Dessie Larsson dragged her racing bike through the lobby of her ancient apartment building and chained it to the drainpipe in the courtyard.

The bike ride through Stockholm City Centre had not managed to blow 14 away her sense of unease. The intense questioning had taken up most of the day. The police had gone through every article she had written since the first murder took place in Florence eight months ago.

Whatever it was that had made the kil ers choose her as the recipient of the postcard, there was no obvious explanation in any of the articles.

Superintendent Duval had looked completely frustrated when he let her leave.

She wandered back into the lobby, ignored the elevator, and took the stairs up to the third floor. The leaded windows facing onto the courtyard made the staircase gloomy in the half-light. Her steps echoed between the stone wal s.

She had just reached her apartment and pul ed her keys out of her backpack when she froze.

There was a man standing in the shadows by her neighbor's door. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

"Dessie Larsson? "

She dropped her keys and they landed on the marble floor with a clatter.

Her mouth was dry, her legs ready to run.

He had a beard and long hair, and he smel ed. He put his hand inside his jacket and Dessie felt her knees about to buckle.

I'm going to die.

He's going to pul out a big butcher's knife and cut my throat.

And I never did find out who my father was.

The man held a smal disk toward her, a blue-and-yel ow badge with the letters NYPD on it.