NK, the department store, was crowded, and they had to take a number at the jeweler.
Sylvia pulled the German woman over to the perfume department while the men picked out the right watch. The woman let out a series of very cute squeals of joy when she opened her present.
Sylvia laughed softly. Forsberg, the news editor, was sitting chewing the end off a ballpoint pen and reading telegrams. Out in the mail room, two twitchy forensic investigators had settled in to intercept any letters the killers might send.
Dessie was sitting with a mass of printouts about the double murders throughout Europe over the past eight months spread out on her desk. She had agreed to put together a summary of the murders that another reporter could build a story on.
The case in Berlin, the latest one, was deeply tragic to her. The killers had not been content merely to murder the Australians. They had also mutilated their bodies. It was not clear from the articles Dessie had found precisely what they had done to the couple. She picked up another printout and started making her way through the Spanish newspaper article. The killings in Berlin seemed to be a replica of those in Madrid, except for the bit about mutilation. They had been in Spain on their honeymoon.
She leaned closer to the grainy printout. It looked like a round building with two towers with flags on top. Some cars and some pedestrians were in the picture. There was no information about what had been written on the back of the card. Have you caught them yet? Andersson sat down on her desk and made himself comfortable. Dessie could hear her printouts getting crumpled beneath his backside. Did you come up with that question all on your own? There was nothing about the postcard in it.
Andersson walked away without saying anything else. But Andersson had written a sloppy article about the murders around Europe. It contained a large number of loaded words like terrible and unpleasant and massacre but not many facts. Dessie lowered the paper. No one knows more about them than I do. He had been so keen to talk yesterday evening. She stretched her back and looked out across the newsroom. Presumably his not getting in touch again had something to do with her behavior — the fact that she was always so brusque and never let anyone get close to her.
She shook off her feelings as ridiculous, then leafed through the printouts again. She ran her fingers over the pictures of the victims. The victims in Rome. This was her, this was what she looked like before she was murdered. Smiling, shy, fair curly hair. Kimberly Kanon. Yachts with slack, chalk white sails glided slowly past in the sound below as Sylvia waved to an older man piloting a large yacht.
Mac filled his lungs with air and stretched his arms out toward the islands, trees, water, and glittering sunlight. This could be my favorite country so far. He shoved the backpack onto the backseat of the rental car, pulled on a new pair of latex gloves, got in behind the wheel, and put the car in gear.
As they turned left onto the gravel track, Sylvia opened the window to let the fresh air into the coupe. The landscape was sparse, yet simultaneously beautiful and tastefully minimalist. The green of the deciduous trees was still tender, almost transparent, the sky clear blue as glass. Shy flowers that had only just emerged from the frozen soil swayed in the turbulence caused by the car as it flashed by. They passed two cars just before they crossed the bridge leading back onto the mainland.
Neither of the drivers seemed to take any particular notice of them. She ran her hand slowly across his crotch, feeling how hard he was. When they were on the motorway heading north toward Stockholm, Sylvia put on a new pair of gloves. I guess. Mac grinned. They burst out laughing, heads thrown back, as they passed through the commercial center of Stockholm. Just to be safe, Sylvia wiped down the surfaces she might have touched with her fingers: Then they left the car among a couple of thousand others, a dark gray Ford Focus that even they lost sight of after walking just a few meters.
It would probably be there for weeks before anyone noticed it. Sylvia sat on one of the seats, Mac standing beside her, wearing the backpack.
No one paid any attention to them. Why should they? They got off at International Terminal 5 and went straight to the departure hall. Now where was he? She turned all the way around and saw him standing and looking up at one of the large screens where departures were listed.
She hurried back quickly. Sylvia put her tongue in his ear. Today is party time! Retire as legends. Only when the doors had closed and the express train had set off for the center of Stockholm did Sylvia let go of him.
But not us. He pressed a button and said something incomprehensible in a metallic loudspeaker voice. The stone floor of the Aftonposten lobby was slippery from the rain outside. Jacob slid a couple of steps before getting his balance back, along with his dignity.
He straightened his shoulders, wondering if perhaps he was not entirely sober yet. With a groan, he sank onto the nearest bench. It was hard and cold. He had to pull himself together. Never before, never during all those years raising Kimmy, had he let himself sink this low.
