The Postcard Killers Page 19

  “What the fuck? I’ve already answered a load of dumb questions! When am I supposed to have found the time to slum around Europe? I still don’t have a passport. I’ve got a job here.”

  “Doing what?” Jacob asked, fighting an instinctive dislike of the guy on the sofa.

  Billy straightened his shoulders. “Actor,” he said.

  “Wow,” Jacob said. “What have you been in?”

  Billy’s shoulders sank a bit. He wiped his nose. “I’m a musician, too. And I’m working on a script for television.”

  Jacob tried to look impressed. He wasn’t, not in the least. He thought that a baboon could probably write a script for television.

  “You met Sylvia when you were studying performance drama at UCLA…”

  Hamilton spread his arms.

  “Okay, this is how it is: I tried to save Sylvia from her crazy brother. Their relationship got seriously fucked up when Sandy disappeared. Malcolm was totally obsessed with her. You following me, taking notes?”

  Jacob interrupted him.

  “Disappeared? Who disappeared? Sandra Schulman?”

  Irritated, Billy Hamilton got up and walked up and down in front of the fire.

  “They were going up to the Mansion to get the last of their stuff, but I had an audition and couldn’t go. They waited for her, but Sandy never showed up for the car trip. No one knows what happened to her. Mac took it real bad. We all did.”

  Jacob sat there without moving, trying to fit the information together in his head.

  “Malcolm Rudolph and Sandra Schulman were a couple?”

  “Well, yeah. Ever since high school. She came from Montecito. They were neighbors.”

  “Darling, who are you talking to?” called the woman in the bedroom. “I’m lying here waiting for you.”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Billy shouted. “I’m busy!”

  He sniffed and wiped his nose again. “I don’t know what else to tell you, dude.”

  Jacob took that as a signal to move on and started toward the door.

  “Where was Sandra Schulman living when she disappeared?” he asked.

  “Same place as Sylvia and Mac. Apartment on Wilshire and Veteran. Ask me, they might have been a threesome. Except that Sylvia was jealous of Sandy. Very…. Hey, are you going? Already? What a shame.”

  “What was the number? The apartment on Wilshire?”

  Hamilton looked scornfully at him.

  “What do I look like, fucking Google?”

  Chapter 111

  JACOB WENT BACK TO his car and made a phone call.

  Carlos Rodríguez answered with the same crackling sí as he had at the gate of the Rudolphs’ mansion in Montecito.

  “Jacob Kanon here,” Jacob said. “NYPD? We spoke yesterday.”

  “Sí, señor. ¿Qué pasa? How can I help you, Detective?”

  “Just one more question. It’s about Sandra Schulman. You said she was with them at the Mansion that last weekend before the auction? Is that correct?”

  “Sí. Why?”

  “You’re quite sure?”

  “Sandra used to play here since she was a little chiquitita. Of course I recognized her. She and Malcolm were boyfriend and girlfriend.”

  “How did Sylvia feel about her?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. She liked having Malcolm to herself. They were very close, brother and sister.”

  “Did you speak to Sandra that evening at the house?”

  “Sí, claro! She kissed me on the cheek.”

  Jacob pushed the hair from his forehead.

  “You said the twins left in the middle of the night. Did you see them drive away?”

  “Pero claro que sí. They woke me up. The gate can only be opened manually, from inside the lodge.”

  “Did you notice if Sandra Schulman was in the car?”

  There was silence at the other end.

  “It was late at night,” he said. “You couldn’t see anything inside the car.”

  “But you spoke to the Rudolphs?”

  “With the señorita. She was driving.”

  “But you didn’t actually see Sandra Schulman leave the property?”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “She must have gone with them, because they didn’t leave her behind.”

  Jacob covered his eyes with his hand.

  “Thanks,” he said. “That’s all I needed to know.”

  He ended the call and quickly made another.

  Chapter 112

  LYNDON CREBBS ANSWERED AFTER the first ring.

  “How’s it going, you amateur? Are you getting anywhere?” Lyndon asked.

  “Can you check on a Sandra Schulman? Last known address Wilshire Avenue, corner of Veteran Avenue.”

  “Anything special about her?”

  “She may have disappeared, permanently. Take this as a tip from an anonymous source: she could be buried in the hills above Montecito. Sylvia was jealous of her. Enough said.”

  Jacob could hear the FBI agent’s pen scratch.

  “What about William Hamilton?” Lyndon Crebbs asked as he wrote. “Is he still alive, I hope?”

  “If the LAPD takes a look there, they’ll find a heap of snow in the bedroom. He’s alive. But he’s an obnoxious little prick.”

  Lyndon chuckled.

  “By the way,” he said, “I was reading the report on the search of the Rudolphs’ hotel room in Stockholm. What did that key belong to?”

  “What key?” Jacob said.

  “The little key that’s mentioned at the bottom of page three.”

  “How the hell could you read that, Lyndon? It’s in Swedish.”

  “Haven’t you ever used the site www.tyda.se?” Lyndon Crebbs said. “Just an old man wondering.”

