The Disappearance of Stephanie Mailer: A gripping new thriller with a killer twist by Joël Dicker (ebook reader play store .txt) 📕

Miranda opened her eyes wide. “It was twenty years ago, I don’t remember it very well. What’s the connection with your investigation?”

“The man sprayed Costico with tear gas. And the man we’re looking for now has the habit of using tear gas. I have a feeling it’s no coincidence. I need to find that man.”

“Unfortunately, he never told me his name, and I doubt I’d be able to remember his face. Twenty years is a long time.”

“According to my information, the man ran off naked. Could you have noticed any distinguishing marks on his body? Anything that struck you?”

Miranda closed her eyes, as if searching in her memories. Suddenly, something occurred to her.

“He had a tattoo across his shoulder blades. An eagle in flight.”

Betsy noted this down. “Thank you, Miranda. That could be very useful information. I have one last question.”

She showed Miranda photographs of Mayor Gordon, Ted Tennenbaum, and Cody Springfield, and said:

“Was one of these men a slave of Fold’s?”

“No,” Miranda said. “Especially not Cody Springfield! What a lovely man he was.”

“Tell me, what did you do after Fold died?”

“I was able to get back to my parents in New York. I finished school and went to college. I gradually got myself back on track. A few years later, I met Michael. It’s thanks to him that I really recovered the strength to live. He’s an exceptional man.”

“That’s true,” Betsy said. “I like him a lot.”

The two women drove back to Bridgehampton. As Miranda was getting out of the car, Betsy said, “Are you sure you’re going to be alright?”

“I’m certain, thanks.”

“Miranda, you’ll have to tell your husband about all this one day. Secrets are always found out in the end.”

“I know,” Miranda said sadly.

JESSE ROSENBERG

Friday, July 25, 2014

One day to opening night

We were twenty-four hours from opening night. We were making progress, but were a long way from getting to the end of our investigation. During the last twenty-four hours, we had discovered that Fold might not have died accidentally, that he could have been murdered. The pieces of the bumper and the headlights picked up at the time by Special Agent Grace were now in the hands of the forensics team.

Thanks to Miranda Bird, whose secret we had promised to keep, we also had a description of a man with an eagle tattoo on his shoulder blades. According to our information, neither Tennenbaum nor Mayor Gordon had a tattoo like that. And nor had Cody Springfield.

Costico, who was the only person who could lead us to the man with the tear gas canister, had vanished into thin air since the day before. He wasn’t at the club, and he wasn’t at his home. His car was parked outside his building, his door wasn’t locked, and when we went inside we found the T.V. on. As if Costico had left home in a big hurry. Or as if something had happened to him.

And as if that was not enough, we also had to lend our support to Michael Bird. He had been accused by Mayor Brown of divulging information about the play to the New York Times, which had published an article that morning that everyone was talking about.

Brown had summoned a meeting in his office. By the time we arrived, Montagne, Major McKenna, and Bird were already there.

“Can you explain this mess to me?” Mayor Brown shouted at poor Bird, waving a copy of the New York Times.

I intervened. “I thought you’d be glad of the publicity, Mr Mayor.”

“I’m worried that just anybody can gain access to the Grand Theater, Captain!” he roared. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? We have dozens of police guarding the building. How did this guy get in?”

“It’s Montagne who’s in charge of security now,” Betsy said.

“We have a very strong presence,” Montagne said.

“Strong, my ass!” Brown cried.

“Someone obviously let that reporter in,” Montagne said, turning to Bird. “Maybe a colleague of yours?”

“It was nothing to do with me!” Bird said. “I don’t even understand what I’m doing here. Can you imagine me letting in someone from the New York Times? Why would I sabotage my own exclusive? I promised not to publish anything before opening night and I’m a man of my word! If anyone let that idiot in, it was a member of the cast!”

Major McKenna did his authoritative best to establish a truce. “Listen, there’s no point attacking each other. We just have to make sure it doesn’t happen again. From tonight, the Grand Theater needs to be sealed off. All routes in and out will be guarded. Tomorrow morning, we’ll search the auditorium with sniffer dogs. When the audience enter the building tomorrow night, they’ll be searched and have to pass through metal detectors. Even accredited people, and that includes members of the cast. Get the word out: apart from small handheld items, all will be strictly forbidden. Rest assured, Mayor Brown, nothing will happen in the Grand Theater tomorrow night.”

*

After the session at the town hall, we went back to our office at the Chronicle. We looked again at all the things we had collected and stuck on the walls. Derek took down the article on which Stephanie had written in red marker pen: What nobody saw.

He said out loud, “What was in front of our eyes that we didn’t see?” He looked at the photograph illustrating the article. Then he said, “Let’s go over there.”

Ten minutes later, we were at Penfield Crescent, where everything had started on the evening of July 30, 1994. We parked on the quiet street and for a while sat looking out at the house that had been the Gordons’. We compared it with the photograph in the article. Nothing seemed to have changed since then, except that the houses on the street looked to have been repainted.

The new owners of the Gordons’ house were a pleasant couple, now retired, who had bought it in 1997.

“Obviously, we knew what had happened here,” the husband told us. “I won’t deny we