Postcard killers

by James Patterson

  Postcard killers

  James Patterson

  Liza Marklund

  James Patterson

  Postcard killers

  Liza Marklund

  1

  Prologue

  Paris, France "It's very small," the englishwoman said, sounding disappointed.

  Mac Rudolph laughed, put his arm around the woman's slender neck, and al owed his hand to fal onto her breast. She wasn't wearing a bra.

  "Oil on a wooden panel," he said. "Thirty inches by twenty-one, or seventy-seven centimeters by fifty-three. It was meant to hang in the dining room in the home of the Florentine merchant Francesco del Giocondo. But da Vinci never got it finished."

  He felt her nipple stiffen under the fabric of the blouse. She didn't move his hand away.

  Sylvia Rudolph slid up on the other side of her, her hand easing its way under the woman's arm.

  "Mona Lisa wasn't her name," Sylvia said. "Just Lisa. Mona is an Italian diminutive that can be taken to mean 'lady' or 'her grace.'"

  The woman's husband was standing behind Sylvia, his body pushed up against hers in the crowd. Very cozy.

  "Anyone thirsty?" he asked.

  Sylvia and Mac exchanged a quick glance and a grin.

  They were on the first floor of the Denon wing of the Louvre, in the Sal e des Etats. Hanging on the wal in front of them, behind nonreflective glass, was the most famous portrait in the world, and the guy was thinking about beer?

  "You're right," Mac said, his hand gently gliding down the Englishwoman's back. "It is smal. Francesco del Giocondo's dining room table can't have been very large."

  He smiled over at the woman's husband.

  "And you're right, too. It's time to drink some wine!"

  They found their way out of the museum, down the modern staircase toward the Porte des Lions, and stepped out into the middle of a Parisian spring evening.

  Sylvia inhaled deeply, breathing in the intoxicating mix of exhaust fumes, river water, and freshly opened leaves, and laughed out loud.

  "Oh," she said, hugging the Englishwoman, "I'm so glad we met you.

  Honeymoons are al very wel and good, but you have to see a bit of the world, too, don't you? Have you had time to see Notre-Dame yet?"

  "We only got here this morning," her husband said. "We've hardly had time to eat."

  "Wel, we must do something about that at once," Mac said. "We know a little place down by the Seine. It's wonderful, you'l love it."

  "Notre-Dame is fantastic," Sylvia said. "One of the first Gothic cathedrals in the world, strongly influenced by naturalism. You're going to love the South Rose Window."

  She kissed the woman on the cheek, lingering for a second.

  They crossed the river on the Pont d'Arcole, passed the cathedral, and arrived at the Quai de Montebel o just as someone started playing a melancholy tune on an accordion.

  "Order whatever you like," Mac said, holding the door of the bistro open.

  "It's on us. We're celebrating your honeymoon."

  Two they got a cozy table for four overlooking the river. The sunset was painting the buildings around them bloodred. A bateau-mouche glided past, and the accordionist switched to a more cheerful tune.

  The tetchy Brit thawed out after a couple of bottles of wine. Sylvia felt his eyes on her and undid another button of her thin blouse.

  She noted that the Englishwoman was stealing glances at Mac, at his fair hair, honey-colored skin, girlish eyelashes, and wel -built biceps.

  "What a magical day this has been," Sylvia said when Mac had paid the bil and she was pul ing on her backpack. "I have to have a souvenir of this evening."

  Mac sighed theatrical y and put a hand to his forehead. She sidled up to him and cooed, "I think Dior on Montaigne is stil open."

  "This is going to be expensive," Mac groaned.

  The British pair laughed out loud.

  They took a taxi to Avenue Montaigne. Mac and Sylvia didn't buy anything, but the Brit pul ed out his credit card and bought a hideous silk shawl for his new wife. Mac settled for a couple of bottles of Moet Chandon from a nearby wineshop.

