Sixty seconds later Slaton was back on the street. It was time to leave Stockholm. With each passing hour Inspector Sanderson, or someone like him, would start making connections. When that happened his ability to move within the city would be severely constrained. Fortunately, there was no longer a need for him to be here. Slaton had a new destination, albeit ground that would be difficult to cover. His immediate need—to separate cleanly with no hint of where he was heading. Walking down a cobblestone sidewalk under an azure sky, his pace seemed to quicken with every step.

Chapter 14

FOURTEEN

That a second shooting had occurred in the space of forty-eight hours, in the same block of picturesque waterfront, generated a storm of critique around Stockholm. The press was swarming both the scene and police headquarters. The mayor was asking questions. The prime minister of Sweden had even called the National Police commissioner to his luxurious carpet for an explanation. All of this rolled downhill, of course, to land at the well-worn Birkenstocks of Arne Sanderson.

He spent an hour at the scene watching his men string yellow tape around the shambles of yet another Strandvägen café. One look at the victims confirmed what Sanderson already suspected—these were the two men being sought in relation to Friday’s shootings, the same pair who had chased Christine Palmer across the waterfront. Initial eyewitness interviews, including Elmander from his hospital bed, made it clear who they should now be looking for—the American stonemason. Two steps forward, one step back, Sanderson mused. Progress in a sense. He gave careful directions to the on-scene forensic team, and was back at the station by one that afternoon. He had not yet reached his desk when Sergeant Blix intercepted him.

“Assistant commissioner wants to see you, boss.”

Sanderson rolled his eyes, but did not feign surprise. “God, not again. How am I supposed to get anything done? While I’ve got you, Gunnar, check with Metro for any new surveillance footage on today’s disaster—I know it’s a Sunday but get them out of bed. This one looks a lot like the last, and I’m tired of spinning our wheels.”

“Ah … right,” Blix said. “I’ll get on it.” The sergeant turned away, and Sanderson watched him go with a sense that something wasn’t right.

He approached Sjoberg’s open door with caution, and saw the assistant commissioner frowning at his laptop. His mild exterior had acquired new edges, reddened eyes and a furrowed brow—the sea captain was enduring some heavy weather. Sanderson supposed he was getting heat from above. Sjoberg did not like high-profile cases, and this one was nearing critical mass.

With his mouth already set in an upside down U, Sjoberg’s glare deepened when Sanderson breached the door. “Arne, please come in.”

“I was just down at the waterfront,” Sanderson began. “It’s a damned war zone out there. Has National given us—”