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

home when our radio suddenly started crackling. Tennenbaum had been seen in a gas station. I took the microphone and announced myself to the switchboard. Jesse put the emergency light on the roof, then started the siren.

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Opening Night

SATURDAY, JULY 26, 2014

JESSE ROSENBERG

Saturday, July 26, 2014

Opening night

It was the night everything changed.

It was 5.30. The doors of the Grand Theater would soon be thrown open. Main Street, cordoned off by the police, was packed with people. The excitement was wild. Amid the reporters, the onlookers and the itinerant souvenir sellers, the ticket holders were crowded up against security barriers that still blocked access to the theater. People who had been unable to obtain tickets for opening night were walking up and down the crowd with homemade banners offering absurd sums.

A little earlier, the T.V. news channels had broadcast live the arrival of the cast, under stringent protection. Before being allowed through the stage door, each cast member had been searched and then had passed through a metal detector to ensure they weren’t carrying a weapon.

At the main entrance to the theater, security people were finishing putting in metal detector gates. The public could not keep still. In just over two hours the performance of “The Darkest Night”would begin. The identity of the 1994 killer was at last to be revealed.

In the archive room of the Chronicle, Derek, Betsy and I were getting ready to set off for the theater. We were condemned to witness Kirk Hayward’s ludicrous triumph. The previous day, Major McKenna had said to us, “Instead of doubting Hayward, just take whatever may come from the performance. We can all hope and pray that it helps you complete your investigation and discover the truth.” That was provocative. Our obsession now, however, was: why had Meghan Padalin been killed? Who could have had a reason to eliminate this unremarkable, much-liked woman?

Bird had been of great help, spending most of one sleepless night working beside us. He had gathered everything he could on Meghan, allowing us to reconstruct her life story. She was born in Pittsburgh, and had studied literature at a small college in New York State. She had briefly lived in New York City before settling in Orphea in 1990 with her husband Samuel, who worked as an engineer in a local factory. Not long afterward, she had been hired by Cody Springfield.

And what was there to say about her husband, Samuel, who had suddenly reappeared in Orphea to take part in the play? After his wife’s murder, he had moved to Southampton and had remarried.

Padalin, too, seemed to be unremarkable. He had joined a number of organizations as a volunteer. His new wife, Kelly, was a doctor. They had two children, aged ten and twelve.

Could there be a connection between Meghan Padalin and Fold? Or between Samuel Padalin and Fold?

We had telephoned former Special Agent Grace of the A.T.F., but the name Padalin meant nothing to him. For the time being, there was no questioning Costico, who was still nowhere to be found. We did talk again to Virginia Parker, the singer from the club, but she assured us she had never heard of either Samuel or Meghan Padalin.

Nobody had a connection with anybody. It was incredible. Now, as the doors of the theater were about to open, we had even started wondering if these were two distinct investigations.

“Meghan’s murder on one side, and Gordon’s involvement with Fold on the other,” Derek said.

“Except that Gordon seems to have had no connection with Fold either,” I said.

“But Hayward’s play does appear to refer to Fold,” Betsy pointed out, “and one of the characters is called Meghan. I do think everything’s connected.”

“If I understand correctly,” Bird said, summing up, “everything’s connected, but nothing’s connected. It’s a bit of a Chinese puzzle, this case of yours.”

“You’re telling us,” Betsy said with a sigh. “Plus, there’s Stephanie’s killer. Could it be the same person?”

Derek made an effort to get us out of this confusion. “Let’s try to put ourselves in the killer’s shoes. If I were him, what would I be doing today?”

“I would either be a long way away by now,” I said, “in Venezuela or some other country that doesn’t extradite. Or else I would try to stop the show.”

“Stop the show?” Derek said. “But the theater’s been searched with dogs, and anyone wanting to get in will be searched and have to go through a metal detector.”

“I think he’ll be there,” I said. “I think the killer will be in the theater, among us.”

We decided to go and observe the audience as they entered the theater. Some unusual behavior might alert us. But we also wanted to know more about what Kirk Hayward was cooking up. If he knew the killer’s identity, it would be better not to have to wait until opening night to find out.

The only way to read Hayward’s mind was to be able to access the material in his possession. Especially the case file, which he was hiding somewhere. We sent Bird to search his hotel room when he was not there.

“Whatever I discover will have no value as evidence,” Bird said.

“We don’t need evidence. We need a name.”

“But how do I get upstairs? There’ll be police all over the hotel.”

“Show them your accreditation for the theater and say that Hayward sent you to fetch his things. I’ll call to let them know you’re coming.”

Although the officers were prepared to allow Bird upstairs, the hotel manager was unwilling to give him a duplicate of the room key.

“Mr Hayward gave specific instructions,” he said to Bird. “Nobody is allowed in his room.”

But Bird insisted, saying that it was Hayward himself who had sent him to look for a notebook. The manager decided to go with him to the suite.

The room was in perfect order. Looking around, watched suspiciously by the manager, Bird did not see any papers, any books, any notebooks. He checked the desk, the drawers, even the night table.