The Postcard Killers by James Patterson, Liza Marklund

she said. “My interview with Burglar Bengt was on the front page of
Aftonposten
on Thursday.”
    Jacob Kanon looked out at the sea.
    “But how could you know?” she said. “That bit about ambition and education?”
    “You’re a woman and you write about typically male subjects. That requires talent, and also stubbornness. Where I come from,
     crime reporting isn’t very highly regarded, even if it sells papers. That’s why the journalists involved in it tend to be
     competent but not too hung up on prestige.”
    “That’s not always the case,” Dessie said, thinking of Alexander Andersson.
    Jacob Kanon leaned toward her.
    “I need to work with you,” he said. “I need a way into the investigation and the media. I think I can get them this time.
     I do.”
    Dessie got up, holding down the payment with the coffeepot so it wouldn’t blow away.
    “Have a bath and burn your clothes,” she said. “Then we’ll see.”

Chapter 25
    THE STORY HAD QUICKLY GROWN into something unusual—a top international news story playing out right there in Stockholm.
    All the top boys and girls at the paper were keen to have a headline that might get quoted on CNN or in the
New York Times
. Photographers swarmed around the picture desk, waiting for a crumb to fall their way. Poor Forsberg sat there tearing at
     his remaining strands of hair, talking into two cordless phones at the same time.
    Alexander Andersson held court in the newsroom, reading out loud from his own articles.
    For the first time in history the editor in chief, Stenwall, had come into the paper on a Sunday. Dessie saw him sipping a
     cup of coffee in his glass box.
    She went over to her desk, got out her laptop and camera, and downloaded the pictures she had taken of the yellow house in
     the archipelago, then sent them to the picture desk.She wrote down all the facts about the case and the killers that could be used as a basis by some other reporter.
    “How was it out there?” Forsberg asked, suddenly materializing beside her desk.
    “Terrible,” Dessie said, typing on her laptop. “Worse than I could ever have imagined.”
    “Is it the same killers?”
    “Looks like it,” she said, turning the computer so the news editor could read her background material.
    He started skimming her copy. “Eyedrops?” Forsberg said.
    “There were several previous cases in Sweden where women were drugged with eyedrops in their drinks. In Mexico City the drops
     are used by prostitutes to knock out their clients. At least five men have died there, probably more.”
    “From eyedrops in their drinks?” Forsberg said doubtfully. “Sounds like the stuff of mystery novels.”
    Dessie let go of the keyboard and looked up at him.
    “Some girls put the drops directly on their nipples.”
    Forsberg shuffled his feet and dropped the subject. She always won with him—if she needed to.
    “How much of this can we publish?”
    “Hardly anything,” Dessie said, going back to her computer. “The police want to suppress the information about the drugs,
     champagne, and other stuff they found at the crime scene. We can give the cause of death, though, and information about the
     victims. Their families were told at lunchtime.”
    Forsberg sat down on the edge of her desk. He liked Dessie but was thoroughly confused because of her fling with Gabriella.
     Everyone was.
    “The victims?”
    Dessie stared at her screen, at the bare facts she had put together about the dead couple.
    “Claudia Schmidt, twenty years old. Engaged to Rolf Hetger, twenty-three, both from Hamburg. Arrived in Stockholm on Tuesday,
     renting the house on Dalarö through an agency on the Internet. Rented a car at the airport, a Ford Focus. Car missing.
    “They probably met their killers somewhere in town and invited them home,” Dessie said. “We’re getting photographs from
Die Zeit
. You’ll have everything in two to three minutes.”
    “What are your sources? I need those as well, Dessie.”
    She