The previous day had vanished in a haze of vodka and aquavit. Even though he felt hazy about many things, he could sense their proximity. His hands were filthy. The building depressed him. It was an old prison, and his room was a cell from the s, which he was sharing with a Finnish poet.
Jacob had spent the night throwing up into the wastepaper basket and feeling miserable. He beat on his forehead with his fists. Now that he was so close to the bastards, his own failings were overtaking him.
He got gingerly to his feet and set off toward the glass cubicle again. The soles of his shoes had dried and had a better grip on the floorboards. The glass box was empty now. The guard had gone off somewhere. Shielding his eyes from the glare of the glass with his hands, he tried to see into the newsroom.
As far as he could tell, there was no one about. What sort of fucked-up place was this? He walked back to the security post and buzzed the alarm.
No response, no one anywhere. He put his finger on the buzzer and held it there. The guard finally approached, holding a mug of coffee in one hand and a pastry in the other. Jacob banged the glass wall with the palm of his hand. He spun around to see the journalist standing in the stairwell behind him. Her face was white, her green eyes tired. There were dark rings around them. Nice guy. Murder is a bit less common here than in New York.
Suicide is our specialty. Were there any particular characteristics? Anything that could identify the crime scene? He looked even worse in daylight than he had in the gloom of the stairwell. His hair was a mess and his clothes were dirty. But his blue eyes were burning with an intensity that brought his whole face alive.
She liked something about him — maybe the intensity. Probably that. Jacob Kanon took it with both hands and stared at the bodies. Dessie was trying to look calm and unaffected. The victims were so young, their deaths so cold and calculated, so inhuman. Did they take the envelope away? Of course they did. The address was written in neat capital letters across the front. Was there anything on the back? He held up the picture of the bodies. Dessie went over to the coffee machine with a gathering feeling of unreality.
She pressed for coffee with milk for herself, and black, extra strong for the American. He looked like he needed it. Why me? Why did they pick me? You seem to have a lot of answers. Do you know why? She looked at the display. Gabriella calling. Answer it, then! Jacob Kanon walked around her desk so that he was in front of her again. Dessie turned away from him again, twisting her body. I want you to take special care.
Is that the crazy Yank? You let him come into the newsroom? She was very close to shouting at her. This is a newspaper, and these murders are news. Since when are you a newshound?
I can arrange for that. Dessie put her cell down. Jacob Kanon let go of her chair and took a step back. She braked at the main entrance and opened the passenger door for Jacob Kanon. The stench of him once he shut the door was quite dreadful. This was a big mistake. She paused for a moment before replying. Why was it so hard to talk about it? It was She put her foot down to avoid having to stop at a red light.
She turned on the car radio and found Gentle Favorites. It was just her and me. Dessie thought, but she decided to keep her mouth shut this time. The American leaned forward to study the huge, ugly concrete buildings. She peered intently at the road signs and found the exit for Jordbro.
The motorway vanished, replaced by a minor road, the Not far now. She felt her pulse rise. She had been to a lot of crime scenes. She was used to broken patio doors and overturned drawers, but she had never been to the site of any murder, let alone a really bad one. You know the stain on the wall when you squash a mosquito? It was small, ordinary, yellow, with carved detailing on the veranda and a little hexagonal tower topped by a pennant.
A white picket fence with a gate lined the road. Freshly green birches framed the house, marsh marigolds edging the gravel drive up to the door. A policeman was busy cordoning off the site with blue-and-white tape down by the shore. A second officer was talking into his cell phone by the corner of the house. Dessie stopped by the fence. She held up her compact digital camera and took a few pictures of the house. Jacob Kanon pushed past her, opened the gate, and snuck under the plastic cordon.
Dessie was half running behind him on trembling legs. He took a quick look around and kicked off his shoes. The outer door was wide open. Jacob stopped at the threshold. Dessie caught up with him and instinctively put her free hand up to cover her nose and mouth.