  Out in the street again he took out a joint, lit it, and passed it to the Englishwoman.

  Sylvia put her arms around the Englishman's waist and looked him deep in the eyes.

  "I want," she said, "to drink these bottles together with you. In your room."

  The Brit gulped audibly and looked at his wife. 3 "She can play with Mac at the same time," Sylvia whispered, and kissed him on the lips. "It's perfectly al right with me."

  They hailed another taxi.

  The Central hotel Paris was a clean, simple spot in Montparnasse.

  They took the lift to the third floor and tumbled, giggling and slightly stoned, into the room, which looked out on the Rue du Maine.

  The wal s were sunshine yel ow. In the middle of the thick sky blue carpet was an enormous double bed.

  "I'l get this bubbly stuff opened at once," Mac said, taking one of the bottles of champagne into the bathroom. "No one go anywhere."

  Sylvia kissed the Englishman again, more seriously this time, using her tongue. She noticed his breathing get quicker. He probably had a full erection already.

  "I expect you're a big boy, aren't you?" she said in a seductive voice, her hand moving along his leg, up toward his crotch.

  She could see the Englishwoman was blushing, but she said nothing to stop this from proceeding.

  "Bottoms up!" Mac said, coming back into the room with four improvised champagne glasses on the tray that had held the toothbrush glasses.

  "Here we go!" Sylvia cried, swiftly taking one of the glasses and knocking it back.

  The British pair were quick to fol ow her example. Mac laughed and went around refil ing the glasses.

  Then he lit another joint, which was perfectly rol ed.

  "How long have you been married?" Sylvia asked, inhaling and passing the marijuana cigarette.

  "Four weeks," the woman said.

  "Just imagine," Sylvia said, "al those lovely nights ahead of you. I'm jealous."

  Mac pul ed the Englishwoman to him and whispered something in her ear.

  She let out a laugh.

  Sylvia smiled. "Mac can keep going for ages. Shal we try to beat them? I think we can."

  She leaned over and nibbled at the man's earlobe. She noticed his eyelids were already drooping. The Englishwoman giggled, a low, confused sound. 4 "Only a minute or so now," Mac said. "We're close now."

  Sylvia smiled and slowly undid the man's shirt. She managed to get his shoes and trousers off before he col apsed on the bedspread.

  "Clive," the woman slurred. "Clive, I love you forever, you know that…"

  Then she, too, fel asleep.

  Mac had managed to take al her clothes off – apart from her underwear.

  He removed the underpants now, carried her to the bed, and laid her down next to her husband. Her hair, a little shorter than Sylvia's but more or less the same color, spread out like a fan.

  Sylvia picked up her purse. She riffled quickly through the credit cards, then looked more closely at the passport.

  "Emily Spencer," she read, checking the photo. "This is good, we look similar enough. That makes it easier."

  "Do you think she's related to Lady Di?" Mac said, as he pul ed off her wedding ring.

  Sylvia gathered together Emily Spencer's clothes, valuables, and other important belongings and stuffed them in her backpack.

  Then she opened the bag's outer pocket and pul ed out latex gloves, chlorhexidine, and a stiletto knife.

  "Mona Lisa?" she asked.

  Mac smiled. "What else? Perfect choice. Help me with the cleaning first, though." />
  They pul ed on the gloves, got some paper towels from the bathroom, and set about methodical y wiping down everything they had touched in the room, including the two unconscious figures on the bed.

  Sylvia stared at the man's genitals.

  "He wasn't that big after al," she said, and Mac laughed.

  "Ready?" she asked, pul ing her hair up into a ponytail.

  They took off their own clothes and folded them and put them as far away from the bed as possible.

  Sylvia started with the man, not for any sexist reasons, just because he was the heavier of the two. She sat behind him and hauled him into her lap, his slack arms flopping by his sides. He grunted as though he were snoring.

  Mac straightened the man's legs, crossed his arms over his stomach, and handed Sylvia the stiletto, which she took in her right hand.

