The Postcard Killers - James Patterson [10]
“Have you heard anything?” Dessie asked, which meant in plain language, Have you found any bodies with their throats cut?
“Nothing. Not yet.”
Not yet. So they were expecting something. They believed the postcard was real.
“I was contacted by an American cop here this evening,” Dessie said. “A Jacob Kanon. Do you know anything about him?”
“He’s been working with the Germans,” Gabriella said. “We’ve had confirmation that he’s with the New York force, and that his daughter was one of the first victims. In Rome. Where did you say you met him?”
Dessie sighed with relief. At least he was who he said he was, even if he smelled.
“He looked me up,” she said.
“Why? Why did he look you up? What did he want with you? He came to the apartment?”
All the old irritations came crashing back on Dessie like a fist in the stomach. All these questions, the insinuations, the same accusing tone that had finally driven her to finish it with Gabriella.
“I really don’t know,” Dessie said, trying to sound calm and in control of the situation.
“We’re thinking of talking to him to see what he knows,” Gabriella said, “so you’re free to interview him if you like.”
“Okay,” Dessie said, feeling that it was time to hang up.
“But we’re looking after this case, not some freelancing Yank,” Gabriella said. “And be careful, Dessie. These are murderers, not your usual pickpockets and burglars.”
Chapter 12
Saturday, June 12
SYLVIA RUDOLPH TILTED HER HEAD to one side and smiled beautifully. Her eyes lit up.
“You have to let us show you our very favorite place in Stockholm. They’ve got the most wonderful cakes, and their hot chocolate cups are as big as bathtubs.”
The German couple laughed, their mood lightened by the thick joint the four of them had just shared.
“It’s on Stortorget, the square in the Old Town that’s got a ridiculously dramatic history,” Mac said, putting his arm around the German woman. “The Danish king, one Christian the Tyrant, had the whole of the Swedish nobility executed there in November fifteen twenty.”
“More than a hundred people lost their heads,” Sylvia said. “The mass murder is still called ‘the Stockholm Bloodbath.’”
The German girl shuddered.
“Ugh, how horrid.”
Mac and Sylvia exchanged a quick glance and smiled at each other. “Horrid?” This from someone whose forefathers started two world wars?
The Rudolphs held each other’s hand and walked quickly up toward Börshuset, the old Stock Exchange Building, and the Nobel Museum located in it. The Germans followed them, giggling and stumbling.
In the café, actually called Chokladkoppen, “The Chocolate Cup,” they ate cinnamon buns and drank homemade raspberry juice.
Sylvia couldn’t take her eyes off the German woman. She really was incredibly beautiful. Unfortunately she was light blond, almost platinum, but that could be sorted out somehow.
“Oh, I’m so glad we met you two,” Sylvia said, hugging the German man. “I have to have a souvenir of today! Mac, do you think the jeweler in that department store is still open?”
Mac sighed, raising his eyebrows as he always did at this point in their script.
“Oh, dear,” he said. “This is going to be expensive.”
The German took out his wallet to pay for the pastries, but Mac stopped him.
“This is on us!”
Chapter 13
THEY WALKED DOWN TO THE quayside together, following the water until they came to the greenery of Kungsträdgården. The German woman seemed to have gotten the munchies badly after the marijuana, because she stopped to buy an ice cream at one of the kiosks along the way.
Sylvia took the opportunity to sidle closer to the man while his girlfriend was busy licking her ice cream.
“She’s amazing,” Sylvia said, gesturing toward the woman, who was dripping melted ice cream on her clothes. “If I were you, I’d really want to give her a token of my appreciation