Ahead and to the left they could see people moving, the floor tiles creaking as they walked about. I only speak English. She saw Jacob pull on a pair of thin gloves that he took out of his jacket pocket and then open the door in front of them. From her position behind his back she saw Mats Duvall, the superintendent who had questioned her on Friday, turn around and stare at them. He was wearing a light gray suit with a mauve shirt and bright red tie, and he had blue coverings on his shoes.
He was holding his electronic notepad in his hand. Gabriella was standing by the window, writing something on her own pad. Outside in the sound a yacht glided by. Jacob held up his badge.
I know more about these killers than anyone else does. She stopped beside him and caught sight of the sofa. My god, dear god. The bloody bodies were still sitting and looked frozen in their peculiar pose. The blood covering their bodies was dark, almost black.
It had run onto the floor, down into the cracks in the wood, to be sucked up by a colorful rug. The man was lying in her lap, half on the floor, just like in the photograph. The opening in his throat was like a gaping gill, Dessie thought. The wound to his windpipe had been so violent that his head had almost come away from his body.
Dessie felt her blood pressure sink into her toes and grabbed at Jacob to stop herself from falling. It a muscle relaxant used in eye examinations to dilate the pupil. Jacob looked at the Swedish detectives, ready to fight his side of the ring.
Oferty Pracy w mieście
You can get it here in Europe, too. That was pretty much all she was thinking about now. He does it from behind, sticking the knife right into the left jugular vein, then cutting deeply through the sinews and windpipe. Dessie realized that all the colors and sounds were starting to fade away. Her first big case, she thought, and probably her last. There was a sharp wind from the sea.
A couple — a man and a woman? He seemed completely unaffected by the grisly scene they had just witnessed. Dessie raised her eyebrows quizzically. Her notepad was already full of information about the victims, the murders, and the killers. The wind pulled at his messed-up hair. He spent more than thirty years killing young boys along the East Coast before he was caught. Dessie was freezing her ass off in the bitter wind. Some of that is true. Continue, please. Everything about this was so creepy and unreal.
The paper, and the reporter, with the biggest crime news that day is the one they pick as their contact. That requires talent, and also stubbornness. Jacob Kanon leaned toward her. I think I can get them this time. All the top boys and girls at the paper were keen to have a headline that might get quoted on CNN or in the New York Times. Photographers swarmed around the picture desk, waiting for a crumb to fall their way.
Poor Forsberg sat there tearing at his remaining strands of hair, talking into two cordless phones at the same time. Alexander Andersson held court in the newsroom, reading out loud from his own articles. For the first time in history the editor in chief, Stenwall, had come into the paper on a Sunday. Dessie saw him sipping a cup of coffee in his glass box. She went over to her desk, got out her laptop and camera, and downloaded the pictures she had taken of the yellow house in the archipelago, then sent them to the picture desk.
She wrote down all the facts about the case and the killers that could be used as a basis by some other reporter. He started skimming her copy. In Mexico City the drops are used by prostitutes to knock out their clients. At least five men have died there, probably more. She always won with him — if she needed to. We can give the cause of death, though, and information about the victims.
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Their families were told at lunchtime. He liked Dessie but was thoroughly confused because of her fling with Gabriella. Everyone was. Engaged to Rolf Hetger, twentythree, both from Hamburg.
Rented a car at the airport, a Ford Focus. Car missing. I need those as well, Dessie. Did you take pictures of the house? Just as backup. So sick. In a way she had been looking forward to this evening: Right now, though, she would have given anything to get out of going. Several weeks ago she had been contacted by Hugo Bergman, a successful crime writer and columnist, who needed help with the credibility of one of his characters: As partial thanks for her work, he had offered to take her out to dinner.
Flattered, she had said yes. Hugo Bergman was famous, rich, and fairly good-looking. She took off her helmet, let her long hair down, and went in. In her shapeless trousers and sweaty top, she was as wrongly dressed as she could have been, but there had been no time to go home and change for dinner. The magnificent dining room with its cut-glass chandeliers, painted ceiling, and tall candles made her feel messy and clumsy, like the country bumpkin she often felt that she was since coming to Stockholm.
