The Postcard Killers Read Free Page B

asked?”
    She had let the sentence about her thesis trail off. Focusing on the social consequences of small-scale propertybreak-ins, it had been placed on the back burner—to put it mildly. She hadn’t written a word of it in over two years.
    “Would you describe yourself as a high-profile or famous reporter?” the superintendent asked.
    Dessie let out a rather inappropriate laugh, partly through her mouth, partly her nose.
    “Hardly.” She recovered slightly. “I never write about the news. I come up with my own stories. For instance, I had an interview
     with Burglar Bengt in yesterday’s paper. He’s Sweden’s ‘most notorious’ burglar. Found guilty of breaking into three hundred
     eighteen properties, and that doesn’t include—”
    Superintendent Duvall interrupted her, leaning in closer across the table.
    “The usual scenario is that the people who sent the postcard carry on a correspondence with the journalist. You may get more
     mail from the killers.”
    “If you don’t catch them first,” she said.
    She met the policeman’s gaze. His eyes were calm, inscrutable behind his shiny glasses. She couldn’t tell if she liked or
     disliked him. Not that it mattered.
    “We don’t know the killers’ motives,” he said. “I’ve spoken to the security division, but we don’t think you need personal
     protection for the time being. Do you think you need it?”
    A shiver ran up Dessie’s spine.
    “No,” she said. “No personal protection.”

Chapter 6
    SYLVIA AND MAC WERE STROLLING happily, arm in arm, through the medieval heart of Stockholm.
    The narrow cobblestoned streets wound between irregular buildings that appeared to lean toward one another. The sun was blazing
     in a cloud-free sky, prompting Mac to take off his shirt. Sylvia stroked his flat stomach and kissed him passionately on the
     mouth and elsewhere.
    The streets opened out and they emerged onto a little triangular square with an ancient tree at its center. Some pretty, blond
     girls were jumping rope on the cobbles. Two old men were playing chess on a park bench.
    The huge canopy of the tree cast shadows over the whole square, filtering the sunlight onto the cobbles and facades of the
     houses. They each bought an ice cream and sat down on an ornate park bench that could have been there beneath the tree for
     hundreds of years.
    “What an amazing trip this is. What an adventure we’re having,” Sylvia said. “No one has ever lived life like this.”
    The air was clear, crystal clear, and birds were singing in the branches above them. There was no urban noise, just the girls’
     laughter and the rhythmic sound of the jump rope hitting the cobbles.
    The square was an oasis surrounded by five-hundred-year-old buildings in muted colors, their hand-blown windows shimmering.
    “Shall we do the National Museum or the Museum of Modern Art first?” Sylvia asked, stretching out along the length of the
     bench, her head in Mac’s lap, as she leafed through her guidebook.
    “Modern,” he said between bites of his ice cream. “I’ve always wanted to see Rauschenberg’s goat.”
    They took the street north out of the square and passed a huge statue of St. George and the Dragon. A minute later they were
     down on the quayside again, opposite the sailing yacht
af Chapman
, which was lying at anchor off the island of Skeppsholmen.
    “There’s water everywhere in this city,” Mac said, amazed.
    Sylvia pointed to the island directly behind the Grand Hôtel.
    “Are we walking, or shall we take a steamer?”
    Mac pulled her close and kissed her.
    “I’ll go anywhere, anyhow, any way, as long as I can be with you.”
    She pushed her hands down under his belt and stroked his bare buttocks.
    “You look like a Greek god,” she whispered, “with a very nice tan.”
    In the Museum of Modern Art the first thing they looked at was Rauschenberg’s world-famous piece
Monogram
, a stuffed angora goat with a white-painted car tire around