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

“I have a telephone number. You have to leave him a message and he calls you back.”

He took a notebook from his pocket and dictated the number to Betsy.

“How long has Kirk been living in California?” I said.

“I can’t remember exactly. A long time. Maybe twenty years.”

“So when he left Orphea, he went straight to California?”

“That’s right, straight there.”

“Why do you think he gave it all up so suddenly?”

“He knew everything. He found out who really committed those murders in 1994, so he had to leave.”

“But then why didn’t he arrest him?”

“You’d have to ask my Kirky. And please, if you see him, tell him his dad sends his regards.”

When it was mid-morning in California, Betsy dialed the number that the old man had given us.

“Hello, Beluga Bar,” a woman’s voice answered.

“Hello,” Betsy said, once she had gotten over her surprise. “I’d like to speak to Kirk Hayward.”

“Leave me your message and he’ll call you back.”

Betsy left her name and cell phone number and added that it was about an extremely important manner. Once she had hung up, we did a quick search online. The Beluga Barwas an establishment located in the Meadowood neighborhood of Los Angeles. The name was not unfamiliar. And then I made the connection. I called Derek and asked him to dig out Stephanie’s credit card statement.

“Your memory is correct,” he confirmed after looking through the papers. “It seems Stephanie was at the Beluga Bar three times when she was inLos Angeles in June.”

“That’s why she was in Los Angeles!” I said. “She had tracked down Chief Hayward and she went to see him.”

* * *

New York, the same day

In the Edens’ apartment, Cynthia was beside herself. Carolina had been missing for two days. The police had been informed and had launched a search. Eden and his wife had crisscrossed the city, speaking with all her friends, but in vain. Right now, they were pacing up and down their living room, hoping for news that did not arrive. Their nerves were on edge.

“I’m sure she’ll come back when she needs cash to buy her shit,” Eden said, at the end of his tether.

“Jerry, I don’t recognize you anymore! This is our daughter we’re talking about! You used to be so close, remember? When she was little, I was even jealous of how close you were.”

“I know, I know,” Eden replied, anxious to calm his wife.

They had not realized that their daughter was gone until Sunday. They had thought she was sleeping and hadn’t gone to her room until early in the afternoon.

“We should have looked in on her when we came home,” Cynthia said.

“What difference would that have made? And anyway, we’re supposed to be ‘respecting her inner space’. That’s what I was told in one of those family therapy sessions. All we’ve done is apply that fucking principle of trust recommended by your fucking Dr Lern!”

“Don’t distort everything, Jerry! When we talked about that in the session, it was because Carolina was complaining that you kept searching her room for drugs. Dr Lern said we should make her room a space just for her, a space we would respect, and thereby establish a principle of trust. He never said we shouldn’t go in there to see if our daughter was alright!”

“For all we knew, she was sleeping in. I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt.”

“Her cell phone is still off!” Cynthia said in a choked voice, having tried in the meantime to reach her daughter. “I’m going to call Dr Lern.”

Just then, the landline rang. Eden rushed to pick up.

“Mr Eden? This is the N.Y.P.D. We have your daughter. Don’t worry, she’s fine. A patrol found her sleeping in an alley, apparently drunk. She’s been taken to Mount Sinai for tests.”

* * *

When we got back to Orphea, Betsy and I dropped by the Grand Theater. On the drive from Poughkeepsie, we had called Cody Springfield. We needed to find out anything more we could about the first festival. We were particularly curious to learn about the play Hayward had proposed, which Mayor Gordon had initially turned down.

Betsy led me through the building to the backstage area. Springfield was waiting for us in his office. From the archives he had prepared a cardboard box filled with assorted mementos.

“What are you looking for in particular?” he said.

“Any information about the first festival. The name of the company that performed the opening show, for example.”

“The opening play was ‘Uncle Vanya’. Look, here’s the program.”

He took out an old, yellowing brochure and held it out to me. “You can keep it,” he said. “I have others.” Then, rummaging some more in his box, he took out a booklet. “Oh, I’d forgotten this even existed. It was an idea of Mayor Gordon’s at the time. You may find it useful.”

I took the booklet and read the title.

HISTORY OF THE ORPHEA THEATER FESTIVAL

by Steven Bergdorf

“What is this?”

“Steven Bergdorf?” Betsy said, reading the author’s name.

Springfield told us about an episode that had occurred two months before the Gordon murders.

* * *

Orphea, May 1994

Sitting in his little office in the bookstore, Springfield was busy processing orders when Meghan Padalin shyly opened the door.

“Sorry to bother you, Cody, but the mayor’s here. He’d like to see you.”

Springfield immediately stood up and walked from the back room into the store. He was curious. For some reason, Mayor Gordon had not been to the store for two months or so. Cody could not understand why. He had the impression the mayor was avoiding it. He had been seen buying books from the bookstore in East Hampton.

Gordon was waiting on the other side of the counter, nervously fingering a little booklet.

“Mayor Gordon!”

“Hello, Cody.”

They shook hands cordially.

“We’re very fortunate,” Mayor Gordon said, gazing at the bookshelves, “to have such a wonderful bookstore here in Orphea.”

“Is everything alright, Mr Mayor? I’ve had the impression you’ve been avoiding me recently.”

“Avoiding you? What