  The police in Stockholm must have checked it out, Jacob thought. “Christ, this is mad,” he said. “Do you know why the twins were thrown out of UCLA? They had sex with each other in public.”

  “Ah, today’s youth,” the FBI agent said. “Something else occurred to me: what if there are other killers? What if the Rudolphs have inspired copycats?”

  “The thought has occurred to me, too,” Jacob said. “But it doesn’t fit. The content of the postcards has never been made public, for instance. If there are more killers, they have to be working together.”

  “Sicker things have been known to happen,” Lyndon Crebbs said. “When do you think you’ll be back at Citrus Avenue?”

  Jacob grew serious. “I won’t be back this visit,” he said. “I’m heading off now.”

  Lyndon Crebbs was silent, a silence that only grew. Jacob was treading water. He couldn’t bring himself to ask the only relevant question: exactly how bad was the prostate cancer?

  Jacob spoke again. “Just one more thing. Could you pull a few strings and see if you can find out anything about Lucy? My ex? I should tell her about Kimmy.”

  The old man let out a sigh.

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  “Thanks for everything,” Jacob said.

  “Well, adios, amigo, then,” Lyndon Crebbs replied.

  “Hasta la vista,” Jacob said. “Till next time.”

  But the line was already dead, and Jacob wondered if he’d ever hear his friend’s voice again.

  Chapter 113

  Tuesday, June 22

  Oslo, Norway

  THE MOTOR HOME WAS in a campsite just outside the city. The police cordon had been lifted from the entrance to the site but was still in place around the vehicle.

  Dessie pulled the zipper on her Windbreaker up snug and tight under her chin.

  The campsite was almost empty, and not just because of the weather. The Italians’ motor home was all alone in its section of the site, like a leprous metal box whose neighbors had fled in panic.

  She went closer.

  Drifts of dead insects were still littering the insides of the windows. They covered the bottom third of the screens.

  She pulled the hood over her head. A st
iff gale was blowing in from the Oslo fjord just below, sharp as needles.

  It was the flies that had let on that something was wrong inside the Italians’ motor home. The people in the neighboring tents had complained about the buzzing, and eventually also about the smell.

  The owner of the site, a man named Olsen, hadn’t been too bothered. The Italians were paying for their patch on account, and he wasn’t fussy. If people wanted to keep flies as pets, he wasn’t about to stop them.

  When the police eventually arrived, the windows were completely covered in swarms of black insects. They were as thick as curtains.

  It was estimated that the bodies had been there for over a month.

  Dessie pulled out the copy of the Polaroid picture, taken before the flies had started to lay eggs.

  The wind tore at the sheet of paper, and she had to hold it with both hands.

  The letter and postcard had only been found the previous morning. The reporter the killers had chosen had gone away on vacation the day the card was posted. No one had been checking his mail.

  When he returned to work at the paper, he found both the postcard, TO BE OR NOT TO BE, and the photograph Dessie now had before her.

  Antonio Bonino and Emma Vendola had been on a driving tour of Europe, and had arrived in Oslo on the morning of May 17. They wanted to experience Norway’s national day, the celebrations when the Norwegians mark the anniversary of their country’s independence.

  Emma worked as a secretary at a PR agency. Antonio was studying to be a dentist. They had been married for two years.

  She looked at the victims’ picture again.

  Their hands had been placed close to their faces, the palms to their ears.

  The killers had stuffed two pairs of black tights in their mouths, giving the faces a grotesque expression of pain and horror.

  She had recognized the work of art immediately, and it was famous.

  Edvard Munch’s The Scream, a painting that had become world-famous to a new generation as the logo for the horror movie Scream.

  Dessie could feel her eyes welling up. She didn’t know if it was because of the wind or the thought of the dead couple.

  They had been saving up to buy this vehicle ever since they got married. Six bunks, so there would be room for the children when they came along.

  Did they have time to feel afraid?

  Did they feel any pain?

  She turned away from the motor home and walked toward the exit, not wanting to think about the dead anymore.

  Instead she conjured up Jacob’s image. His messy hair, the crumpled suede jacket, the sparkling blue eyes. He hadn’t been in touch.

  He’d disappeared from her life as though he’d never been there.

  This past week could have been a dream, or, rather, a nightmare, in which her whole life had been turned upside down by forces she had no control over.

  Dessie shivered.

  She stopped by the exit and turned around to look back at the abandoned campsite.

  Willowy birch trees bent beneath the wind; the water down below was gray with geese. The cordon around the motor home flapped in the wind.

  The Rudolphs could have been responsible for these murders.

  They hadn’t been arrested yet in the middle of May.

  Chapter 114

  Stockholm, Sweden

  SYLVIA LET MALCOLM GO in first.

  She enjoyed watching the effect he had on poor, dull Andrea Friederichs: the lawyer clearly became positively moist the moment he walked into a room.

  “Dear Malcolm,” the lawyer said, standing up and grasping his hand with both of hers. Her cheeks glowed bright red. Her eyes swept from his biceps down toward the curve of his backside.

  Sylvia sat down opposite her and smiled.

  “It’s great that we’re getting close to a financial agreement,” she said.