  She held the man's forehead in the crook of her left arm to keep his head up.

  She felt with her fingertips for the man's pulse on his neck and estimated 5 the force of the flow.

  Then she thrust the stiletto into the man's left jugular vein. She cut quickly through muscle and ligaments until she heard a soft hiss that told her that his windpipe had been cut.

  Unconsciousness had lowered the brit's pulse and blood pressure, but the pressure in his jugular stil made the blood gush out in a fountain almost three feet from his body.

  Sylvia checked that she hadn't been hit by the cascade.

  "Bingo," Mac said. "You hit a geyser."

  The force of the flow soon diminished to a rhythmic pulsing. The bubbling sound as the air and blood mixture seeped from the severed throat gradual y faded away until final y it stopped altogether.

  "Nice work," Mac said. "Maybe you should have been a doctor."

  "Too boring. Too many rules. You know me and rules."

  Sylvia careful y moved away from Clive, propping him against the cheap headboard. She got blood on her arms when she arranged the man's hands on his stomach, right on top of left, but didn't bother to wash it off yet.

  "Now it's your turn, darling," she said to the doped-up Englishwoman.

  Emily Spencer was thin and light. Her breathing had almost stopped already. Her blood scarcely spurted at al.

  "How much champagne did she actual y drink?" Sylvia asked as she arranged the woman's smal hands on her stomach.

  She looked down at her bloody arms and went into the shower. Mac fol owed her.

  They pul ed off the latex gloves. Careful y they soaped each other and the stiletto, rinsed themselves off, and left the shower running. They dried themselves with the hotel's towels, which they then stuffed into the top of Sylvia's backpack.

  Then they got dressed and took out the Polaroid camera.

  Sylvia looked at the bodies on the bed, hesitating, deciding if the look was right.

  "What do you think about this?" she asked. "Does it work?"

  Mac raised the camera. The brightness of the flash blinded them momentarily.

  "Works pretty damn wel," he said. "Maybe the best one yet. Even better than Rome."

  Sylvia opened the room's door with her elbow and they stepped out into the corridor. No security cameras, they'd made sure of that on the way up.

  Mac pul ed his sleeve down over his fingers and hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign outside the door. The door closed with an almost inaudible click.

  The sounds of the night faded into silence. The gentle patter of the shower 6 inside the room could just be heard above the hum of the ventilation system.

  "Stairs or elevator?" Mac asked.

  "Elevator," Sylvia said. "I'm tired. Murder is hard work, darling."

  They waited until the doors had closed and the elevator was descending before they kissed.

  "I love being on honeymoon with you," Sylvia said, and Mac smiled bril iantly.

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Thursday, June 10

  Berlin, Germany

  The view from the hotel room consisted of a scarred brick wal and three rubbish bins. It was probably stil daylight somewhere up above the al ey, because Jacob Kanon could make out a fat German rat having itself a good time in the bin farthest to the left.

  He took a large sip from the mug of Riesling wine.

  It was debatable whether the situation inside or outside the room's thin pane of glass was more depressing.

  He turned his back on the window and looked down at the postcards spread out across the hotel bed.

  There was a pattern here, wasn't there, a twisted logic that he couldn't see.

  The kil ers were trying to tel him something. The bastards who were cutting the throats of young couples al over Europe were screaming right in his face.

  They were shouting their message, but Jacob couldn't hear what they were saying, couldn't make out their words, couldn't understand what they meant, and until he could work out their language, he wouldn't be able to stop them.

  He drank the rest of the wine in his mug and poured some more. Then he sat down on the bed, messing up the order he had just arranged for the postcards.

  "Let's look at it this way, then. Let me see who you are!"

  Jacob Kanon, a homicide detective from the NYPD's 32nd Precinct, was a long way from home. He was in Berlin because the kil ers had brought him here. He had been fol owing their progress for six months, always two steps 7 behind, maybe even three or four.

