The Postcard Killers - James Patterson [69]
Nothing suggested that the bodies had been arranged in a particular way. The couple lay splayed on the bed without any apparent attention to their position, as if they had been thrown there, or had even just fallen asleep that way.
This was no Little Mermaid. Nothing from the Skagen school either. No famous art.
She took out her mobile and called Gabriella.
The detective grunted in answer.
“Are Sylvia and Malcolm still at the Grand Hôtel?” Dessie asked.
“They haven’t left their suite.”
“You’re quite sure?”
“The entire hotel is besieged by the press. The Rudolphs can’t move without the whole world knowing about it. Andrea Friederichs is busy selling the rights to the whole circus to the highest bidder. You know, ‘Based on a true story…’”
Dessie closed her eyes. She massaged her forehead with one hand. “You’ve heard about Copenhagen?” she said.
“Grisly from what I’ve heard,” Gabriella said.
“This is different,” Dessie said. “Even more disgusting. I don’t think it was the same killers. This was someone different.”
There were a few moments of silence from the other end.
“Or else it was never actually the Rudolphs,” Gabriella said.
Dessie couldn’t think of a response.
“You have to consider that Jacob might be wrong,” Gabriella said. “Everything we find is pointing to the fact that Sylvia and Malcolm are innocent.”
Yes, she was perfectly aware of that.
“They might just have been incredibly unlucky,” Gabriella went on. “They might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or else someone really is trying to set them up.”
Dessie moved to one side to let the ambulance crew through with their stretchers.
“Or else they’re guilty,” Dessie said, “and now someone else is mimicking their murders in almost the same way, just not as well thought through.”
“And this ‘someone else,’” Gabriella said. “Who might that be?”
Chapter 103
Montecito, USA
THE DIRECTIONS JACOB HAD been given led him to a huge gate at the end of a paved private road.
A tarnished bronze sign revealed that this was THE MANSION, with a very definite capital M.
No false modesty here.
Jacob sat in his car for a moment studying the surroundings.
While he had been cruising the streets of Montecito, he realized that this whole area was a playground for the wealthy and famous. Many of the houses were showy mansions built in a faux Mediterranean-style, with ornate gates and colorful bougainvillea.
This one was different, though.
The walls were several feet high, unwelcoming, granite gray. They stretched as far as he could see up toward the hills. They protected the house and grounds so well that he had no idea what might be on the other side.
The Mansion, my ass. More like the Fortress. To protect what secrets?
He got out of the car and went up to the phone to the left of the gate.
“Sí?” a crackling voice said.
So it wasn’t entirely uninhabited.
“Hola,” Jacob said. “Speak English?” He had many good qualities, but a talent for languages wasn’t one of them.
“Sí. Yes.”
“Jacob Kanon, NYPD. New York City police. I’d like to ask a few questions about the Rudolph family. It’s important that I speak to someone.”
“Can you hold your ID up to the camera beside the phone?”
Opening his wallet, Jacob pulled out his badge and held it up to the camera.
“Come in!” the crackling voice said, and the tall gates started to glide apart.
A small Tudor-style gatekeeper’s lodge was situated some fifty yards in on the left. The door opened and an elderly man limped out onto the drive.
Jacob stopped the car again and climbed out.
“You’ve no idea how long I’ve been waiting,” the man said, holding his hand out and saying that he was Carlos Rodríguez.
“What for?” Jacob said, surprised.
The man hastily crossed himself. “The killing of Mr. Simon and Mrs. Helen has been unsolved for too long! It is like a heavy weight I carry.”
“So you knew the Rudolphs?” Jacob asked.
“Knew?” Carlos Rodríguez exclaimed. “I’ve been the gardener here for more than thirty years. I was here the night it happened. I