Read The Postcard Killers Online

Authors: James Patterson,Liza Marklund

Tags: #Police Procedural, #Police, #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction, #Sweden, #Suspense, #Americans, #Thrillers, #Women Journalists, #General

The Postcard Killers

BOOK: The Postcard Killers
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. For previews of upcoming books by
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Copyright

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.

Little, Brown and Company

Hachette Book Group

237 Park Avenue,

New York, NY 10017

Visit our website at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
.

www.twitter.com/littlebrown
.

First eBook Edition: August 2010

Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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

Copyright

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Part Two

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Chapter 101

Chapter 102

Chapter 103

Chapter 104

Chapter 105

Chapter 106

Chapter 107

Chapter 108

Chapter 109

Chapter 110

Chapter 111

Chapter 112

Chapter 113

Chapter 114

Part Three

Chapter 115

Chapter 116

Chapter 117

Chapter 118

Chapter 119

Chapter 120

Chapter 121

Chapter 122

Chapter 123

Chapter 124

Chapter 125

Chapter 126

Chapter 127

Chapter 128

Chapter 129

Chapter 130

Chapter 131

Chapter 132

Chapter 133

Chapter 134

Chapter 135

Chapter 136

Chapter 137

Chapter 138

Epilogue

Chapter 139

Chapter 140

Acknowledgments

About the Authors

Books by James Patterson

Prologue

One

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.”

Two

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.”

BOOK: The Postcard Killers
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