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

a pause, he unfolds a sheet of paper that he has taken from his inside jacket pocket, which presumably contains hastily made notes. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “I’m speaking to you in the place of Mayor Gordon, who’s absent this evening. I admit I thought he would be among us, so unfortunately I haven’t had time to prepare a real speech. So I’ll limit myself to wishing a hearty welcome to . . .”

“Stop!” Betsy shouted at Derek. He paused the cassette, and the image froze. “Look!” We could see Alan Brown, alone on the stage, his sheet of paper in his hands. Betsy stood up from her chair and went and took one of the images from the board, something else found in the self-storage facility. It was exactly the same scene: Brown, at the microphone, the sheet of paper in his hands, which Stephanie had circled in red felt-tip.

“That image is from the video,” Betsy said.

“Which means Stephanie saw this video,” I said. “Who got it for her?”

Derek said, “Stephanie’s dead, but she’s still one step ahead of us. Why did she put a circle round that sheet of paper?”

We listened to the speech, but it was of no interest. Had Stephanie circled the sheet of paper in Brown’s hand because of the speech or because of what was written on the paper?

* * *

Ostrovski was walking along Bendham Road. He could not reach Stephanie—her phone was still off. Had she changed numbers? Why wasn’t she answering?

He decided to visit her at home. He counted the numbers of the houses, again checked the address, which he had written in a leather-bound notebook he always kept with him. He finally reached the building and stopped, aghast. It had been burned down and access was barred by police tape.

At that moment, he spotted a police patrol car coming slowly up the street and he signaled to the officer at the wheel.

Deputy Chief Montagne pulled up and lowered his window. “How can I help you, sir?”

“What happened here?”

“There was a fire. Why do you ask?”

“I’m looking for someone who lives here. Her name’s Stephanie Mailer.”

“Stephanie Mailer? She was murdered and her apartment was burned.”

Ostrovski was struck dumb. Montagne got a radio call about an argument between a couple in the parking lot of the marina. He told the switchboard operator he would go straight there and switched on his flashing lights. A minute later, he got to the parking lot. In the middle of it, a black Porsche was parked, with both doors open, and a young girl was running toward the jetty, sluggishly pursued by a tall man old enough to be her father. Montagne sounded his siren. A flock of seagulls flew up and the couple froze. The girl looked amused.

“Oh, terrific, Carolina!” Eden cried. “Now the police are here! This has got off to a good start!”

“Orphea Police, don’t move,” Montagne said. “We got a call about a couple having an argument.”

“A couple?” the man repeated as if astonished. “That’s just terrific! This is my daughter!”

“Is this your father?” Montagne asked the girl.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Where have you come from?”

“Manhattan.”

Montagne checked their identities, then asked Carolina, “And why were you running like that?”

“I was trying to run away.”

“Run away from what?”

“Life.”

“Did your father assault you?”

“Me, assault her?” Eden cried.

“Please be quiet, sir,” Montagne said curtly. “I am talking to the young lady.”

He took Carolina aside and asked her the question again. She started crying.

“No, of course not. My father didn’t touch me,” she said between sobs.

“Then why are you in this state?”

“I’ve been in this state for a year.”

“Why?”

“Oh, it’d take too long to explain.”

Montagne did not insist and let them go.

“Stop messing around!” Eden yelled as he slammed the door of his car. A few minutes later, they were at the Lake Palace, where Eden had booked a suite, and a procession of porters installed them in room 308.

In the next suite, 310, Ostrovski sat on his bed, holding a picture frame in his hands. It was a photograph of a radiant young woman: Meghan Padalin. He gazed for a long time at the image, then whispered, “I’m going to discover who did that to you. I promise.” He kissed the glass.

Meanwhile, in his hotel, Steven Bergdorf was deep in thought, a new gleam in his eyes. His instinct told him to stay a while in Orphea. He went out onto the balcony to telephone Skip Nalan, his deputy atthe Review.

“I’ll be away a day or so longer,” he told him, and went on to describe what he had just witnessed. A former police chief who had become a theater director putting on his play in return for revelations about a twenty-year-old criminal case that everyone had assumed was over and done with. “I’m going to write an article from inside, everyone will be talking about it, I think we may even boost our sales.”

“You think it’s for real?” Nalan said. “Take all the time you need.”

“For real? It’s huge.”

Bergdorf next called his wife and told her he would be away for a few more days for the reasons he had just given Nalan. After a moment’s silence, Tracy asked, in a worried voice:

“Steven, what’s going on?”

“This weird play, darling. I think we might just give the subscriptions a shot in the arm. God knows we need one.”

“But a woman was murdered, Steven. I don’t want you getting mixed up in anything dangerous.”

“I promise I’ll be careful. But I can’t let this opportunity pass by.”

She sighed. “Do what you have to do. But keep in touch. I need to know you’re safe.”

JESSE ROSENBERG

Saturday, July 12, 2014

Fourteen days to opening night

We had decided to give ourselves a break for the weekend. We needed to step back and take a breather. For the second week in succession, I spent Saturday in my kitchen, working on my sauce and my hamburgers.

Derek took the opportunity to spend time with his family.

As for Betsy, she could not get our case out of