The Disappearance of Stephanie Mailer: A gripping new thriller with a killer twist

by Joël Dicker

  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 beside him, but not before I’d had a chance to glance at the words on the top page of the pile.

  THE DARKEST NIGHT

  A Play by Kirk Hayward

  Wherever we went, these three words kept cropping up. I had already suspected that Hayward had something to hide. Now I was sure of it. But when I had settled in the booth, I didn’t mention his play, but instead asked him about Stephanie Mailer.

  “Stephanie Mailer?” Hayward said. “Yes, I met with her right here. She said she was writing a book about the 1994 murders in Orphea. Why do you want to talk to me?”

  “She’s dead. She was murdered.”

  “Hell!”

  “I think she died because of what she discovered about those murders. What exactly did you tell her?”

  “That I was sure you had gotten the wrong man.”

  “So it was you who put that idea in her head? But why didn’t you tell us that during the investigation?”

  “I didn’t realize it until later.”

  “Was that when you left Orphea in such a hurry?”

  “I can’t tell you anything. Not yet.”

  “What do you mean, not yet?”

  “You’ll understand. When the time is right.”

  “Listen, Hayward, I’ve come two and a half thousand miles to see you.”

  “You needn’t have come. I can’t risk compromising my play.”

  “Your play? What does your ‘Darkest Night’ mean? Is it connected to what happened in 1994? I need to know exactly what happened on the evening of July 30. Who killed the mayor and his family? And I need to know why you ran away.”

  Just then I heard an embarrassed cough and turned to see Sergeant Cruz standing a little distance from the table, holding up the copy of the Chronicle Betsy had given me for the flight.

  “Sorry, Captain,” he said, coloring at the cheeks. “I finished my crossword. Mind if I make a start on this one?”

  I raised my hand to wave him away, but Hayward was already half out of his seat.

  “Is that the Orphea Chronicle?” he said, a look of childish excitement spreading across his face. “That brings back a few memories. Can I take a look?”

  I scowled at Cruz, who looked crestfallen as he approached the table to hand the paper over.

  Hayward unfolded it and glanced at the front page.

  MYSTERY PLAY FOR THE OPENING OF THE

  THEATER FESTIVAL

  “I don’t believe it!” he cried.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “What is this mystery play?”

  “I don’t know. To tell the truth, I don’t think the mayor himself knows.”

  “What if this is the sign? The sign I’ve been waiting for for twenty years?”

  “The sign of what?”

  Hayward grabbed me by the shoulders. “I want to have ‘The Darkest Night’ put on at the festival in Orphea!”

  “But the festival is in two weeks. How can you be ready to perform it in two weeks?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “If I can put on ‘The Darkest Night’ you’ll get the answers to your questions.”

  “About the murder of the mayor?”

  “Yes, you’ll know everything. On opening night, the whole truth about this business will be revealed!”

  I telephoned Betsy. “Hayward says if he is allowed to put on this play of his, he’ll tell us who killed Mayor Gordon.”

  “You mean he knows?”

  “So he says.”

  “Is he bluffing?”

  “Strangely enough, I don’t think so. When he saw the front page of the Chronicle his reaction was immediate. He offered to tell me the truth if we let him perform his damn play.”

  “It’s possible he’s crazy. Maybe he killed the mayor and his family and he’s at last going to own up to it.”

  “That never occurred to me.”

  “Tell Hayward it’s a deal. I’ll make sure he gets what he wants.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. You need to bring him back here. If the worst comes to the worst we’ll have him arrested, he’ll be under our jurisdiction, and he’ll have to talk.”

  “O.K.,” I said. “Let me ask him.”

  I went back to Hayward.

>   “I’m on the line with the deputy police chief of Orphea. She says it’s a deal.”

  “Do you take me for a fool?” Hayward said coldly. “Since when have the police decided on the program of the festival? I want a handwritten letter from the Mayor of Orphea.”