He stood and kissed her on both cheeks in the continental fashion. Dessie gave a forced smile. Blood and death, their daily bread. But who am I to moralize? She noticed that the bottle was half empty. Bergman turned back to her. She really was trying. The food was good, or at least the mashed potatoes were. Bergman got more and more drunk from the ridiculously expensive wines he went through.
He actually had some difficulty locating the dotted line when it came to signing the credit-card bill. His heavy breath struck her in the face. Quickly Dessie put on her bike helmet, thinking, That ought to work as a passion killer. It was so bloody typical. Anyone who was interested in her was a control freak, a self-obsessed idiot, or a single-minded sex maniac.
She glanced back over her shoulder when she reached the next intersection. Hugo Bergman was standing there swaying where she had left him, fumbling with his mobile phone. He had probably forgotten about her already. The clouds had drifted away and the sky was light even though it was after eleven. People were walking along the quayside, talking and laughing. The sidewalk bars were open, offering blankets and halogen heaters to anyone feeling cold.
She had time to unlock and open the door to her apartment before she noticed the man standing watching her from the shadows. THAT was starting to become a habit, a very bad one. She looked at him. He had shaved and washed his hair. He was wearing the same jeans, the same jacket, but possibly a new Tshirt. It was hard to tell: She stayed out in the hallway with him.
And now that she could see what he looked like behind all the grime, he was actually pretty good-looking. And those eyes of his were something. Watch yourself, she thought and crossed her arms. Can you help me? He laughed, a sad, hollow laugh. He was here, outside her door, because he had nowhere else to go. She could see only his silhouette against the lead-framed window in the stairwell. Instead he disappeared down the marble staircase. She pulled off her clothes and thought about taking a shower but dropped the idea.
She crept under the covers in her double bed without turning the lights on. The room was gloomy but not dark. The sun had gone down but would be up again in a few hours. She lay there quietly, looking around her bedroom. Restless, she threw off the covers, pulled on a dressing gown, and went out to the kitchen.
She switched the computer on, hesitating a few moments before opening her halffinished doctoral thesis. Who knew if it would ever get finished? She sighed. She had already spent several years of academic life on it, studying minor criminals and their thought processes, patterns of behavior, and motives. She had grown up among petty thieves on a farm out in the forests of Norrland in the north of Sweden. She scrolled up and down the text, reading sentences and whole paragraphs at random.
Maybe she could get going on it again, finish it, and finally get her degree. Why on earth did she find it so difficult? Everything she did ended up half done, no matter whether it was work or relationships.
She switched off the computer and went back into the kitchen. The idea of finding your other half was a myth and a lie. You had to compromise, make allowances, be tolerant. Gabriella was a great girl, beautiful and sexy and seriously in love with her. There had been nothing wrong with Christer either.
She drank another glass of water and looked at the clock on the wall. Was it that she wanted Jacob Kanon to know that she dated men as well? Why would she want him to know that?
She put the glass down on the draining board and realized that she was quite hungry. All she had eaten were those damn mashed potatoes! He had put his pistol and the framed photograph of Kimmy on the deeply recessed windowsill. Jacob got up, went over to his duffel bag, and opened a bottle of wine. He stood with the bottle in his hand, staring out at the light summer night.
There was a small beach under his window. A few alcohol-fueled youngsters wearing mortarboards were noisily soaking one another without taking their clothes off. He let his eyes roam over the dark water. All the other kids on the block loved going down to Brighton Beach, but Kimmy never learned to swim well. Instead she preferred the big forest parks on Staten Island, or up in Westchester or Putnam County, with their teeming wildlife, especially deer.
Kimmy would go and play on it after school every afternoon, and every day in the summer. She was gifted, so Jacob paid for lessons with the best teacher available in Brooklyn.
But Kimmy was special. She specialized in Franz Liszt, one of the most technically demanding composers in the world, and she had chosen his suggestive piano concerto Totentanz no. Not like the present. Kimmy had met Steven on her very first day at Juilliard, a budding classical composer.
They got engaged and decided to get married as soon as they graduated. Steven was a great guy, but Jacob thought they should see something of the world before they settled down. So he had given them a trip to Rome as a Christmas present. They were murdered the day before they were due to return to New York. Jacob took a deep breath and found himself back in the narrow cell at the hostel.
