The Postcard Killers by James Patterson, Liza Marklund

I take full responsibility for my actions. And I shall carry on doing that. So I and Aftonposten have chosen to reply to you with this letter…”
    She skimmed through the text.
    It said that the police were hot on their heels, that it was only a matter of time before they were arrested. That they had gotten too cocky, that they had started to make mistakes. That they were close to giving themselves away. That the Germans on Dalarö would be their last victims.
    She looked up to see Mac standing in the doorway with the bath towel around his neck, watching her read.
    “What does it say? Don’t be such a controlling bitch. You know I don’t like that.”
    “Oh, sorry, baby. Most of it’s bullshit,” Sylvia said, “but the end is interesting. She wants to interview us.”
    Mac snorted out a laugh.
    “What a moron. Why would we let her interview us?”
    Sylvia passed him the paper.
    “They’re offering us a hundred thousand dollars.”
    Mac’s eyes opened wide.
    “No way,” he said, taking the paper with both hands and sinking onto the unmade bed. “Fuck. A hundred thousand dollars. That’s pretty good!”
    Sylvia stood up and went over to the window of the hotel room. She stretched her slender arms above her head and yawned loudly, well aware that she was fully visible in all her nakedness. “Look at me,” she whispered. “Here I am. Catch me!”
    On the other side of the street was a building constructed in the Swedish National Romantic style, with towers and a copper roof, its grille-covered windows glittering in the morning sun. It was Stockholm’s municipal courthouse, the place where clumsy criminals were taken to atone for their pathetic misdemeanors. She stood on tiptoe. Behind the courthouse was a creamy yellow palatial building with pinnacles and a bell tower and decorative balustrades: Stockholm’s police headquarters, where funny little officers were tearing their hair out in despair and thinking up lies to get them to give themselves away.
    “Sylvia,” Mac said, “this is actually worth considering. She’s promising complete anonymity, that she will never reveal her sources. And we could really use the money. Look, there’s a phone number for us to call.”
    She let her eyes roam across the gray-brown facade of the courthouse.
    “That’s not a bad idea,” she said, turning to Mac. “But why stop at a hundred thousand dollars?”
    “Do you think she’d pay more?”
    Sylvia smiled.
    “Have you got that card the Dutchman gave you?”
    Mac blinked his long eyelashes.
    “Why?”
    She went over to the bed, got on all fours, and snaked her way slowly over to Mac. She bit him gently on the earlobe and breathed into his neck.
    Then she slid down onto him, warm and wet. “First things first, sweetheart.”

Chapter 45
    THE BRASS DOORBELL GAVE A brittle little ring that fitted its setting perfectly.
    Dessie stepped into the gallery on Österlånggatan in the Old Town, holding her breath.
    “Hello?” she called cautiously.
    She always felt so grubby when she came here. The floor, ceiling, and walls were all painted pristine white. Even the patrons’ restroom and the staircase to the offices above were entirely white. She knew the reason why. She’d been told it was to “trap the light” and “do justice to the art.”
    “Christer? Are you here?”
    She felt as though the illusion of purity would shatter if she called out too loudly.
    “Hi, Dessie,” said a surprised voice behind her. “What brings you here?”
    Dessie spun around. She hadn’t heard him come in.
    Christer, her ex-husband, was dressed as he always was: black polo sweater, black gabardine trousers, and soundless moccasins. He looked like a caricature of a gallery owner.
    “Sorry to intrude,” she said with a slightly strained smile. “I need your help.”
    They had been married for four years. The marriage had given Christer a wife he said he loved, and Dessie had been given a context to belong to. Parties to go to,