by Joël Dicker
She spoke the name out loud. Tara. She started laughing, but then tears ran from her eyes and she burst into uncontrollable sobs. She slid to the ground, weeping in silence. She stayed like that until her cell phone rang. It was Leyla.
“Hi, Leyl,” Carolina said, picking up.
“You sound like shit, Carolina. Have you been crying?”
“Yes.”
She was young and beautiful, still not much more than a child, lying on the floor, her hair scattered like a mane around her thin face.
“Want to join me?” Leyla said.
“I promised my parents I’d stay home. But it’d be great if you could come over. I don’t want to be alone.”
“I’ll get a cab and be right there.”
Carolina hung up and took from her pocket a plastic sachet containing a clear powder. Ketamine. She poured some into the bottom of the glass, diluted it with vodka, and swallowed it in one go.
It was not until the following morning, a Saturday, that Eden discovered the vodka bottle, three-quarters empty. He then searched through the garbage can in the kitchen and found the butts of two joints. He was ready to tip his daughter from her bed, but Cynthia begged him to wait until she got up.
As soon as Carolina emerged from her room, he demanded an explanation.
“You betrayed our trust again!” he cried, brandishing the bottle and the butts.
“Oh, don’t be so hung up!” Carolina said. “It’s like you were never young.”
She went straight to her room and got back into bed. Her parents came into the room after her.
“Do you realize you got through almost a whole bottle of vodka and smoked marijuana in our house?” her father said, furious.
“Why are you destroying yourself like this?” Cynthia said, trying hard not to offend her.
“What do you care?” Carolina said. “You’ll be pleased when I’m not here!”
“Carolina!” her mother protested. “How can you say such things?”
“There were two glasses in the sink,” Eden said. “Who was here? Do you just invite people like that?”
“I invite friends, what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that you’re consuming marijuana!”
“Relax, it was just a joint.”
“You think I’m some kind of idiot? I know the crap you take! Who was with you? That little bitch Neila?”
“It’s Leyla, Daddy, not Neila! And she’s not a bitch! Stop thinking you’re superior to everybody just because you have money!”
“It’s my money that keeps you going!” Eden shouted at her
“Sweetheart,” Cynthia said, in an attempt to calm things down, “your father and I are worried. We think you should go and have your addiction problem treated.”
“I’m already seeing Dr Lern.”
“We were thinking of somewhere more specialized.”
“A detox clinic? I’m not going back to a place like that! Get out of my room!”
She grabbed a fluffy toy that jarred with the rest of the room and threw it in the direction of the door.
“You’ll do what we say,” Eden said.
“I won’t go, do you hear me? I won’t go! I hate you, both of you!”
She got up from her bed and slammed the door on them. Then, in tears, she phoned Leyla.
“What’s going on, Carolina?” Leyla said, hearing her sobs.
“My parents want to send me to a clinic.”
“To detox, you mean? When?”
“I don’t know. They’ll probably talk to the shrink on Monday. But I won’t go. Do you hear me, I won’t go. I’m getting out of here tonight. I never want to see these dumbos again. As soon as they’re asleep, I’m taking off.”
*
That same morning, in Worcester, Betsy, who had spent the night in her parents’ house, was bombarded with questions by her mother at the breakfast table.
“Mom,” Betsy finally said, “I have a hangover. I’d like to drink my coffee in peace if that’s at all possible.”
“So that’s it, you drank too much!” her mother said, exasperated. “So you’re drinking now?”
“When everyone pisses me off, Mom, yes, I drink.”
Her mother sighed. “If you were still with Mark, we’d be living next door to you now.”
“It’s a good thing we aren’t together then,” Betsy said.
“Is it really over between Mark and you?”
“Mom, we’ve been divorced for a year!”
“You know that doesn’t mean anything these days. Couples live together first and get married later, and then divorce three times, and finally get together for good.”
Betsy’s only response was to sigh. She stood up from the table, taking her cup of coffee.
“Since that terrible day at Sabar’s jewelry store,” her mother said, “you haven’t been the same. Being with the police has ruined your life, that’s what I think.”
“I took a man’s life, Mom,” Betsy said. “And there’s nothing I can do to change that.”
“So you’d rather punish yourself by going to live in a one-horse town?”
“I know I’m not the daughter you’d have liked, but in spite of what you may think, I’m happy in Orphea.”
“I thought you were going to become police chief there. What happened?”
Betsy did not reply. She went out onto the porch, hoping for a brief moment of peace.