  The lawyer’s smile faded as she glanced at Sylvia. She put on her ugly-duckling reading glasses and started to leaf through the papers on the table.

  They were in one of the smaller conference rooms of the Grand Hôtel, the room the lawyer had reserved to conduct negotiations for the global rights to Sylvia and Malcolm’s story.

  “Well, I’ve had final bids for both the book and the film rights,” she said, putting the documents in two piles in front of her.

  “There are four parties bidding for both packages, six who want only the book, and three, possibly four, who just want to make the film. I thought we might go through them together so that you—”

  “Who’s offering the biggest advance?” Sylvia asked.

  The lawyer blinked at her over the thick black frame of her glasses.

  “There are a number of different conditions attached to the various bids,” she said. “Nielsen and Berner in New York, for instance, have a very interesting proposal including a television series, a computer game, a lecture tour… for the two of you.”

  “Excuse me,” Sylvia interrupted, “but how much are they offering as an advance?”

  Dear Andrea took a theatrical deep breath.

  “Not much at all. Their package is the largest in total, but it’s conditional upon your full participation in the marketing campaign.”

  Malcolm stretched, making his T-shirt ride up. He scratched his stomach.

  “The advance?” he said, smiling toward Andrea.

  Her angular face broke into a foolish smile and she fumbled with the papers again.

  “The largest advance is offered by Yokokoz, a Japanese company that really wants only the digital rights. They will make a manga series, with all the spin-offs that entails—collectable cards, clothing, and so on. They want to sell the book and film rights, without you having any say in where they end up…”

  “How much?” Malcolm asked.

  “Three million dollars,” Andrea said.

  Sylvia stretched her back.

  “That sounds pretty good,” she said. “Sign up with Yokokoz.”

  The lawyer blinked.

  “But,” she said, “the agreement has to be refined. We can’t leave the question of subsidiary sales open. You have to have control over the finished product…”

  “Try to get them up to three and a half million,” Sylvia said, “although that’s not a deal breaker. But they have to pay us now. Anything else and the deal’s off with them. Right? We’re clear?”

  Andrea Friederichs shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Clearly, she wasn’t clear.

  “If I could just remind you about my fee,” she said. “I can’t take a percentage because I’m a member of the Association of Swedish Lawyers, but I presume we’re following usual practice?”

  Sylvia raised her eyebrows in surprise.

  “Are we? I don’t remember signing an agreement like that. Nor does Malcolm.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Andrea Friederichs clicked her ballpoint pen in irritation.

  “A quarter of the total is usual in cases like this. We discussed it the first time we spoke. I must tell you that some agents take considerably more.”

  Sylvia nodded.

  “I know twenty-five percent is the norm,” she said, “but in our case I think five percent is more appropriate.”

  The lawyer looked as though she couldn’t believe what she’d just heard.

  “What do you mean? A hundred and fifty thousand dollars? That’s quite absurd!”

  Sylvia smiled again.

  “You’re getting five percent.”

  Andrea Friederichs started to get up from her chair. Her blushes had grown into fiery blotches covering her whole neck.

  “Almost a million and a half Swedish kronor for a few days’ work,” Sylvia said. “You think that’s absurd? I suppose that it is.”

  “There’s such a thing as legal precedent…,” the lawyer began.

  Sylvia leaned over and lowered her voice to an almost inaudible whisper.

  “Have you forgotten who we are?” she breathed, and she saw how Andrea Friederichs s
ank back in her chair, her face drained of color.

  Part Three

  Chapter 115

  Wednesday, June 23

  Stockholm, Sweden

  URVÄDERSGRÄND WAS DESERTED AND doing its best to show why it had been named after bad weather.

  Gusts of rain tore and tugged at the street lamps and signs, the shutters and gables.

  The reporters had finally given up and gone the hell home. That was the good news.

  Dessie paid the taxi driver and hurried in through the doorway. Her steps echoed in the empty stairwell. She felt like she’d been away for ages.

  Her apartment welcomed her with gray light and complete silence and a certain unappealing mustiness.

  She pulled off her clothes, letting them fall in a heap on the hall floor. Then she sank down and sat on the telephone table in the hall, staring at the wall opposite. Suddenly she was far too exhausted to take the shower she had been looking forward to all day.

  For some reason her mother came to her mind.

  They hadn’t been in regular contact during the last years she was alive, but right now Dessie would have liked to call her and tell her what had been written about her, about the terrible murders, about her own loneliness.

  And about Jacob.

  She would have liked to tell her about the unusual American with the sapphire blue eyes. Her mother would have understood. If there was one thing she had experience in, it was doomed relationships.

  At that moment the phone rang right next to her. It startled her so much that she jumped.

  “Dessie? The phone didn’t even ring on my end. You must have been sitting on it.”

  It was Gabriella.

  “Actually, I was,” Dessie said, standing up.

  She got hold of a towel and grappled with it to pull it around her with one hand, then took the cordless phone out through the kitchen and into the living room.

  “How are things with you? You sounded so down when I last spoke to you.”

  Dessie slumped onto the sofa and looked out at the harbor. It was still gorgeous; at least that never changed.

  “Everything got a bit much in the end,” she muttered.