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

Brown said without thinking. “Something unique! Something that’ll be such a sensation, the audience will come running. I want to make a proper announcement, not just dash off a press release that nobody will notice.”

“And when are you going to make this crucial announcement?”

“This Friday. Yes, that’s right, this Friday, July 11, I’ll hold a press conference at the town hall, and believe me, what I announce then will be a surprise to everyone!”

“Well, thank you for that information, Mr Mayor, I’ll put it all in tomorrow’s issue,” Bird said, eager to see if the mayor was bluffing or not.

“Please do that,” Brown said in a tone he was trying hard to keep confident.

Bird nodded and made to go. But Brown couldn’t help adding:

“Don’t forget it’s the council that subsidizes your paper by not charging you rent, Michael.”

“What are you trying to say, Mr Mayor?”

“That you shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

“Are you threatening me, Mr Mayor?”

“I’d never do that. I’m just giving you a piece of friendly advice.”

Bird nodded goodbye and left. Brown closed the door and clenched his fist in anger. He felt a hand on his shoulder: Charlotte. She had heard everything and now looked at him fearfully.

“A big announcement?” she said. “But what are you going to announce, darling?”

“I have no idea. I have two days for a miracle to happen. Otherwise I’ll be announcing my resignation.”

-5

The Darkest Night

WEDNESDAY, JULY 9 – THURSDAY, JULY 10, 2014

JESSE ROSENBERG

Wednesday, July 9, 2014, Los Angeles

Seventeen days to opening night

From the front page of the Orphea Chronicle, Wednesday, July 9, 2014:

MYSTERY PLAY FOR THE OPENING OF

THE THEATER FESTIVAL

In a change of program, the mayor will make an announcement on Friday about the play to be performed on opening night. He is promising a spectacular production that is expected to make this 21st festival one of the most memorable in its history.

I put down the newspaper as my plane landed in Los Angeles. It was Betsy who had given me her copy of the Chronicle when Derek and I had met with her in the morning to take stock of the situation.

“Here,” she had said, handing me the paper, “it’ll be something to read on the flight.”

I had smiled on reading the front page before slipping it into my bag. “Either the mayor is a genius, or he’s up to his neck in shit.”

Betsy had laughed. “I’d put my money on the second option.”

It was one in the afternoon in California. I had taken off from New York mid-morning, and, despite a six-and-a-half-hour flight, the magic of the time difference still left me a few hours before my meeting with Hayward. I wanted to put them to good use by trying to work out what Stephanie had come here to do. My return flight was booked for the following afternoon. I had only twenty-four hours.

Following procedure, I had informed the California Highway Patrol—the equivalent there of the State Police—of my visit. An officer answering to the name of Cruz had come to pick me up from the airport. He would be at my disposal for the duration of my stay. I asked Sergeant Cruz if he could drive me straight to the hotel where, according to her credit card bill, Stephanie had stayed. It was a stylish Best Western, no distance from the Beluga Bar. It was an expensive place. Money had clearly not been a problem on this journey. Someone had financed her trip. Who? Her mystery backer?

The hotel’s receptionist immediately recognized Stephanie when I showed him her photograph.

“I remember her well,” he said.

“Was there something in particular that struck you?”

“A pretty, nicely dressed young woman always strikes you. But I was especially impressed because she was the first writer I had ever met.”

“Did she tell you she was a writer?”

“Yes, she said she was writing a mystery novel based on a true story, and that she’d come here to look for answers.”

Sergeant Cruz drove me to the Beluga Bar. We arrived around half an hour early. Behind the counter, a young woman was wiping glasses. She asked if there was anything she could help us with. When I mentioned the name Kirk Hayward, she gave an amused smile.

“Kirk?” she said, polishing a glass that was already dazzling. “Take a seat. He usually comes by around this time. What can I get you? It’s on the house.”

I turned to Sergeant Cruz, who shrugged, then ordered two black coffees.

“I’ll bring them over,” the young woman said, gesturing towards a booth.

We sat down and Cruz spread out a newspaper on the table and buried his nose in the crossword puzzle. I started to flick through a copy of the L.A. Times I had picked up in the airport, but I was distracted by thoughts of Stephanie Mailer. If she had come all the way to L.A. to see Kirk Hayward, what was it she thought he knew about the 1994 murders?

Half an hour later, right on time, a man who was just about recognizable as Kirk Hayward came into the bar. He headed straight for a booth right across from where we were sitting and at once took a sheaf of paper out of a leather satchel, placing it carefully on the table.

I got up and went over to greet him.

“Hello, Kirk. I’m Jesse Rosenberg. Do you remember me?”

His eyes narrowed, then he shook his head.

“Captain Rosenberg,” I went on, “New York State Police. We worked together twenty years ago, investigating a quadruple murder.”

His face suddenly lit up. “Of course! You haven’t changed, Rosenberg. What brings you here?”

“You spoke with Deputy Betsy Kanner of the Orphea police department. She’s the one who sent me.”

“Right,” he said. “Deputy Kanner.” He looked a little disappointed. “I thought she’d be flying out here herself.”

“We’re working together on a case,” I said. “Could we sit down?”

He nodded, but with little enthusiasm. As he slid into the booth, he swept his papers off the table and placed them on the seat