Postcard killers

"What does it say? Don't be such a control ing bitch. You know I don't like that."

"Oh, sorry, baby. Most of it's bul shit," Sylvia said, "but the end is 63 interesting. She wants to interview us."

Mac snorted out a laugh.

"What a moron. Why would we let her interview us?"

Sylvia passed him the paper.

"They're offering us a hundred thousand dol ars."

Mac's eyes opened wide.

"No way," he said, taking the paper with both hands and sinking onto the unmade bed. "Fuck. A hundred thousand dol ars. That's pretty good!"

Sylvia stood up and went over to the window of the hotel room. She stretched her slender arms above her head and yawned loudly, wel aware that she was ful y visible in al her nakedness. "Look at me," she whispered. "Here I am. Catch me!"

On the other side of the street was a building constructed in the Swedish National Romantic style, with towers and a copper roof, its gril e-covered windows glittering in the morning sun. It was Stockholm's municipal courthouse, the place where clumsy criminals were taken to atone for their pathetic misdemeanors. She stood on tiptoe. Behind the courthouse was a creamy yel ow palatial building with pi

"Sylvia," Mac said, "this is actual y worth considering. She's promising complete anonymity, that she wil never reveal her sources. And we could real y use the money. Look, there's a phone number for us to cal."

She let her eyes roam across the gray-brown facade of the courthouse.

"That's not a bad idea," she said, turning to Mac. "But why stop at a hundred thousand dol ars?"

"Do you think she'd pay more?"

Sylvia smiled.

"Have you got that card the Dutchman gave you?"

Mac blinked his long eyelashes.

"Why?"

She went over to the bed, got on al fours, and snaked her way slowly over to Mac. She bit him gently on the earlobe and breathed into his neck.

Then she slid down onto him, warm and wet. "First things first, sweetheart."

Chapter 45

The brass doorbell gave A brittle little ring that fitted its setting perfectly.

Dessie stepped into the gal ery on Osterlanggatan in the Old Town, holding her breath.

"Hel o?" she cal ed cautiously.

She always felt so grubby when she came here. The floor, ceiling, and wal s were al painted pristine white. Even the patrons' restroom and the staircase to the offices above were entirely white. She knew the reason why.

She'd been told it was to "trap the light" and "do justice to the art."

"Christer? Are you here?"

She felt as though the il usion of purity would shatter if she cal ed out too loudly.

"Hi, Dessie," said a surprised voice behind her. "What brings you here?"

Dessie spun around. She hadn't heard him come in.

Christer, her ex-husband, was dressed as he always was: black polo sweater, black gabardine trousers, and soundless moccasins. He looked like a caricature of a gal ery owner.

"Sorry to intrude," she said with a slightly strained smile. "I need your help."

They had been married for four years. The marriage had given Christer a wife he said he loved, and Dessie had been given a context to belong to. Parties to go to, people to talk to. Christer could be charming, but she had never been able to talk to him.

He looked at her in astonishment.

"Okay, what do you need help with?"

She felt her palms sweating. Maybe this was crazy. Maybe her idea was completely mad. But she was excited about solving these murders. She felt passionate about it.

"It's a bit complicated," she said. "It's just an idea I had…"

She took a deep breath. She was here now, after al. "It's about a particular painting," she said. "I need your help identifying a painting."

Chapter 46

Christer held up his hands in a gesture of curiosity.

"What painting? Have you got a picture of it?"

Dessie hesitated.

"No," she said, "not exactly. I can describe it. There's a woman sitting with a cushion on her lap, and there's a man lying on her lap with his head on the cushion."

Christer looked none the wiser.

She put her knapsack and bike helmet on the floor. Then she sat down next to them.

"A woman," she said, "sitting like this."

Then she lay down on the floor. "And a man, lying like this."

She pul ed one leg up, spread the fingers of one hand, and stretched the other hand out.

Christer blinked several times.

"Dessie," he said, "what are you doing? What's this al about? Surely you're not decorating."

Dessie sat up. She had the photocopy of the dead couple from Dalaro in her knapsack. She didn't want to show it to Christer. He was so sensitive about blood. He used to think it was unpleasant even when she had her period.

"A picture," she said. "I'm after a picture or a painting with people in the positions I just showed you."

He looked thoughtful y at her.

She lay down again, stretching her right hand across the floor.

"Like this," she said. "The man's holding something in his right hand."

"Dessie," he said quietly, "why are you here?"

Dessie felt her cheeks starting to burn. He thought the painting was a pretext.

She jerked her neck, stood up, opened the knapsack, and pul ed out the photocopy.

"Maybe you should sit down," she said.

He took a step toward her.

"Just say it," he said. "Tel me why you've come to see me. It's not about art, Dessie."

Dessie showed him the photocopy. She saw his eyes open wide and his face go as white as the wal s.

She caught him before he fel.

"Good god," he said. "Are those… are those… people?"

Her reply was needlessly harsh. It just came out that way.

"Not anymore. Look at the way they're positioned. Doesn't it remind you of anything? Where have I seen that before?"

"For heaven's sake," he said, shutting his eyes, shaking his head. "Take it 66 away."

"No," Dessie said. "Take a proper look. Please. Look at the man."

She helped Christer sit down on the floor. He was breathing deeply and had to put his head between his knees for a few seconds.

"Let's see," he said, taking the picture, looking at it for a couple of seconds, then pushing it away again.

"The Dying Dandy," he said. "Nils Dardel, nineteen eighteen. It's in the Museum of Modern Art."

Dessie closed her eyes, seeing the painting before her. Of course! It floated up from her memory. She knew exactly which painting it was.

She leaned over and kissed her ex-husband on the cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered. "This may save lives, Christer."