The Postcard Killers - James Patterson [30]
Mac didn’t answer at first. Then he said, “Why did you bring up the murders? We don’t make mistakes like that.”
“It wasn’t a mistake. The city is too hot now. We couldn’t kill them. Though, Christ, I wanted to. I wanted to cut them both.”
The Berzelii Park was crawling with people with ice creams and bicycles and buggies.
Sylvia sidled closer to Mac and kissed his neck. “Are you angry with me?” she whispered. “How can I make it up to you?”
“We’ve got some work to do,” he said tersely. “We still have to get out of Stockholm.”
She sighed theatrically but took hold of his hand, sucking his finger and then kissing him on the lips.
“I’m your slave,” she whispered. “I just don’t want to end up in prison. I couldn’t bear to be without you, Mac.”
They walked across the bridge over Strömmen back to the Old Town. Sylvia had both her arms around Mac’s waist, which made it hard to walk as she stumbled along the edge of the quay.
Finally Mac cheered up and put his arm around her shoulders. “You’re forgiven.”
They walked to the 7-Eleven on Västerlånggatan, tucked in among all the medieval buildings, and Sylvia bought the day’s papers while Mac got half an hour on the Internet.
“Is there anything about Oslo?” Sylvia asked.
Mac tapped quickly on the keyboard.
“Nope,” he said.
Sylvia turned to pages 6 and 7 of Aftonposten, recognizing the house in the picture.
“You know something?” she said. “We left the Dutch couple with the bill.”
Mac laughed. Then he logged in and set to work.
Chapter 41
THE SHOP ASSISTANT AT NK was a forty-year-old woman from Riga named Olga. She had bleached-blond hair and big earrings, held a goldsmith’s diploma, and was fluent in five languages. Swedish wasn’t one of them. 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.
Now she was sitting in the interrogation room on the fourth floor of Stockholm’s police headquarters, clearly ill at ease.
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?
“Can you tell us about your encounter with Rolf Hetger?” Mats Duvall asked.
The Latvian licked her lips.
“He wanted to look at a watch. That’s pretty much it,” she said. “There was another man with him. They spoke English to each other. They were both very stylish.”
She blushed.
“Can you describe the other man’s appearance for me? Please.”
“The American? He was blond and really fair. He looked like a film star. He was very charming. Humorous, attentive.”
She looked down at the table.
Jacob felt his muscles tense: the killer was a flirtatious American? Of course he was.
“What made you think the fair-haired man was American?” the superintendent asked.
Olga fingered one of her earrings.
“He spoke American,” she said.
“Are you sure of that?”
She blushed deeper.
“He sounded… he looked… like that nice actor with long hair… from Legends of the Fall.”
Mats Duvall looked confused.
“Brad Pitt,” Jacob said.
The superintendent cast a surprised glance in Jacob’s direction.
“What happened at the store? Tell us everything. Please.”
“They looked at watches. The German was thinking of buying a Swatch at first, but the American persuaded him to buy a different one. So that’s what he did.”
Over 22,000 kronor for an impulse buy, Jacob thought. The killer was very persuasive.
“Did Rolf Hetger sign for it or use his PIN?”
Olga breathed deeply for a few seconds.
“He used his code.”
“And where was the American while this was going on? The purchase transaction.”
“He was standing right next to him.”
“Do you think you’d recognize the American if you saw him again?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
“Why’s that?” Mats Duvall asked.
Olga looked at him, confused. “What do you mean?”
“You must have hundreds of