BETSY KANNER
I remember that morning in the spring of 2014, a few weeks before the events surrounding Stephanie Mailer’s disappearance. They were the first fine days. Although it was still early, it was already hot. I went out onto the porch of my house to pick up the daily edition of the Chronicle, and sat down in a comfortable armchair to read it over my coffee. Just then, Cody Springfield, my neighbor, passed on the street and waved to me.
“Congratulations, Betsy!”
“Congratulations for what?”
“For the article.”
I unfolded the paper and was amazed to see a big photograph of me on the front page, under the headline:
WILL THIS WOMAN BE THE NEXT
CHIEF OF POLICE?
With the current chief of police, Ron Gulliver, due to retire this fall, there is a rumor that his successor will not be his deputy, Jasper Montagne, but his second deputy, Betsy Kanner, who arrived in Orphea last September.
I was overcome with panic. Who had told the Chronicle this? And above all, how were Montagne and his colleagues going to react? I drove to the station. All the officers bombarded me. “Is it true, Betsy? Are you going to replace Chief Gulliver?” Without replying, I hurried to Gulliver’s office, hoping to avert disaster. But it was too late, the door was already closed. Montagne was inside. I heard him yell:
“What’s this all about, Chief? Have you read this? Is it true? Is Betsy going to be the next chief of police?”
Gulliver seemed as surprised as he was. “Stop believing everything you read in the paper, Montagne. It’s bullshit! I never heard anything as ridiculous in my life. Betsy, the next chief? Don’t make me laugh. She only just got here! And anyhow, the guys would never agree to be bossed around by a woman!”
“But you made her deputy.”
“Second deputy. You know who the second deputy was before her? Nobody. And you know why? Because it’s a ghost title, made up by Mayor Brown who wants to look modern by fast-tracking girls everywhere. Equality, my ass. You know as well as I do it’s bullshit.”
Montagne was still anxious. “But does that mean I have no choice but to appoint her my deputy when I’m chief?”
Gulliver did what he could to reassure him. “Jasper, when you’re chief, you can appoint whoever you like. The post of second deputy is just for show. Mayor Brown forced me to hire Betsy and I’m tied hand and foot. But when I’m gone and you’re chief, you can fire her if that’s what you want. Don’t worry, I’ll straighten her out. I’ll show her who’s in charge.”
In a little while, I was
summoned to Gulliver’s office. He motioned me to a chair opposite him and picked up the copy of the Chronicle that was on his desk.
“Betsy,” he said in a flat voice, “let me give you some advice. As a friend. Keep a low profile, a very low profile. Make yourself as small as a mouse.”
“I don’t know anything about that article, sir, I—”
But Gulliver didn’t let me finish my sentence. “Betsy, I’m going to be very frank with you. You were appointed second deputy only because you’re a woman. So stop climbing on your high horse and believing you were hired for your supposed skills. The only reason you’re here is because Mayor Brown, with his fucking revolutionary ideas, wanted to have a woman on his police force. He kept bugging me with all that bullshit about diversity and discrimination. He put a hell of a lot of pressure on me. You know how it works—I didn’t want to start an undeclared war with him the year I was leaving, or for him to play dirty tricks with our budget. So anyhow, he wanted a woman at all costs and you were the only female candidate. So I took you. But don’t start fucking around in my station. You’re just a quota, Betsy. Nothing but a quota!”
When Gulliver had finished, and having no desire to endure any more attacks from my colleagues, I went out on patrol. I parked behind the big billboard at the side of Route 17 where, ever since I had arrived in Orphea, I had taken shelter every time I needed to think in peace.
All the while keeping an eye on the traffic, which was still sparse at that hour of the morning, I replied to a message from Lauren. She had found the perfect man for me and wanted to arrange a dinner so that she could introduce us. When I declined, she came out with her usual refrain: “If you go on like this, Betsy, you’re going to end up alone.” We exchanged a few more texts. I complained about Chief Gulliver, Lauren suggested I return to New York. But I had no desire to do that. Apart from the difficulties I was having fitting in at work, I liked living in the Hamptons. Orphea was a quiet town, a nice place to be, with the ocean on one side and all that nature around. The long sandy beaches, the deep forests, the ponds covered with water lilies, the sinuous arms of the sea with their abundant fauna—these were magical places, all within easy reach. Summers here were wonderfully warm, the winters harsh but filled with light.
I knew it was somewhere I could finally be happy.
