The Postcard Killersby James Patterson, Liza Marklund
NYPD detective Jacob Kanon is on a tour of Europe's most gorgeous cities. But the sights aren't what draw him - he sees each museum, each cathedral, and each café through the eyes of his daughter's' killer. Kanon's daughter and her boyfriend were murdered while on vacation in Rome. Since then, young couples in Paris, Copenhagen, Frankfurt, and Stockholm have… See more details below
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NYPD detective Jacob Kanon is on a tour of Europe's most gorgeous cities. But the sights aren't what draw him - he sees each museum, each cathedral, and each café through the eyes of his daughter's' killer. Kanon's daughter and her boyfriend were murdered while on vacation in Rome. Since then, young couples in Paris, Copenhagen, Frankfurt, and Stockholm have been found dead. Little connects the murders, other than a postcard to the local newspaper that precedes each new victim. Now Kanon teams up with the Swedish reporter Dessie Larsson, who has just received a postcard in Stockholm - and they think they know where the next victims will be.
APPLAUSE FOR JAMES PATTERSON:
"The Man Who Can't Miss."
APPLAUSE FOR JAMES PATTERSON:
"The Man Who Can't Miss."Lev Grossman, Time
"Patterson boils a scene down to the single, telling detail, the element that defines a character or moves the plot along. It's what fires off the movie projector in the reader's mind."Michael Connelly
"Patterson's novels are sleek entertainment machines, the Porsches of commercial fiction, expertly engineered and lightning fast."Publishers Weekly
- Grand Central Publishing
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- 5.20(w) x 7.90(h) x 1.50(d)
Read an Excerpt
The Postcard Killers
By Patterson, James
Little, Brown and CompanyCopyright © 2010 Patterson, James
All right reserved.
“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.”
Excerpted from The Postcard Killers by Patterson, James Copyright © 2010 by Patterson, James. Excerpted by permission.
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