The Postcard Killers

    “I want you here, right now,” he whispered sexily.

    She ran her hand slowly across his crotch, feeling how hard he was. When they were on the motorway heading north toward Stockholm, Sylvia put on a new pair of gloves. She reached into the backseat for the backpack and started to go through the dead Germans’ valuables.

    “Look at this,” she said, taking out an ultramodern digital camera. “A Nikon D3X. That’s pretty neat.”

    She rummaged through the woman’s jewelry.

    “A lot of it’s rubbish, sentimental, but this emerald ring is okay. I guess.”

    She held it up to the sunlight and examined the gemstone’s sparkle.

    “He had a platinum Amex,” Mac said, glancing at the things spread out on the floor of the car and in Sylvia’s lap.

    “So did she,” Sylvia said, waving the metallic card.

    Mac grinned.

    “And we’ve got the Omega watch itself, of course,” Sylvia said, triumphantly holding up the German woman’s recently purchased gift. “And it’s even in the original packaging!”

    “The cheap Kraut bastard was thinking of buying her a Swatch,” Mac said.

    They burst out laughing, heads thrown back, as they passed through the commercial center of Stockholm.

    “We’re back, ” Sylvia said in an eerie voice.

Chapter 16

    THIRTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER MAC MADE a turn into the long-term parking lot at Arlanda Airport. Just to be safe, Sylvia wiped down the surfaces she might have touched with her fingers: the buttons that controlled the side windows, the instrument panel, Mac’s seat.

    Then they left the car among a couple of thousand others, a dark gray Ford Focus that even they lost sight of after walking just a few meters. It would probably be there for weeks before anyone noticed it. The free bus to the airport’s terminal buildings was almost empty. Sylvia sat on one of the seats, Mac standing beside her, wearing the backpack. No one paid any attention to them. Why should they?

    They got off at International Terminal 5 and went straight to the departure hall.

    Sylvia had managed to get a fair ways ahead before she noticed that Mac wasn’t right behind her. Now where was he?

    She turned all the way around and saw him standing and looking up at one of the large screens where departures were listed.

    She hurried back quickly.

    “Darling,” she whispered, sidling up to him. “What are you doing?”

    Mac’s light gray eyes were staring fixedly at the flashing destinations.

    “We could take a plane,” he said.

    Sylvia put her tongue in his ear.

    “Come on, baby,” she said in a low voice. “We’ve got lots left to do. Today is party time!”

    “We could go home,” Mac said. “We could stop this game of ours now. Quit while we’re ahead. Retire as legends.”

    She wound her arm around his waist and blew softly on his neck.

    “The train leaves in four minutes,” she said. “You. Me. We’re on it.”

    He let her lead him off to the escalators, down into the underground, and out onto the platform. Only when the doors had closed and the express train had set off for the center of Stockholm did Sylvia let go of him.

    “Legends,” she said, “always die young. But not us.”

Chapter 17

Sunday, June 13

    A UNIFORMED SECURITY GUARD STOOD up in a glass cubicle over to Jacob’s left. He pressed a button and said something incomprehensible in a metallic loudspeaker voice.

    “I don’t speak Swedish,” Jacob said. “Can you tell Dessie Larsson that I’m here?”

    “What about?”

    “The postcard killings,” he said, holding up his New York police badge.

    “I’m homicide.”

    The man pulled his stomach in and yanked up his baggy trousers.

    “Take a seat for a moment.”

    He gestured toward the row of wooden benches over by the door. The stone floor of the Aftonposten lobby was slippery from the rain outside.

    Jacob slid a couple of steps before getting his balance back, along with his dignity. He straightened his shoulders, wondering if perhaps he was not entirely sober yet.

    With a groan, he sank onto the nearest bench. It was hard and cold. He had to pull himself together. Never before, never during all those years raising Kimmy, had he let himself sink this low. The previous day had vanished in a haze of vodka and aquavit. The Swedes also had something they called brдnnvin, a spirit made from potatoes that was pure dynamite. Hoping he wasn’t about to be sick, he rested his head in his hands. The killers weren’t far away. Even though he felt hazy about many things, he could sense their proximity.

    They were still walking the city’s streets, hiding in the rain, and had probably already found their next victims - if they hadn’t already dealt with them…