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soles of his shoes had dried and had a better
     grip on the floorboards.
    The glass box was empty now. The guard had gone off somewhere.
Shit
.
    Shielding his eyes from the glare of the glass with his hands, he tried to see into the newsroom. As far as he could tell,
     there was no one about.
    What sort of fucked-up place was this? Wasn’t this supposed to be a newspaper?
    He walked back to the security post and buzzed the alarm. No response, no one anywhere.
    He put his finger on the buzzer and held it there. The guard finally approached, holding a mug of coffee in one hand and a
     pastry in the other.
    “Hello!” Jacob called.
“Can you please call Dessie Larsson and tell her I’m here?”
    The guard glanced at him, then turned his back and started talking to someone out of sight.
    Jacob banged the glass wall with the palm of his hand.
    “Hello!” he yelled. “Come on! It’s a matter of life and death!”
    “You’re too late,” said a voice behind him.
    He spun around to see the journalist standing in thestairwell behind him. Her face was white, her green eyes tired. There were dark rings around them.
    “The picture arrived this morning,” she said. “The forensics team already took it away.”
    He stepped toward her and opened his mouth, but he couldn’t get a single question out.
    “A man and a woman,” Dessie Larsson said. “Their throats were cut.”

Chapter 18
    DESSIE OPENED THE DOOR TO the newsroom with her card and code.
    “I’m not going to offer you anything to drink,” she said over her shoulder. “If you’d turned up yesterday, you might have
     gotten a cup of coffee, but you lost your chance. This way…”
    She headed off to the right through the office, aiming for the crime desk.
    “I’m not here for coffee,” Jacob Kanon said behind her. “Have the bodies been found?”
    He was in a bad mood and stank like hell. Nice guy.
    “Not yet,” said Dessie. “Give us a little time, will you. Murder is a bit less common here than in New York. Suicide is our
     specialty.”
    She sat down behind her desk and pointed to the wobbly metal chair in front.
    “When was the letter posted?” he asked.
    “Yesterday afternoon, at the central Stockholm post office. We don’t usually get mail on a Sunday, but the police ordered
     an extra delivery.”
    He sat down on the chair and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.
    “Did you see the picture?” he asked. “What did it show? Were there any particular characteristics? Anything that could identify
     the crime scene?”
    Dessie looked carefully at the man in front of her. He looked even worse in daylight than he had in the gloom of the stairwell.
     His hair was a mess and his clothes were dirty. But his blue eyes were burning with an intensity that brought his whole face
     alive. She liked something about him—maybe the intensity. Probably that.
    “Just a Polaroid picture, nothing else.”
    She looked away as she passed him a copy of the picture. Jacob Kanon took it with both hands and stared at the bodies.
    Dessie was trying to look calm and unaffected. Violence didn’t usually bother her, but this was different.
    The victims were so young, their deaths so cold and calculated, so inhuman.
    “Scandinavian setting,” the policeman stated. “Pale furniture, pale background, blond people. Did they take the envelope away?”
    Dessie swallowed.
    “Forensics? Of course they did.”
    “Have you got a copy?”
    Dessie handed him a photocopy of the ordinary oblong envelope. The address was written in neat capital letters across the
     front.
DESSIE LARSSON
    AFTONPOSTEN
    115 10 STOCKHOLM
    She looked uncomfortably at her own name.
    “They won’t find anything on it,” Jacob Kanon said. “These killers leave no fingerprints, and they don’t lick the stamps.
     Was there anything on the back?”
    She shook her head.
    He held up the picture of the bodies.
    “Can I have a copy of this?”
    “I’ll print a new one for you,” Dessie said,