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

“I don’t remember any faces, I swear.”

Jesse showed Ziggy a photograph of an electric chair.

“This, Ziggy,” he said in a calm voice, “is what you can expect if you don’t talk.”

“What do you mean?” Ziggy whispered.

“One of those guns of yours was used to kill four people. You’re going to be charged with their murders.”

“But I didn’t do anything!” Ziggy yelled.

“You can tell that to the judge.”

“Unless your memory comes back, you little prick,” Jesse said.

“Show me those pictures again,” Ziggy said. “Maybe I didn’t look at them closely enough.”

“Do you want to stand by the window so you get more light?” Jesse suggested.

“Yeah, maybe I didn’t have enough light.”

We went over to the window and he looked carefully at each of the photographs we had brought.

“I sold this guy a gun,” he said.

The photograph he held out to us was the one of Tennenbaum.

“Are you sure?” I said.

“I’m certain.”

“And when did you sell him that gun?”

“In February. I’d seen him in the bar before, but that was years ago. He needed a gun. He had cash on him. I sold him a Beretta and some ammunition. I never saw him again.”

Tennenbaum was well and truly caught.

-1

Dies Irae: Day of Wrath

MONDAY, JULY 21 – FRIDAY, JULY 25, 2014

JESSE ROSENBERG

Monday, July 21, 2014

Five days to opening night

Orphea was in a state of high tension. The news that the play was going to reveal the identity of a murderer who had gone unpunished had spread like wildfire. In the space of a weekend, the media had arrived en masse, as well as a horde of tourists in search of sensation. The townspeople, too, were agog. Main Street was almost overrun with vendors from out of town who were seizing the opportunity to sell drinks, food, and even T-shirts with the slogan I WAS IN ORPHEA, I KNOW WHAT HAPPENED IN 1994. The crush was at its greatest around the Grand Theater. Access had been blocked by the police, and dozens of T.V. reporters were lined up outside, broadcasting regular updates.

“Who killed the Gordon family, a jogger, and a reporter who was about to publish the answer? We’ll know in five days’ time, here in Orphea, New York State . . .”

“. . . In five days’ time, one of the most remarkable plays in a long while will reveal the secrets of . . .”

“. . . A killer is on the prowl in a quiet town in the Hamptons, and a play will reveal his name . . .”

“. . . Truth is stranger than fiction here in Orphea, where the authorities have announced that the town will be cordoned off on opening night. Reinforcements are expected from the region, while the Grand Theater, where the play is currently being rehearsed, is under twenty-four-hour surveillance . . .”

To add to this unreal atmosphere, the excitement was also political. Following the latest revelations, Sylvia Tennenbaum was demanding that her brother be formally exonerated. She had gathered a support com-mittee that paraded in front of the T.V. cameras with banners saying JUSTICEFORTED. Sylvia Tennenbaum was also demanding the resignation of Mayor Brown and for the municipal elections to be brought forward: “Mayor Brown has been questioned by police in relation to the 1994 murders. He has lost all credibility.”

But Mayor Brown, being the experienced political animal he was, had no intention of abandoning his job. This turmoil served his cause. Now more than ever, Orphea needed someone in charge. In spite of the doubts raised by his being taken in for questioning by the police, Brown was still widely trusted, and those townspeople worried about the situation certainly did not want to lose their mayor at a time of crisis. As for the town’s merchants, they could hardly have been happier. Restaurants and hotels were packed, souvenir shops were running out of stocks, and advance ticket sales for the festival looked likely to break records.

We knew more than most about what was going on in the Grand Theater, thanks to Michael Bird, who had become an indispensable ally in our investigation. Because he was trusted by Hayward, Bird was the only person outside the company able to get inside the Grand Theater. In return for Bird’s promise to reveal nothing of the content of his play before opening night, Hayward had granted him special access. “It’s essential that one day a journalist can bear witness to what happened in Orphea,” Hayward had said. So we had appointed Bird to be our eyes inside the theater and, if possible, to occasionally film the rehearsals for us. That morning, he invited us to his house to show us what he had recorded the day before.

He and his family lived in a very pretty house outside Orphea, on the road to Bridgehampton.

“He can afford this on his salary as the editor of a local paper?” Derek said as we pulled up outside the house.

“His wife’s father has money,” Betsy said. “Clive Davis, you may know him. He ran for mayor of New York a few years ago.”

And it was Michael’s wife who greeted us: a very beautiful blonde, who must have been under forty, in other words a lot younger than her husband. She offered us coffee and led us into the living room, where we found Bird connecting his T.V. to a computer.

“Thanks for coming,” he said.

We watched his video scenes for a short while, but there was predictably nothing in them of interest to our investigation. That left Jeremiah Fold as our only lead. We mentioned the name to Bird, but it meant nothing to him.

I asked Betsy, “Do you think it could be something other than Jeremiah Fold?

“I doubt it, Jesse. I spent the whole day yesterday rereading ‘The Darkest Night’. I tried every possible combination and, from what I could see, nothing else makes sense.”

Why had a code been hidden in the script of “The Darkest Night”? And by whom? Hayward