Postcard killers

Chapter 101

Los Angeles, USA

"Hey, sleepyhead, you still alive?"

Jacob slowly opened his eyes without the faintest idea of where he was.

He examined the clues.

A ceiling with a large damp stain.

The rattle of an exhausted air-conditioning unit.

A sharp smel of coffee, a smel he hadn't woken up to for the past six months.

"Ah, there you are. It lives. It snores. I've got some more information for you."

Jacob sat up on Lyndon Crebbs's lumpy living-room sofa. It had been insignificantly more comfortable than the recliner on the flight across the Atlantic.

The FBI agent held out a mug of steaming coffee.

"I've got the name of the guardian who took care of the Rudolph kids 134 after their parents died," he said. "Jonathan Blython, a cousin of the mother's, also a resident of Santa Barbara."

Jacob took the mug, had a sip, and immediately scalded himself.

"Excel ent job," he said. "Do you think he'd appreciate an informal visit?"

"Hardly," Lyndon said. "He's been dead three years."

Jacob snapped awake.

"A sudden and violent death?"

Lyndon nodded.

"He was found with his throat cut. Parking lot over on Vista del Mar Street. He'd been with a prostitute. It was written off as a violent mugging. No arrest."

"Three years ago, you say?"

"The twins had just turned twenty-one. They were living here in L.A. No one connected them to the murder. Why would they?"

Jacob drank the bitter liquid and fumbled for his trousers. They'd slid beneath the sofa. Suddenly he remembered his night with Dessie. He put it out of his mind.

"I think I'm going to head out to Montecito," he said, pul ing his jeans on.

"How far is it?"

"A hundred miles or so, a bit less. You'l be there in two hours if you miss rush hour. But -"

Lyndon Crebbs placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"First you're going to take a shower," he said.