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 been there since seven o’clock that morning and had been told to stay until the last postal delivery arrived, sometime in the late afternoon. 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. An American couple, Sally and Charlie Martinez, had been found with their throats cut in their room in the Hotel Lope de Vega. They had been in Spain on their honeymoon.
The postcard had been sent to the newspaper
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.
“How’s it going, Dessie? Have you caught them yet?”
She put the printout down.
“Jealous?” she asked, looking up at Alexander Andersson, the paper’s high-profile, sensationalist reporter.
Andersson sat down on her desk and made himself comfortable. Dessie could hear her printouts getting crumpled beneath his backside.
“I’ve been wondering about something,” he said smoothly. “Why did the killers send the card specifically to you?”
Dessie opened her eyes wide in surprise, mocking Andersson.
“God,” she said. “You really are quick. Did you come up with that question all on your own?”
Andersson’s smile stiffened somewhat.
“People don’t usually read anything you write,” he said. “It’s a bit of a surprise…”
Dessie sighed and made up her mind not to get angry. She reached for a copy of that day’s paper. There was nothing about the postcard in it. Andersson walked away without saying anything else.
The paper’s management, after serious pressure from the police, had decided not to publish the details. 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.
Why hadn’t she heard from Jacob Kanon today? 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.
Jacob Kanon’s daughter.
She had her father’s bright blue eyes, didn’t she?
Chapter 15
THE WIND HAD DROPPED BY the time they stepped into the bright sunshine outside the house the Germans had rented in the archipelago. 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 is wonderful,” he exclaimed. “I love Sweden! This could be my favorite country so far.”
Sylvia smiled and threw him the car keys.
“Can you find the way back out of here?”
Mac laughed loudly. 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.
“Party time tonight,” Sylvia said, stroking Mac’s neck. “Are you up for it?”
“I want you here, right now,” he whispered sexily.
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. She reached into the backseat for the backpack and started to go through the dead Germans’ valuables.
“Look at this,” she said, taking out an ultramodern digital camera. “A Nikon D3X. That’s pretty neat.”
She rummaged through the woman’s jewelry.
“A lot of it’s rubbish, sentimental, but this emerald ring is okay. I guess.”
She held it up to the sunlight and examined the gemstone’s sparkle.
“He had a platinum Amex,” Mac said, glancing at the things spread out on the floor of the car and in Sylvia’s lap.
“So did she,” Sylvia said, waving the metallic card.
Mac grinned.
“And we’ve got the Omega watch itself, of course,” Sylvia said, triumphantly holding up the German woman’s recently purchased gift. “And it’s even in the original packaging!”
“The cheap Kraut bastard was thinking of buying her a Swatch,” Mac said.
They burst out laughing, heads thrown back, as they passed through the commercial center of Stockholm.
“We’re
Chapter 16
THIRTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER MAC MADE a turn into the long-term parking lot at Arlanda Airport. Just to be safe, Sylvia wiped down the surfaces she might have touched with her fingers: the buttons that controlled the side windows, the instrument panel, Mac’s seat.
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. The free bus to the airport’s terminal buildings was almost empty. 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.
Sylvia had managed to get a fair ways ahead before she noticed that Mac wasn’t right behind her. Now where was he?