The shrieking kids on the beach had vanished. This year. He picked up his pistol and put the muzzle in his mouth, just as he had done so many nights before, tasting the powder and metal, taking comfort from the idea that there could be an end to this.
One slight movement of his finger and his desperate loss and longing would be over. But not yet. Not until he found her murderers. In an attempt to break it, the management was making increasing use of unusual and risky innovations.
Usually they failed. On other occasions everyone busted their butt to get things moving. This was one of those days. Dessie had parked herself at her desk with the first edition that day. And the picture editors had chosen one of her shots of the yellow wooden house. It came out quite well, actually, with the contradiction between the idyllic veranda and the heavily clouded sky.
She ran her eyes over the text. Page 8 had an updated run-through of the killings around Europe, with maps and graphics. They killed purely for pleasure, and they enjoyed seeing people suffer.
The extent of the violence indicated that at least one of the men was very well built and extremely strong. Seeing as the victims were usually well-off tourists, the motive was similar to that of terrorism: Dessie read the text twice with growing astonishment, and finally, anger and disgust. Then she got up and went over to the news desk. The group around Forsberg were laughing loudly at something as she approached. Dessie felt all the men looking at her.
Quite the opposite. Dessie felt the blood rush to her face. If you really have got a source, they must be several miles from the center of the investigation. In the other room. I could care less. The one we published on Friday? Can you do that? It sounded like something breaking, something large and solid. Forsberg stood up. Dessie fumbled with the door and rushed out into the lobby. Jacob Kanon spun around and stared at her. He fell silent in the middle of a word that sounded suspiciously like motherfucker, then breathed out.
Tell me. And whatever did you break? Trust me on this. If anyone was being rigid, it was she. She had to stop being so blunt, and finally, dumb.
There are other people assigned to the story. His interest in the case was beyond dispute. Unlike her he was dedicated, he had a burning passion, he had a purpose to what he was doing. What did she have to lose by writing a few commonplace articles about murder? Doing some normal interviews like any good reporter. A father in mourning speaking out, his grief for a much-loved daughter… She reached for her pen and notepad.
Dessie dropped her pen with a start. The waitress behind the counter glanced quickly in their direction, then looked away again. Dessie sat in silence for several moments before she spoke. Not about anything. Then he grabbed his sports bag. He pulled out a bundle of papers and slapped a photocopy on the table between them. Dessie heard herself gasp. The wounds gaped dark red, the floor was drowning in blood.
Jacob put another picture in front of her. What do you see? They were sitting upright, side by side, their heads leaning back against what must have been the head of a bed. Their left eyeballs had been stabbed, blood and fluid running like red mascara from the sockets. Look at this one, from Florence. The picture was taken from above, which meant the photographer must have been standing on the bed, right between the dead bodies.
The man and woman were lying in the same position, their bent legs parallel a little to the left, their right hands on their ribcages and their left ones over their genitals.
Jacob nodded. The two victims were sitting with their hands on their stomachs. They were posing. The corpses were posing.
They were saying something, or at least representing something. What was it? If the cops figured that out, they just might catch them. She looked at Jacob. She took it and could still feel the smell of the hot living room.
The woman, Claudia, was sitting upright against the back of the sofa. In her lap was a cushion that had probably been white to start with. She was leaning over the man, Rolf, who was lying on the cushion in her lap. The man was lying in a strange position. One knee was drawn up, and his fingers were spread out above his heart. In his right hand he was holding something that looked like a sign — or a spatula.
She stared at the picture until the focus started to blur. On his first night in Stockholm he had walked around the huge complex that housed the central Swedish police authority ten times or more, feeling like a nut, not caring in the least.
Various different sections had been added over the course of the past century, giving the building an extremely schizophrenic appearance. The investigating team refused to take his calls. The receptionist kept putting him through to an automated message box that acted as the telephone tip-off line. Enough was enough, though.
Now he was going to get inside, no matter what the cost to his reputation. He clenched his fists and steeled himself for the upcoming confrontation. The entrance was in the old, communist part of the complex. Like the Aftonposten lobby, it had a stone floor, pale wood, and a glass cubicle. He hoped the similarities would end there and cleared his throat as he laid his police badge on the desk. He took the elevator up to the fourth floor and exited into a narrow corridor with a low ceiling and humming strip lighting.