JESSE ROSENBERG
Monday, July 7, 2014
Nineteen days to opening night
The front page of the Orphea Chronicle, edition of Monday, July 7, 2014:
THEATER FESTIVAL THREATENED
Could this be the last curtain for Orphea’s theater festival? Having been the center of the town’s summer season for twenty years, this year’s festival seems more under threat than ever after the volunteers, uniquely in the history of this institution, voted to strike over fears for their safety. Now the question everyone is asking is: Without the volunteers, can the festival go ahead?
Betsy had spent her Sunday following up the Kirk Hayward lead. She had tracked down his father, Cornelius Hayward, in a senior citizens’ home in Poughkeepsie, three hours’ drive from Orphea. She had contacted the director, who was expecting us.
“You worked yesterday, Betsy?” I asked in surprise as the two of us set off for the home. “I thought you went to your parents’ for the weekend.”
She shrugged. “The festivities were cut short. I was pleased to have something to do to take my mind off things. Where’s Derek?”
“At troop headquarters, looking through the 1994 case file. It’s bugging him that we could have missed something.”
“What happened between the two of you in 1994, Jesse? From what you say, I get the feeling you were the best of friends.”
“We still are.”
“But in 1994 something came between you . . .”
“Yes, but I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about it.”
She nodded, then said, “What about you, Jesse? What did you do on the Fourth of July?”
“I stayed home.”
“On your own?”
“On my own. I made myself hamburgers with Natasha’s Sauce.” I smiled—I didn’t need to have said that.
“Who’s Natasha?”
“My fiancée.”
“You’re engaged?”
“I was. Now I’m a confirmed bachelor.”
She laughed. “Me, too. Since my divorce, my girlfriends all predict I’ll end up alone.”
“That hurts!”
“It does, a little. But I still hope I’ll find someone. How come it didn’t work out with Natasha?”
“Life sometimes plays strange tricks on us.”
I could see from the look in her eyes that Betsy understood what I was trying to say.
The senior citizens’ home, called The Oaks, occupied a small building with flower-filled balconies on the outskirts of Poughkeepsie. In the lobby, old people in wheelchairs watched out for anyone coming in.
“Visitors! Visitors!” an old man with a chessboard on his knees cried out when we appeared.
“Have you come to see us?” asked another old man, a toothless fellow who resembled a tortoise.
“We’ve come to see Cornelius Hayward,” Betsy said politely.
“Why haven’t you come to see me?” a little old lady as thin as a twig asked in a quivery voice.
“My children haven’t been to see me in two months,” the chess player said.
We presented ourselves at the reception desk, and a few moments later the director of the establishment appeared, a pudgy little man in a sweat-stained suit. He eyed up Betsy in her uniform and shook our hands vigorously. His own hand was sticky.
“What do you want with Cornelius Hayward?”
“We’re looking for his son in connection with a case we’re investi-gating.”
“And what has this son of his done?”
“We’d just like to talk to Mr Hayward.”
He led us along corridors to a large room in which the residents were sitting here and there. Some were playing cards, others reading, others simply staring into space.
“Cornelius,” the director said, “you have a visitor, two visitors.”
A tall, thin old man with disheveled white hair, dressed in a thick dressing gown, rose from his armchair.
“The police from Orphea?” he said, staring at Betsy’s black uniform as he came toward us. “What’s going on?”
“Mr Hayward,” Betsy said, “we need to get in touch with your son Kirk.”
“Kirky? What do you want with him?”
“Let’s sit down, Mr Hayward.”
We took our seats, all four of us, including the director, in a corner furnished with a couch and two armchairs. A horde of curious old people gathered around us.
“What do you want with my Kirky?” Mr Hayward said anxiously.
The way he spoke answered our first question. Kirk Hayward was alive and well.
“We’re looking into one of his old cases,” Betsy said. “In 1994, your son did a great job investigating a case of homocide in Orphea. We have reason to believe that the same person may be responsible for the death of a young woman a few days ago. We need to speak to Kirk in order to solve this new case. Are you in touch with him?”
“Yes, of course. We telephone each other often.”
“Does he come here?”
“Oh no. He lives too far away!”
“Where does he live?”
“In California. He’s a great director, you know. He’s going to become very famous. Very famous! When he gets an Oscar, I’ll put on a wonderful suit I have and cheer him to the rafters. You want to see my suit? It’s in my room.”
“Maybe not today, but tell me, Mr Hayward, how can we reach your son?”
“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 rememb
er 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 Bar was 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 in Los 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.