  * * *

  With the time difference, it was after 8 p.m. on the east coast. Betsy had no choice but to go and see Mayor Brown at home, who at that moment was in his study, rereading the resignation speech he would make to his colleagues. He had not found anything to replace the opening play. The other companies he had considered were all amateur and too modest to attract an audience big enough to fill Orphea’s Grand Theater. He could not bear the thought that three-quarters of the tickets might remain unsold, which would be disastrous for the town’s finances. It was decided: tomorrow morning, Thursday, he would gather all the staff of the town hall and share with them the news of his standing down. On Friday, he would gather the press as planned and the news would be made public.

  He was reading his speech out loud: “Ladies and gentlemen, it is with a heavy heart that I have gathered you all here to announce that the Orphea Theater Festival will not be taking place this year. You know how attached I was to this event, both personally and politically. I have not succeeded in making the festival the unmissable ‘occasion’ that would have restored the prestige of our town. I have failed in what should have been the major project of my mandate. It is therefore with a great deal of emotion that I must announce to you that I am resigning as mayor of the town of Orphea. I wanted you to be the first to know. I am counting on your total discretion. I do not want this news to be made public before Friday’s press conference.”

  He felt almost relieved. He had been too ambitious, for himself, for Orphea, for this festival. When he had launched the project, he had been only the deputy mayor. He had imagined he would make it one of the major cultural events of the state, then of the country. The theatrical equivalent of the Sundance Festival. But it had been nothing but a magnificent failure.

  Just then, the doorbell rang. He walked to the door. Charlotte was coming down the stairs. He looked through the peephole and saw that it was Betsy, in uniform.

  “Alan,” she said, “I’m really sorry to bother you at home. I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t very important.”

  A few moments later, in the Browns’ kitchen, Charlotte, who was making tea, couldn’t get over the name she had just heard.

  “Kirk Hayward?” she said.

  “What does that lunatic want?” Brown said, visibly impatient.

  “He’s written a play and he’d like to put it on it at the festival. In return, he—”

  Betsy did not have time to finish her sentence. Brown had already leaped out of his chair, the color suddenly back in his face.

  “A play? Sure! Do you think he could fill the Grand Theater several nights in a row?”

  “You know, I think he just might. In return for being able to perform his play, Hayward says he will give us crucial information about the 1994 murders, and very possibly about Stephanie Mailer’s death, too. On opening night at the Theater itself.”

  “Darling,” Charlotte Brown said softly, “don’t you think—”

  “I think it’s a gift from heaven!” her husband said triumphantly.

  “He has a few demands,” Betsy said, unfolding the sheet of paper on which she had taken notes. “He’s asking for a room in a good hotel, all his expenses to be paid, and he wants the Grand Theater to be placed at his disposal for the rehearsals. He also wants a written agreement signed by you. That’s why I’ve come over here out of hours.”

  “Is he also asking for a fee?” Brown said.

  “Apparently not.”

  “Amen! Then I’m fine with all of this. If we can put this in the form of an agreement, I’ll sign it. Tell Hayward he’ll be the main attraction of the festival! I need him to take the first flight to New York tomorrow. Can you give him that message? It’s imperative that he’s by my side on Friday morning for the press conference.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  Brown took a pen and paper and wrote out a brisk paragraph, followed by his signature.

  “There you are, Betsy. That’s my undertaking. It’s up to you now.”

  Betsy left, but did not immediately walk down the front steps after Brown had closed the door behind her. She stayed there, eavesdropping on the conversation between the mayor and his wife.

  “You’re crazy to trust Hayward!” Charlotte said.

  “Come on, darling, this is better than we could have hoped!”

  “He’s coming back here, to Orphea! Don’t you realize what that means?”

  “He’s going to save my career, that’s what it means.”

  * * *

  My telephone rang at last.

  “Jesse,” Betsy said, “the mayor agrees. He’s signed off on Hayward’s conditions. He wants both of you to be in Orphea on Friday morning for a press conference.”

  I passed the message on to Hayward.

  “Hell, yes!” he cried in excitement. “A press conference. Can I see the signed letter? I want to be certain you’re not conning me.”

  “It’s all in order,” I said. “Betsy has the letter with her.”

  “Then get her to fax it to me!”

  “Fax it to you? Hayward, who still uses fax these days? I’ll get her to send a photograph of it.”

  *

  One call and a couple of minutes later, Hayward read the letter on my cell.

  “It’s wonderful!” he said, handing it back. “‘The Darkest Night’ is going to be performed!”

