The Postcard Killers by James Patterson, Liza Marklund

looked around the group. Their shock at his appearance had started to turn to anger in a few of the faces. One of the older men, a bald man in a suit and vest, seemed particularly irritated.
    “This is Sweden,” the bald man said now. “The Swedish police are responsible for official business here. We don’t need any lessons in investigative technique, not from the FBI, nor from any other New York cowboys.”
    “Cross-border cooperation is absolutely vital if these killers are going to be stopped,” Jacob said. “All we’ve got to go on is their pattern, and we need coordination for that to become clear.”
    “That isn’t necessarily true,” the bald man said. “What we need is a decent, honest investigation, and we’re very good at that here in Sweden.”
    Jacob stood up so abruptly that his chair toppled over behind him.
    “I’m not here to take part in some pissing contest,” he said in a gruff voice. “And New York doesn’t have cowboys, by the way!”
    The bald man in the vest also stood up. His forehead was sweating and his eyes were narrow and small.
    “Evert, let him speak.”
    The woman in the suit had said this. Her voice was low and calm. She stood up and walked over to Jacob.
    “Sara Höglund,” she said, holding out her hand to him. “Head of the National Crime Investigation Department. You’ll have to excuse Prosecutor Ridderwall, he’s an extremely dedicated judicial investigator.”
    The prosecutor sat down and ran his hand angrily over his scalp.
    The woman in the suit looked Jacob carefully up and down.
    “Detective Kanon from New York City,” she said. “What district?”
    “Thirty-second,” Jacob replied.
    Her eyes lit up in recognition.
    “Harlem,” she said.
    He nodded. The police chief knew her NYPD.
    She turned to Mats Duvall.
    “We need all the help we can get on this case,” she said. “Formalize Mr. Kanon’s status with Interpol. These bastards have to be stopped.”
    Jacob clenched his fists in triumph.
    He was on board, and his intuition had been correct — something was going to break here in Stockholm. He hoped it wasn’t him.

Chapter 38
    WASHINGTON CONFIRMED JACOB’S STATUS AND Berlin verified that he had been linked to them in their investigation into the German case, and a couple of phone calls later, he was formally accepted as part of the group, albeit on strictly limited terms.
    “You’ve got no mandate to make your own decisions on police business,” Mats Duvall clarified. “You can’t be armed, so I must ask you to hand over your sidearm. And you have to be accompanied at all times by a Swedish colleague.”
    Jacob looked at him steadily.
    “I haven’t got my sidearm with me. You’ll get it, though,” he said. “Who am I going to be working with?”
    Mats Duvall looked at everyone.
    “Gabriella, you’ve been on the case from the start?”
    Gabriella Oscarsson tightened her lips until they formed a harsh line.
    “Good,” the superintendent said, distributing sheaves of photocopies around the table.
    The atmosphere in the room was tense and uncomfortable. Serious run-throughs of an entire case like this almost always contained elements of hierarchical squabbling, and Jacob realized that his actions hadn’t made things easier.
    Mats Duvall cleared his throat and continued going through the victims’ credit-card transactions. He spoke in English for Jacob’s benefit. None of the others objected, but they couldn’t have liked it.
    The last purchase had been made in the NK department store around lunchtime on Saturday. Claudia Schmidt had been shopping at the perfume counter, and Rolf Hetger in the jewelry department.
    After that, there was a gap of a few hours before the cash withdrawals began.
    Jacob studied the printout. It was in Swedish, but the times and amounts were clear enough. And it was the same damn pattern as in the other cities.
    In fewer than six hours, the killers had managed to trick their victims out of their bank cards,