Postcard killers

On the other hand, he would have to explain his weapon, the one he'd purchased in Italy.

The Europeans were very serious about the il egal possession of firearms.

When Mats Duval had visited him in the hospital, Jacob had been expecting to face charges.

But the police superintendent had merely informed him that a preliminary investigation could not be carried out. Al suspicions had been dropped through lack of evidence. That was what happened in cases like this, he had explained curtly.

The Swedes weren't quite as rigid as he had thought.

But his gun was confiscated when he left the country.

Jacob watched as the neighbor's son got a clean hit on the other side of the street. The bal shot off like a missile toward Johnson's Garage (which, natural y, was no longer Johnson's, but belonged to a Polish family, whatever their name was). Jacob held his breath until the bal hit the brick wal, just inches from a window.

Once upon a time he had played basebal on that same patch of grass. He had broken the windows of Johnson's Garage on a couple of occasions. He stil lived in the house where he'd grown up, where his father had grown up, where Kimmy had grown up.

Maybe he could take off the wretched rag around his neck. What was the worst that could happen? His arm was hardly going to fal off, was it?

A taxi came slowly along the street and stopped at the sidewalk below the porch.

Jacob raised his good arm and waved. He even managed to smile.

Chapter 140

Jacob didn't get up as Lyndon Crebbs got out of the backseat with his scruffy navy bag in tow.

"So, here you sit, you one-armed bandit!" the FBI agent said.

Jacob shifted to make room on the step for his old mentor. "How did the operation go?" he asked.

Lyndon sighed as he sank beside him on the steps.

"Wel, I'l never use my dick for anything but pissing from now on, but you have to be grateful. Smal mercies."

They sat there next to each other. Good friends, the best kind. Through thin and thi

The bal -playing boys on the other side of the street started arguing about something, and a halfhearted fight broke out before they drifted off home, one by one.

"What happened up in Montecito?" Jacob asked.

"They found the remains of a woman behind the Mansion," Crebbs said.

"She wasn't buried very deep. Hadn't been there long. Four or five years, according to the coroner."

"Any ID?"

"Not yet, but it's probably the missing girl, Sandra Schulman. Her throat was cut. More of Sylvia's artwork, I'm sure."

They sat in silence for a while.

"What about the murder of the guardian?" Jacob asked. "And the parents?"

Lyndon Crebbs shook his head.

"Stil open cases. My guess is that they'l stay that way… Do you want to know what I found out about Lucy?"

Jacob looked over toward Johnson's garage. It was Lucy Johnson's childhood home.

"Not right now."

Lyndon Crebbs glanced at Jacob.

"How did it go with the girl from Stockholm? The one named after the princess?"

"She's going to finish her doctorate," Jacob said. "As far as I can tel, it's going pretty wel."

"Isn't that what I've always said? The smart ones are always best. Where did she end up, anyway?"

Jacob felt his face crack into a grin.

"There she is, down there," he said, pointing with his healthy arm toward Narrows Avenue.

The only thing Dessie had bought since she moved in was a seven-speed women's bicycle with a shopping basket on the front. And now she was pedaling along Seventy-seventh Street with the basket ful of leeks and other rabbit food.

Leaving the bike and the groceries in the driveway, she came over to the steps.

"Mr. Crebbs? I've heard a lot about you."

Dessie and Jacob's friend shook hands.

"Nothing but crap, I hope."

Dessie smiled at Jacob.

"From a romantic guy like this? What'd you expect?"