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

ourselves. Jeremiah said there mustn’t be any evidence. I had my little network of guys, and I would call on them alternately in order not to arouse suspicion. One thing’s for sure, though: your guy Gordon never did business of any kind with Jeremiah.”

* * *

Bird brought us up to date on the progress of the rehearsals when Betsy, Derek and I got back from Ridgesport and joined him in the archive room of the Chronicle.

He played us a recording of another scene he had covertly filmed, in which Charlotte Brown played a singer in a bar with whom all the customers are in love. A makeshift set had been erected: a few chairs, a red curtain at the back. Eden was playing a customer, sitting at the front of the stage sipping a cocktail. Padalin this time played the owner of the bar. He was looking at his singer, who stood some way farther back.

Piano bar music was playing.

“This can’t be a coincidence,” Derek cried, noticing a sign that was part of the set. “That’s Ridge’s Club!”

“Ridge’s Club?” Bird said.

“The club that Jeremiah Fold owned.”

The traffic accident, then the club. This was neither invention, nor chance. In addition, from what we could see, the same actor was playing the dead body in Scene 1 and the bar owner in Scene 2.

“Scene 2 is a flashback,” Derek said. “This character is Jeremiah Fold.”

“So the solution to the mystery really is in this play?” Bird said.

“Michael,” I said, “I don’t know what’s going on here, but whatever you do, don’t let Hayward out of your sight.”

We wanted to speak to Springfield about the script of “The Darkest Night” that had been on sale in his bookstore in 1994. Betsy tried to reach him on his cell phone, but he wasn’t picking up, so we went to the store. The assistant told us she hadn’t seen her boss all day.

It was very strange. Betsy suggested we drop by his house. When we got to there, she immediately noticed his car parked outside. Springfield must be at home. But despite our insistent ringing, he did not come to the door. Betsy pressed down on the handle: it was open. At that moment, I felt a sense of déjà vu.

We went in. An icy silence reigned. The lights were all on, even though it was broad daylight.

It was in the living room that we discovered him.

Slumped against a low table in a pool of blood.

Springfield had been murdered.

DEREK SCOTT

Late November 1994. Four months after the Gordon killings.

Jesse didn’t want to see anybody.

I dropped by his house every day, rang his bell for a long time, begged him to open the door, in vain. Sometimes I waited for hours. But there was nothing I could do.

He let me in at last when I threatened to break the lock and started kicking at the door. What I saw in front of me was a ghost: unwashed, hair disheveled, cheeks overgrown with beard, a grim look in his eyes. His apartment was a mess.

“What do you want?” he said in a gruff tone.

“To make sure you’re O.K., Jesse.”

He gave a cynical laugh. “I’m fine, Derek, really fine! I’ve never felt so well.”

In the end he threw me out.

Two days later, Major McKenna came to see me in my office.

“Derek, I need you to go to the 54th precinct in Queens. Your pal Jesse has been acting up, he was arrested by the N.Y.P.D. last night.”

“Arrested? Where? He hasn’t been out of his apartment in weeks.”

“Well, he must have wanted to let off steam because he trashed a restaurant under construction. A place called Little Russia. Mean anything to you? Anyway, find the owner and sort this shit out for me. And reason with him, Derek. Or he’ll never be allowed back in the force.”

“I’ll handle it,” I said.

Major McKenna looked me up and down. “You’re not looking too good yourself, Derek.”

“Things haven’t been going so well.”

“Did you see the shrink?”

I shrugged. “I come here every morning, sir, but it’s like I’m on automatic pilot. I don’t think my place is here anymore. Not after what happened.”

“But Derek, goddammit, you’re a hero. You saved his life. Never forget that. Without you, Jesse would be dead today. You saved his life!”

JESSE ROSENBERG

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Three days to opening night

Orphea was in a state of shock. Cody Springfield, the town’s mild, good-natured bookseller, had been murdered.

It had been a short night, both for the police and the inhabitants of the town. The news of a second murder had attracted reporters and onlookers to Springfield’s house. People were fascinated and frightened at the same time. First Stephanie Mailer, now Cody Springfield. They were starting to talk about a serial killer. Citizens’ patrols were being organized. In this atmosphere of general anxiety, the most important thing was to avoid panic. The State Police and all the local police forces had put themselves at Mayor Brown’s disposal to ensure the safety of the town.

Betsy, Derek and I had been up half the night, trying to figure out what might have happened. We had been there when Dr Ranjit Singh delivered his initial observations. Springfield had died from blows to the back of the skull from a big metal lamp, which had been found beside the body, covered in blood. In addition, the body was in a strange position, as if Springfield had been on his knees, his hands over his face, either rubbing his eyes or trying to hide them.

“Was he begging his murderer?” Betsy wondered.

“I don’t think so,” Dr Singh replied. “If he had, he’d have been struck from the front, not from the back. And besides, from what I see, for the skull to be cracked in that way, the murderer was much taller than him.”

“Much taller?” Derek said. “What do you mean?”

Dr Singh improvised a little reconstruction. “Springfield opens the door to his killer. He may know him. In any case, he trusts him, because there’s no