The Postcard Killers

by James Patterson, Liza Marklund

Genres: Hard-Boiled; Suspense

Synopsis

NYPD detective Jacob Kanon is on a tour of Europe’s most gorgeous cities. But the sights aren’t what draw him—he sees each museum, each cathedral, and each cafe through the eyes of his daughter’s killer.

Kanon’s daughter, Kimmy, and her fiancé were murdered while on holiday in Rome. Since then, young couples in Madrid, Salzburg, Athens, and Paris have been found dead. Little connects the murders, other than a postcard to the local newspaper that precedes each new victim.

Now Kanon teams up with the Swedish reporter, Dessie Larsson, who has just received a postcard in Stockholm—and they think they know where the next victims will be.

With relentless logic and unstoppable action, Postcard Killers may be James Patterson’s most vivid and compelling thriller yet.

Release date: August 16, 2010

Publisher: Little, Brown and Company

Print pages: 90

Sample

Paris, France

“IT’S VERY SMALL,” THE ENGLISHWOMAN said, sounding disappointed.


Mac Rudolph laughed, put his arm around the woman’s slender neck, and allowed his hand to fall onto her breast. She wasn’t
wearing a bra.


“Oil on a wooden panel,” he said. “Thirty inches by twenty-one, or seventy-seven centimeters by fifty-three. It was meant
to hang in the dining room in the home of the Florentine merchant Francesco del Giocondo. But da Vinci never got it finished.”


He felt her nipple stiffen under the fabric of the blouse. She didn’t move his hand away.

Sylvia Rudolph slid up on the other side of her, her hand easing its way under the woman’s arm.

“Mona Lisa wasn’t her name,” Sylvia said. “Just Lisa. Mona is an Italian diminutive that can be taken to mean ‘lady’ or ‘her grace.’”


The woman’s husband was standing behind Sylvia, his body pushed up against hers in the crowd. Very cozy.

“Anyone thirsty?” he asked.

Sylvia and Mac exchanged a quick glance and a grin.

They were on the first floor of the Denon wing of the Louvre, in the Salle des États. Hanging on the wall in front of them,
behind nonreflective glass, was the most famous portrait in the world, and the guy was thinking about beer?


“You’re right,” Mac said, his hand gently gliding down the Englishwoman’s back. “It is small. Francesco del Giocondo’s dining
room table can’t have been very large.”


He smiled over at the woman’s husband.

“And you’re right, too. It’s time to drink some wine!”

They found their way out of the museum, down the modern staircase toward the Porte des Lions, and stepped out into the middle
of a Parisian spring evening.


Sylvia inhaled deeply, breathing in the intoxicating mix of exhaust fumes, river water, and freshly opened leaves, and laughed
out loud.


“Oh,” she said, hugging the Englishwoman, “I’m so glad we met you. Honeymoons are all very well and good, but you have to
see a bit of the world, too, don’t you? Have you had time to see Notre-Dame yet?”


“We only got here this morning,” her husband said. “We’ve hardly had time to eat.”

“Well, we must do something about that at once,” Mac said. “We know a little place down by the Seine. It’s wonderful, you’ll love it.”


“Notre-Dame is fantastic,” Sylvia said. “One of the first Gothic cathedrals in the world, strongly influenced by naturalism.
You’re going to love the South Rose Window.”


She kissed the woman on the cheek, lingering for a second.

They crossed the river on the Pont d’Arcole, passed the cathedral, and arrived at the Quai de Montebello just as someone started
playing a melancholy tune on an accordion.


“Order whatever you like,” Mac said, holding the door of the bistro open. “It’s on us. We’re celebrating your honeymoon.”

SYLVIA SMILED AND SLOWLY UNDID the man’s shirt. She managed to get his shoes and trousers off before he collapsed on the bedspread.

“Clive,” the woman slurred. “Clive, I love you forever, you know that…”

Then she, too, fell asleep.

Mac had managed to take all her clothes off — apart from her underwear. He removed the underpants now, carried her to the
bed, and laid her down next to her husband. Her hair, a little shorter than Sylvia’s but more or less the same color, spread
out like a fan.


Sylvia picked up her purse. She riffled quickly through the credit cards, then looked more closely at the passport.

“Emily Spencer,” she read, checking the photo. “This is good, we look similar enough. That makes it easier.”

“Do you think she’s related to Lady Di?” Mac said, as he pulled off her wedding ring.

Sylvia gathered together Emily Spencer’s clothes, valuables, and other important belongings and stuffed them in her backpack.


Then she opened the bag’s outer pocket and pulled out latex gloves, chlorhexidine, and a stiletto knife.

“Mona Lisa?” she asked.


Mac smiled. “What else? Perfect choice. Help me with the cleaning first, though.”

They pulled on the gloves. . .