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

Fold’s lackeys. But the man with the tattoo wasn’t the kind to let these things be done to him, and he knew that in order to regain his freedom he had to eliminate not Costico but Fold.”

We badly needed to get our hands on Costico, but he had disappeared without a trace. The missing persons bulletins brought no results. Colleagues from the State Police had questioned those with any known connection to him, but nobody could explain why he had vanished into thin air, leaving behind his money, his cell phone, all his things.

“I think this Costico is dead,” Hayward said. “Like Stephanie, like Springfield, like everyone who could have led us to the murderer.”

“Then Costico’s disappearance is proof that he’s in league with the murderer. It’s definitely the man with the eagle tattoo we’re looking for.”

“It’s pretty vague as a description,” Bird said. “What else do we know about him?”

“He’s a customer of the bookstore,” Derek said.

“Someone who lives in Orphea,” I said. “Or at least he lived here back then.”

“He was connected to Tennenbaum,” Betsy said.

“If he was as connected to Tennenbaum as Tennenbaum was to the mayor,” Hayward said, “then we need to cast our net wide. At the time, everyone knew everyone in Orphea.”

“And he was in the Grand Theater on Saturday evening,” I said. “That’s what’ll allow us to track him down. We thought it might be a cast member, but it could be someone else with special access.”

“Then let’s make a new list,” Betsy suggested, taking up a fresh piece of paper.

She wrote down the names of the cast members.

Charlotte Brown

Carolina Eden

Steven Bergdorf

Jerry Eden

Meta Ostrovski

Samuel Padalin

“You should add me,” Bird said, “and Kirk. We were there, too. Although speaking for myself, I don’t have an eagle tattoo.”

He lifted his T-shirt and showed us his back.

“I don’t have a tattoo either, dammit!” Hayward said, taking off his shirt.

“We’ve already eliminated Charlotte from the list of suspects because we’re looking for a man,” Derek said. “And Jerry Eden, too.”

This left three names on the list:

Meta Ostrovski

Samuel Padalin

Steven Bergdorf

“We can rule out Ostrovski,” Betsy said. “He had no connection with Orphea, he only came here for the festival.”

“That leaves Padalin and Bergdorf,” Derek said.

The vise was tightening inexorably.

That afternoon, Betsy was contacted by Meghan’s friend Kate Grand, calling from her hotel in North Carolina.

Betsy explained why she urgently needed her help, and then said to her, “I discovered from her diary that Meghan Padalin had an affair with a man at the beginning of 1994. She says she spoke to you about it. Do you remember anything?”

“Yes, it’s true, Meghan did tell me. I never met the man, but I remember how it ended—badly.”

“Meaning what?”

“Her husband Samuel found out and gave her a beating. That day, she came to me in her nightdress, with bruises on her cheeks, her mouth still bleeding. I let her crash at my place for the night.”

“Samuel Padalin was violent toward Meghan?”

“Well, he certainly was that day. She told me she feared for her life. I advised her to report him to the police, but she didn’t. She left her lover and went back to her husband.”

“In other words, Samuel forced her to end it and stay with him?”

“It’s possible. After that episode, she became quite distant toward me. She said Samuel didn’t want her to see me anymore.”

“And did she obey him?”

“Yes.”

“Mrs Grand, forgive me for asking you this question straight out, but do you think Samuel Padalin might have killed his wife?”

Kate Grand was silent for a moment, then said:

“I was always surprised that the police didn’t take a look at his life insurance.”

“His life insurance?”

“One month before his wife died, Samuel took out a big life insurance policy for the two of them. It was for a million dollars. I know that because my husband dealt with it all. He’s an underwriter.”

“And did Padalin get the money?”

“Of course. How do you think he was able to pay for his house in Southampton?”

DEREK SCOTT

Early December 1994, at troop headquarters.

In his office, Major McKenna reads the letter I have just brought him.

“A transfer request, Derek? Where the hell do you want to go?”

“Just put me in administration,” I suggested.

“A desk job?” the major said in a choked voice.

“I don’t ever want to be out in the field again.”

“For Chrissake, Derek, you’re one of the best police officers I’ve ever known! Don’t ruin your career on a whim.”

“My career? What career, sir?”

“Listen, Derek,” the major said in a kindly voice, “I understand how upset you are. Why don’t you see the shrink? Or take a few weeks’ leave?”

“I’ve had enough of being on leave, sir. I spend my time going over the same images in a loop.”

“Derek, I can’t put you in administration, it would be a waste.”

The major and I stared at each other for a moment, then I said, “You’re right, sir. Forget that letter.”

“Now you’re talking.”

“I’ll resign.”

“Oh, no, not that! O.K., you can have a desk job. But only for a while. Then I want you back here as a detective.”

The major assumed that, after a few weeks of boredom, I’d reconsider my decision and ask for my old job back.

As I was leaving his office, he said, “Any news of Jesse?”

“He doesn’t want to see anybody, sir.”

*

At home, Jesse was busy sorting through Natasha’s things.

He had never envisaged living a day without her. Faced with the deep void that he could not fill, he alternated periods of clearing things out with periods of reassembling memories. Part of him wanted to turn the page, immediately, to throw everything out and forget it. At those times, he started filling cardboard boxes with all the objects that had a too powerful connection with her, intending them for the garbage. Then it took just a moment’s pause, an object attracting his attention—a photograph frame, a pen without ink, an old university notebook—and everything would lurch and he would move on to his curator phase. He would take the object in