The Postcard Killers
Read The Postcard Killers Online
Authors: James Patterson,Liza Marklund
Tags: #Police Procedural, #Police, #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction, #Sweden, #Suspense, #Americans, #Thrillers, #Women Journalists, #General
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Copyright © 2010 by James Patterson
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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First eBook Edition: August 2010
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
ISBN: 978-0-316-12771-4
Contents
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.”
THEY GOT A COZY TABLE for four overlooking the river. The sunset was painting the buildings around them bloodred. A
bateau-mouche
glided past, and the accordionist switched to a more cheerful tune.
The tetchy Brit thawed out after a couple of bottles of wine. Sylvia felt his eyes on her and undid another button of her thin blouse.
She noted that the Englishwoman was stealing glances at Mac, at his fair hair, honey-colored skin, girlish eyelashes, and well-built biceps.
“What a magical day this has been,” Sylvia said when Mac had paid the bill and she was pulling on her backpack. “I
have
to have a
souvenir
of this evening.”