Postcard killers

Chapter 112

Lyndon Crebbs answered after the first ring.

"How's it going, you amateur? Are you getting anywhere?" Lyndon asked.

"Can you check on a Sandra Schulman? Last known address Wilshire Avenue, corner of Veteran Avenue."

"Anything special about her?"

"She may have disappeared, permanently. Take this as a tip from an anonymous source: she could be buried in the hil s above Montecito. Sylvia was jealous of her. Enough said."

Jacob could hear the FBI agent's pen scratch.

"What about Wil iam Hamilton?" Lyndon Crebbs asked as he wrote. "Is he stil alive, I hope?"

"If the LAPD takes a look there, they'l find a heap of snow in the bedroom. He's alive. But he's an obnoxious little prick."

Lyndon chuckled.

"By the way," he said, "I was reading the report on the search of the Rudolphs' hotel room in Stockholm. What did that key belong to?"

"What key?" Jacob said.

"The little key that's mentioned at the bottom of page three."

"How the hel could you read that, Lyndon? It's in Swedish."

"Haven't you ever used the site www.tyda.se?" Lyndon Crebbs said. "Just an old man wondering."

The police in Stockholm must have checked it out, Jacob thought. "Christ, this is mad," he said. "Do you know why the twins were thrown out of UCLA?

They had sex with each other in public."

"Ah, today's youth," the FBI agent said. "Something else occurred to me: what if there are other kil ers? What if the Rudolphs have inspired copycats?"

"The thought has occurred to me, too," Jacob said. "But it doesn't fit. The content of the postcards has never been made public, for instance. If there are more kil ers, they have to be working together."

"Sicker things have been known to happen," Lyndon Crebbs said. "When do you think you'l be back at Citrus Avenue?"

Jacob grew serious. "I won't be back this visit," he said. "I'm heading off now."

Lyndon Crebbs was silent, a silence that only grew. Jacob was treading water. He couldn't bring himself to ask the only relevant question: exactly how bad was the prostate cancer?

Jacob spoke again. "Just one more thing. Could you pul a few strings and see if you can find out anything about Lucy? My ex? I should tel her about Kimmy."

The old man let out a sigh.

"I thought you'd never ask."

"Thanks for everything," Jacob said.

"Wel, adios, amigo, then," Lyndon Crebbs replied.

"Hasta la vista," Jacob said. "Til next time."

But the line was already dead, and Jacob wondered if he'd ever hear his friend's voice again.

Chapter 113

Tuesday, June 22

Oslo, Norway

The motor home was in a campsite just outside the city. The police cordon had been lifted from the entrance to the site but was stil in place around the vehicle.

Dessie pul ed the zipper on her Windbreaker up snug and tight under her chin.

The campsite was almost empty, and not just because of the weather. The Italians' motor home was al alone in its section of the site, like a leprous metal box whose neighbors had fled in panic.

She went closer.

Drifts of dead insects were stil littering the insides of the windows. They covered the bottom third of the screens.

She pul ed the hood over her head. A stiff gale was blowing in from the Oslo fjord just below, sharp as needles.

It was the flies that had let on that something was wrong inside the Italians' motor home. The people in the neighboring tents had complained about the buzzing, and eventual y also about the smel. 150 The owner of the site, a man named Olsen, hadn't been too bothered. The Italians were paying for their patch on account, and he wasn't fussy. If people wanted to keep flies as pets, he wasn't about to stop them.

When the police eventual y arrived, the windows were completely covered in swarms of black insects. They were as thick as curtains.

It was estimated that the bodies had been there for over a month.

Dessie pul ed out the copy of the Polaroid picture, taken before the flies had started to lay eggs.

The wind tore at the sheet of paper, and she had to hold it with both hands.

The letter and postcard had only been found the previous morning. The reporter the kil ers had chosen had gone away on vacation the day the card was posted. No one had been checking his mail.

When he returned to work at the paper, he found both the postcard, TO BE OR NOT TO BE, and the photograph Dessie now had before her.

Antonio Bonino and Emma Vendola had been on a driving tour of Europe, and had arrived in Oslo on the morning of May 17. They wanted to experience Norway's national day, the celebrations when the Norwegians mark the a

Emma worked as a secretary at a PR agency. Antonio was studying to be a dentist. They had been married for two years.

She looked at the victims' picture again.

Their hands had been placed close to their faces, the palms to their ears.

The kil ers had stuffed two pairs of black tights in their mouths, giving the faces a grotesque expression of pain and horror.

She had recognized the work of art immediately, and it was famous.

Edvard Munch's The Scream, a painting that had become world-famous to a new generation as the logo for the horror movie Scream.

Dessie could feel her eyes wel ing up. She didn't know if it was because of the wind or the thought of the dead couple.

They had been saving up to buy this vehicle ever since they got married.

Six bunks, so there would be room for the children when they came along.

Did they have time to feel afraid?

Did they feel any pain?

She turned away from the motor home and walked toward the exit, not wanting to think about the dead anymore.

Instead she conjured up Jacob's image. His messy hair, the crumpled suede jacket, the sparkling blue eyes. He hadn't been in touch.

He'd disappeared from her life as though he'd never been there.

This past week could have been a dream, or, rather, a nightmare, in which her whole life had been turned upside down by forces she had no control over.

Dessie shivered.

She stopped by the exit and turned around to look back at the abandoned campsite.

Wil owy birch trees bent beneath the wind; the water down below was gray with geese. The cordon around the motor home flapped in the wind.

The Rudolphs could have been responsible for these murders.

They hadn't been arrested yet in the middle of May.

Chapter 114

Stockholm, Sweden

Sylvia let Malcolm go in first.

She enjoyed watching the effect he had on poor, dul Andrea Friederichs: the lawyer clearly became positively moist the moment he walked into a room.

"Dear Malcolm," the lawyer said, standing up and grasping his hand with both of hers. Her cheeks glowed bright red. Her eyes swept from his biceps down toward the curve of his backside.

Sylvia sat down opposite her and smiled.

"It's great that we're getting close to a financial agreement," she said.

The lawyer's smile faded as she glanced at Sylvia. She put on her uglyduckling reading glasses and started to leaf through the papers on the table.

They were in one of the smal er conference rooms of the Grand Hotel, the room the lawyer had reserved to conduct negotiations for the global rights to Sylvia and Malcolm's story.

"Wel, I've had final bids for both the book and the film rights," she said, putting the documents in two piles in front of her.

"There are four parties bidding for both packages, six who want only the book, and three, possibly four, who just want to make the film. I thought we might go through them together so that you -"