  Something about his delight at the prospect was rubbing me up the wrong way. I had come here to get the truth about Stephanie Mailer, not to give Hayward his shot at fame. “Hayward,” I said nastily. “What have you been doing out here the last twenty years, anyway? Not writing this play the whole time, I suppose?”

  If Hayward caught the note of sarcasm he didn’t let on. He just smiled.

  “Not at all. If you must know, I’ve made something of a name for myself in L.A. I left the force to write, and that’s what I’ve been doing. Some scripts here and there, and a lot of editing. I’m the go-to guy for quite a few studios now. Beats police work, I can tell you that.”

  “Yeah? Anything I’d have heard of?”

  “Oh, definitely,” he said with another smile, but he did not elaborate.

  “Look,” I said with a sigh, “now that you have a guarantee your play will be performed in Orphea, can you tell me what you know about the Gordon killings?”

  “On opening night, you’ll find out everything!”

  “Opening night is July 26. We can’t wait that long. A whole police investigation depends on you.”

  “Nothing before opening night.”

  I said nothing to that, just shook my head before gathering my things and leaving the bar with Cruz. It was no surprise that Hayward had been left with so few friends on the force in Orphea. But I consoled myself that getting him to come back to the Hamptons was a step forward.

  DEREK SCOTT

  Late August 1994. A month had gone by since the murders. The vise was closing in on Tennenbaum. The suspicions Jesse and I already had were now supplemented by our knowledge of the pressure exerted by the mayor putting the timely completion of the work on Café Athena at serious risk.

  Even though Tennenbaum’s withdrawals and Mayor Gordon’s deposits coincided, both in the amounts and as to the dates, they did not constitute full proof. We wanted to question Tennenbaum on the nature of his withdrawals, but above all we did not want to commit any blunders. So we summoned him officially, by mail, to troop headquarters. As we had anticipated, he came with his lawyer.

  Tennenbaum laughed when he heard our story. “You think Mayor Gordon was putting the squeeze on me? This is getting more and more absurd, Sergeant Scott.”

  “Mr Tennenbaum,” I said, “during the same period of time, an identical sum of money
, give or take a few thousand dollars, left your account and went into Mayor Gordon’s account.”

  “You know what, Sergeant?” Robin Starr said. “Every day millions of Americans unwittingly make similar transactions.”

  “Tell us what these withdrawals correspond to, Mr Tennenbaum.” Jesse said. “Half a million isn’t peanuts. And we know it wasn’t for work on your restaurant; that’s another account we’ve had access to.”

  “You’ve had access to it thanks to my client’s goodwill,” Starr said. “What Mr Tennenbaum does with his money is nobody else’s business.”

  “Why don’t you just tell us how you spent that money, Mr Tennenbaum, if you have nothing to hide?”

  “I like going out,” Tennenbaum said, “I like eating in restaurants, I like living. I don’t have to justify myself.”

  “Do you have receipts to back up what you’re telling us?”

  “What if I spent the money on lots of girlfriends? The kind of girlfriends who don’t give receipts? But enough of this mockery, gentlemen, that money’s legal, I inherited it from my father. I can do what I like with it.”

  We had no choice but to accept that we would get nothing more from him.

  Major McKenna told Jesse and me that we had a whole bunch of things that pointed to Tennenbaum, but no single solid thing that would nail him. “So far, Tennenbaum doesn’t need to do anything to refute the weight of your evidence against him. You can’t prove that his van was on the street, you can’t prove the pressure from Mayor Gordon. Find something that’ll force Tennenbaum to show his hand.”

  We went over our investigation from the beginning. There had to be something we had overlooked somewhere. In Natasha’s living room, which had been entirely refurnished in the course of our investigation, we again pored over our notes, and still everything pointed to Tennenbaum.

  Our focus was divided between two restaurants, Café Athena and Little Russia. Darla and Natasha’s project was making great progress. They were cooking all day long, testing recipes that they then recorded in a big red book for possible inclusion on their menu. Jesse and I were the first beneficiaries. Every time we walked in, at any hour of the day or night, something was happening in the kitchen. There was even a brief diplomatic incident when I mentioned Natasha’s sandwiches.