The Postcard Killers - James Patterson [24]
Chapter 32
“COME ON,” FORSBERG SAID. “LET’S go through what you’re doing today. In the other room.”
Alexander Andersson took a step toward her.
“If you know so bloody much, why aren’t you writing anything?”
She pulled loose from Forsberg and stared daggers at the reporter.
“I know you might have trouble understanding this,” she said, “but my goal in life really isn’t to get a big-picture byline. I could care less.”
She went back to her desk then, followed by Forsberg.
“You’ve got to be careful with Alexander,” she said to the editor. “He’s faking it.”
“Dessie,” Forsberg said, “listen to me. I’ve got a job for you. Have you read Hugo Bergman’s article on public prosecutor workloads?”
Dessie looked at the news editor and blinked.
“The one we published on Friday?”
“It’s caused a real stink,” Forsberg said, handing her a bundle of printouts. “Call Bergman and get an interview, and check with the different regional prosecutors to see how many cases they’ve actually got at the moment. Can you do that?”
Dessie made no move to take the printouts. She could see Hugo Bergman in her mind’s eye, swaying like a tree outside the Opera Cellar, where she’d left him the night before.
“You’re trying to get me off the murders,” she said. “That’s what this is, right?”
The news chief sat on her desk and lowered his voice.
“Dessie,” he said, “there are people asking why you were sent that postcard. They’re wondering what sort of contacts you’ve got with the underworld.”
She swallowed, couldn’t believe her ears.
“I’m here today only because the police told me to be here,” she said. “I’m supposed to be off Monday and Tuesday. I’m not claiming any kind of copyright on these murders, but if —”
She was interrupted by a shout and then a loud commotion in the lobby. It sounded like something breaking, something large and solid.
Forsberg stood up.
“What the hell is that?”
A furious male voice could be heard through the office walls. The words weren’t clear, but they didn’t need to be.
“Wait here,” Dessie said and ran toward the door as fast as she could.
Chapter 33
JACOB KANON WAS STANDING AND yelling inarticulately at the enclosed glass cubicle where Albert, the security guard, had taken cover. Dessie fumbled with the door and rushed out into the lobby.
“You’re calling her right now!” the American detective was screaming. “You’re going to pick up the phone now and tell her I’m here, you fucking —”
“What are you doing?” she asked breathlessly, grabbing him by the shoulder.
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.
“Have you heard from the police today?” he asked “What are they saying? Tell me.”
Dessie looked over her shoulder into the newsroom, then took a firm grip of the man’s arm and pulled him toward the outside door.
“Your credibility is already pretty low,” she said, pushing him into the revolving door. “You won’t make it any better by standing here shouting at poor Albert. And whatever did you break?”
They emerged into the sunshine.
“A wooden bench,” the American said sullenly. “It hit one of the radiators.”
She gave him a skeptical look, then burst out laughing.
“You’re crazy,” she said.
Chapter 34
SHE FELT HIM LOOKING STRANGELY at her as they walked off in the direction of Fridhemsplan.
They went into an empty taxi drivers’ café a few hundred meters from the newspaper office.
“I’m serious,” the policeman said as they sat down in a corner with their coffee. “The Swedish police are way too rigid in their thinking. They’ll never catch the killers if they carry on like this. They’re acting like amateurs. Trust me on this.”
Dessie stirred her coffee, the spoon clinking noisily against the china.
If anyone was being rigid, it was she. Her behavior in the newsroom just now wasn’t exactly smart. She had to stop being so blunt, and finally, dumb.
“I can’t help you,” she said. “I’m not even working on the killings for the paper. There are other people assigned to the