The reporter stumbled a little and steadied herself against the wal behind her. Her eyes were wide and watchful. He'd frightened her badly. He hadn't meant to.
"If I'm the kil ers' contact," she said, "who's yours?"
Her voice was dark, a little hoarse. Her English was perfect but spoken with a strange accent. He looked at her in silence for a few moments.
"Who interviewed you?" Jacob asked. "What's his name, what unit's he on? Is there a prosecutor involved yet? What safety measures have been taken?
Someone's going to die here in Stockholm. "
The woman backed away another few steps.
"How did you know I received the card?" she asked. "How did you know where I live?"
He looked at her careful y. There was no reason to lie.
"Berlin," he said. "The German police. It was the deutsche Polizei who told me another postcard had turned up, sent to a Dessie Larsson at Aftonposten in Stockholm, Sweden. I came at once. I've just gotten in from the airport."
"So, what are we doing here? What do you want with me? I can't help you. I'm nobody."
He took a step closer to her, she took a step to one side. He checked himself.
"They have to be stopped," he said. "This is the best chance yet… They picked you. So now you're somebody."
Chapter 9
"I've been following these butchers since the murders in Rome last Christmas," he said.
Suddenly he turned away and looked out through the leaded glass farther down the stairs. The fading sunlight was making red, green, and dark blue spots dance on the marble steps.
He closed his eyes and put his hand over them, the colors burning into his brain.
"Sometimes I think I'm right behind them. Sometimes they slip past me, close to me, so close I can almost feel their breath."
"How did you find me? I asked you a question."
He looked at the reporter again. She wasn't like the others. She was younger, about thirty, less high-strung. Plus, al the others had been men – apart from the female reporter in Salzburg whom he hadn't managed to make contact with yet.
"I got your address from directory inquiries. The taxi driver dropped me off at the door. Like I said, I'm a detective."
He knotted his hands in frustration.
"You have to understand how important this is. How far have the police gotten? Have they made contact with the Germans? Tel them they have to talk to Berlin, the best inspector there is cal ed Gunther Bublitz. He's a decent man.
He cares."
The woman lowered her head, peering at him from beneath her hair. Her fear seemed to have subsided, and her gaze was steady and calm now. She was impressive in her way.
"This is my home," she said. "If you want to discuss anything about the postcard or the kil ers or the police operation, you'l have to come to my workplace tomorrow."
She nodded toward the stairs.
"I'm sure you'l find your way, Detective. You can get the address from directory inquiries."
He took a step closer to her and she held her breath.
"I've been chasing these bastards for six months," he said, almost inaudibly. "No one knows more about them than I do."
The woman braced herself against the wal, then forced her way past him.
She picked up her keys from the floor and clutched them hard in her hand.
"You look and smel like a garbage dump," she said. "You've no authority with the Swedish police. You're just chasing these kil ers… Sorry, but that seems a bit… obsessive."
He brushed his hair back hard and closed his eyes.
Obsessive? Was he obsessed? Of course he was.
He saw the Polaroid picture in front of his eyes, the man's and woman's hands, the beautiful fingers that were almost touching. The blood that had run 17 down their arms and gathered around the fingernails. "Love you, Dad! See you at New Year's!"
He opened his eyes and met her gaze.
"They kil ed my daughter in Rome," he said. "They cut Kimmy's and Steven's throats in a hotel room in Trastevere, and I'm going to chase them until Hel freezes over."
Chapter 10
Dessie heard the man's heavy footsteps disappear down the stairs as she double-locked her door. She blew out a deep breath.
It was Friday evening, and she was alone again. Worse, she'd just been scared shitless by an American detective who tragical y had lost his daughter.
She took off her sneakers, hung up her jacket, and put her bike helmet on the hat rack. She pul ed off the rest of her clothes as she walked to the bathroom and got into the shower.
Jacob Kanon, she thought. He hadn't meant her any harm, that much was obvious. What would have happened if she had asked him in? What would she have lost as a result? Would she have gotten a news story?
She shook off the idle thoughts and turned the tap to run the water ice cold. She stood under the jet until her toes started to go numb and her skin stung.
Wrapped in a big dressing gown, she walked across the tiled floor into the living room. She sank onto the sofa and reached for the television remote control but held it idly in her hand.
Why had the kil ers picked her? What the hel had she done? She wasn't a star reporter by any means.
Were they actual y in the city right now?
Were they looking for their next victims, or had they already set to work?
Had the letter containing the photographs of the dead bodies already been sent?
She got up off the couch and went into the kitchen. She opened the fridge door and found a few withered carrots and a moldy tomato. Jeez. She real y must do some shopping.
Coming home usual y made her thoroughly calm and relaxed. Not this night.
Her apartment lay on Urvadersgrand, an old street on the island of Sodermalm, in the heart of the onetime working-class district that had recently 18 been transformed into overpriced homes for the hip middle class to buy.
Sweden's national poet, Carl Michael Bel man, had lived in the building next door for four years in the 1770s. She tried to feel the winds of history.
It didn't work too wel tonight. Another Friday at home. Why was that?
She went over to the stereo and put on a CD of German hard rock. Du, du hast, du hast mich…
Then she sat down and stared at the telephone. She had a pretty good reason for making the cal.
She was neither lonely nor abandoned. She had just turned down the chance to invite a man into her apartment – a dirty, unshaven man, admittedly – so she wasn't the slightest bit desperate. Right?
She picked up the receiver and dialed the number of Gabriel a's cel phone.
Chapter 11
Gabriella answered with her usual unfriendly grunt.
"Hi," Dessie said. "It's me."
She could hear Gabriel a breathing.
"It's not what you think," Dessie said. "I don't want to be a nuisance, and I haven't changed my mind…"
"I've been expecting you to cal," Gabriel a said, sounding strictly professional. "Mats Duval pul ed me onto the investigating team this afternoon. I think you and I can deal with this like grown-ups… Right, Dessie?"
Dessie breathed out. She had lived with police inspector Gabriel a Oscarsson for almost a year. Maybe they had been in love, maybe not. Three months ago Dessie had ended the relationship and Gabriel a had moved out of the apartment. It hadn't been an amicable split. Was it ever?
"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," Gabriel a 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 smel ed.