He took several steps before knocking on a random door. He had already passed Conference Room C. He retraced his steps, slipped into the room, and closed the door behind him. There were ten people inside, the core of the investigating team: Mats Duvall, Gabriella Oscarsson, a woman in her fifties in a suit, two fairly young women, and five men of varying ages. There were thermoses of coffee and refreshments on the table. Coffee cups stopped in midair, hands stiffened, and ten pairs of eyes stared at him.
He had managed to get their attention, though. Now he had about ten seconds before he would be thrown out. Their bank accounts have been emptied, their credit cards taken right to the limit with cash withdrawals. No one moved. A man and a woman, English speaking. Then he spoke in nearly perfect English.
He looked around the group. Their shock at his appearance had started to turn to anger in a few of the faces. One of the older men, a bald man in a suit and vest, seemed particularly irritated. His forehead was sweating and his eyes were narrow and small.
Her voice was low and calm. She stood up and walked over to Jacob. The woman in the suit looked Jacob carefully up and down. Her eyes lit up in recognition. He nodded. The police chief knew her NYPD. She turned to Mats Duvall.
These bastards have to be stopped. He was on board, and his intuition had been correct — something was going to break here in Stockholm. And you have to be accompanied at all times by a Swedish colleague.
The atmosphere in the room was tense and uncomfortable. The last purchase had been made in the NK department store around lunchtime on Saturday.
Claudia Schmidt had been shopping at the perfume counter, and Rolf Hetger in the jewelry department. After that, there was a gap of a few hours before the cash withdrawals began. Jacob studied the printout. It was in Swedish, but the times and amounts were clear enough. And it was the same damn pattern as in the other cities. In fewer than six hours, the killers had managed to trick their victims out of their bank cards, drug them, kill them, steal their possessions and rental car, drive off in the vehicle, and start emptying their bank accounts.
Prosecutor Ridderwall leaned forward across the table. He needed to set some firm boundaries with these people from the beginning. I like to fight, by the way. Golden Gloves in Brooklyn. So Jacob picked up the papers again.
The addresses meant nothing to Jacob. Thus far the killers were following the pattern exactly. That was good news, he believed. Jacob fished out a notebook from his sports bag. He replied without opening the book; he knew the answer by heart. What karat ring? Silence fell on the room. Ten pairs of eyes looked skeptically at him. Mats Duvall nodded in encouragement. Have her offer to interview them. She was playing rich girl again today.
He was terribly keen to impress Mac, and Mac was playing along and pretending to be interested in his every pronouncement. Mac kept getting better with each new couple they met.
Anyone joining me? She was absolutely gorgeous, this one. It was a girl in the hotel who told us. Two Germans. An awful business, apparently. Their throats had been cut. In Amsterdam, not all that long ago.
Sylvia almost fell on the floor. Dutch Boyfriend stood up and helped steady her. Not today. When they were out of sight, Sylvia pulled herself free of his grip.
The city is too hot now. Though, Christ, I wanted to. I wanted to cut them both. Sylvia sidled closer to Mac and kissed his neck. Finally Mac cheered up and put his arm around her shoulders. Mac tapped quickly on the keyboard. Sylvia turned to pages 6 and 7 of Aftonposten, recognizing the house in the picture. Then he logged in and set to work. She had gotten the job in the jewelry section of the department store during the tourist season to take care of foreign customers.
Two days before, she had sold an Omega watch, a Double Eagle Chronometer in steel and gold with a mother-of-pearl case, to the murdered German tourist Rolf Hetger. Jacob studied the woman from his position by the wall. She looked considerably older than her forty years. The question was, Why was she so nervous? The Latvian licked her lips. They spoke English to each other.
They were both very stylish. He was blond and really fair. He looked like a film star. He was very charming. Humorous, attentive. Jacob felt his muscles tense: Olga fingered one of her earrings. Tell us everything. The German was thinking of buying a Swatch at first, but the American persuaded him to buy a different one. The killer was very persuasive. The purchase transaction. Olga looked at him, confused.
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