  Only now had the magnitude of their depravity started to sink in with the police authorities around Europe. Because the kil ers carried out only one or two murders in each country, it had taken time for the pattern to emerge, for everyone except him to see it plainly.

  Some of the stupid bastards stil didn't see it, and wouldn't take help from an American, even a fucking smart one who had everything riding on this case.

  He picked up the copies of the postcard from Florence.

  The first one.

  Chapter 2

  The postcard showed the basilica di San Miniato al Monte, and on the back was the now familiar quote. He read the lines and drank more wine, then let the card fal and picked up the next one, and the next, and the next.

  Athens: a picture of the Olympic Stadium from 2004.

  Salzburg: an anonymous street scene.

  Madrid: Las Ventas.

  And then Rome, Rome, Rome…

  Jacob put his hands over his face for a few seconds before getting up and going over to the rickety desk by the wal.

  He sat down on the Windsor chair and rested his arms on his notes, the notes he had made about the various victims, his interpretations, the tentative connections he had made.

  He knew very little about the Berlin couple yet, just their names and ages:

  Karen and Bil y Cowley, both twenty-three, from Canberra in Australia.

  Drugged and murdered in their rented apartment close to Charite University Hospital, for which they had paid two weeks in advance but which they hadn't had the chance to ful y enjoy. Instead, they had their throats cut and were mutilated on their second or possibly third day in the apartment.

  It was four days, maybe five or six, before they were even found. Stupid, arrogant German police! Acting like they knew everything, when they knew so little.

  Jacob got up, went over to the bed again, and picked up the Polaroid picture of the couple that had been posted to the journalist at the Berliner Zeitung. This was the point where his brain had reached the limit for what it could absorb.

  Why did the kil ers send first postcards and then grisly photographs of the slaughter to the media in the cities where they carried out their murders?

  To shock?

  To get fame and acclaim?

  Or did they have some other intention? Were the pictures and postcards a smoke screen to conceal their real motive? And if so, what the hel might that be?

  What the hel, what the hel, what the hel?

  He examined the photograph, its macabre composition. There had to be a meaning, but he couldn't see what it was.

&nbs
p; Instead, he picked up the picture of the couple from Paris.

  Emily and Clive Spencer, just married, propped up next to each other against a pale-colored headboard in a Montparnasse hotel room. They were both naked. The streams of blood that covered their torsos had gathered in congealed little pools around their genitals.

  Why?

  Chapter 3

  Jacob reached for the wedding photograph he had asked Emily's mother to send him.

  Emily was only twenty-one years old. Clive had just turned twenty-six.

  They were a stunningly beautiful couple, and the wedding photo radiated so much happiness and romance. Clive was dressed in tails, tal and handsome.

  Maybe a touch overweight, but that suited his status as a stockbroker in the London markets.

  Emily looked like a fairy-tale princess, her hair in big ringlets framing her head. Slim and fragile, she looked quite enchanting in her ivory dress. Her eyes shone at the camera.

  They had met at a mutual friend's New Year's party in Notting Hil, in one of those narrow trendy houses where the film with Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts had been shot.

  Emily's mother hadn't been able to stop crying when Jacob talked to her on the phone.

  He could neither comfort nor help her. He wasn't even formal y involved in the case, after al. As an American police officer, he had to be careful not to get involved in the work done by the authorities in other countries.

  That could have diplomatic consequences and, even worse, could lead to his expulsion from the country.

  A wave of despondency washed over Jacob with a force that took his breath away and made the mug of wine in his hand shake.

  He quickly emptied it of its contents and went and poured some more.

  Pathetic, he knew.

  He sat down at the desk once again, his back to al the photographs and postcards so that he didn't have to look at them.

  Maybe he should go and shower. Head down to the communal bathroom at the end of the corridor in the hope that there was some hot water left. Did he even have any soap? Christ, had he even used soap since he arrived in Berlin?