Free The Postcard Killers by James Patterson, Liza Marklund Page B

Disney castle, the southern bit was functional concrete, the northern section was a concrete monstrosity, and the western piece was inherited from the same Soviet era as the suburb he and Dessie had passed on the way to the crime scene on Dalarö.
    The unconventional-looking building hadn’t made the people inside particularly flexible — he knew that much already. The investigating team refused to take his calls. The receptionist kept putting him through to an automated message box that acted as the telephone tip-off line.
    Enough was enough, though.
    Now he was going to get inside, no matter what the cost to his reputation.
    He clenched his fists and steeled himself for the upcoming confrontation.
    The entrance was in the old, communist part of the complex. He walked into the lobby and got a sense of déjà vu. Like the Aftonposten lobby, it had a stone floor, pale wood, and a glass cubicle.
    He hoped the similarities would end there and cleared his throat as he laid his police badge on the desk.
    “Jacob Kanon, NYPD,” he said as calmly as he could manage. “I’m here to see Superintendent Mats Duvall. It’s about the murders on Dalarö.”
    The overweight woman on the other side of the desk looked impressed at the sight of his police badge.
    “Is he expecting you?”
    “He should be,” Jacob replied, entirely truthfully.
    “I’ll just call him,” the plump woman said, picking up the phone.
    “No need,” Jacob said. “I’ll find him myself. He’s on the fifth floor, isn’t he?”
    He had studied the building from outside and counted seven floors in the office section.
    “Fourth floor,” the woman said, putting the receiver down as she clicked open the inner door.
    He took the elevator up to the fourth floor and exited into a narrow corridor with a low ceiling and humming strip lighting. He took several steps before knocking on a random door. He stuck his head into a small office and said, “Hello, excuse me, but Duvall, can you tell me where he is?”
    A woman with a ponytail and glasses looked up in surprise.
    “He’s in a meeting about Dalarö at the moment,” she said. “Conference Room C, I think.”
    “Thanks,” Jacob said and turned back. He had already passed Conference Room C.
    He retraced his steps, slipped into the room, and closed the door behind him.
    There were ten people inside, the core of the investigating team: Mats Duvall, Gabriella Oscarsson, a woman in her fifties in a suit, two fairly young women, and five men of varying ages. There were thermoses of coffee and refreshments on the table.
    Coffee cups stopped in midair, hands stiffened, and ten pairs of eyes stared at him.
    “Your investigation is about to go seriously wrong,” he said, pulling up a chair and sitting right down at the table with them.

Chapter 37
    THERE WAS A DEATHLY SILENCE in the room.
    He had managed to get their attention, though. Now he had about ten seconds before he would be thrown out.
    “You’ve probably worked out that the victims’ passports and wallets are missing,” he said. “Jewelry, cameras, and other valuables are gone. Their bank accounts have been emptied, their credit cards taken right to the limit with cash withdrawals. When you go through their credit-card transactions, you’ll discover at least one large purchase before the cash withdrawals take over.”
    He paused. No one moved.
    “What you’re looking for is a very attractive couple around twenty-five years old,” he went on. “Maybe even younger. A man and a woman, English speaking. They’re well off, probably white, posing as normal tourists.”
    Mats Duvall cleared his throat. Then he spoke in nearly perfect English.
    “I should explain to my colleagues that this man is a homicide detective from the New York police. His name is Jacob Kanon, and he has been tracking all the investigations since New Year’s. He has personal reasons —”
    “My daughter, Kimberly, was one of the victims in Rome,” Jacob said.
    He