The Postcard Killers

THE POSTCARD KILLERS

One

 Paris, France

“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.”

Excerpt from THE POSTCARD KILLERS granted with permission by Little,Brown and Company, New York, NY.  Copyright © 2010 by James Patterson.