by Joël Dicker
“Absolutely,” Mayor Brown confirmed. “In return for which, I’ll get you a suite at the Lake Palace, beginning tonight, and you can stay there until the end of the festival.”
“Let’s shake hands right now!” Ostrovski cried enthusiastically. “For a suite, I promise you the highest praise!”
When Ostrovski had left, Mayor Brown gave his deputy the task of arranging the critic’s stay.
“A suite at the Palace for three weeks, Alan?” Frogg said. “That’s going to cost us a fortune.”
“Don’t worry, Peter. We’ll find a way to balance the books. If the festival is a success, my re-election will be assured and the citizens won’t give a damn whether or not we went over the budget. We’ll cut back on next year’s festival if we have to.”
* * *
In the Edens’ apartment, Carolina was resting in her room. Lying on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, she was crying silently. She had finally been able to leave Mount Sinai Hospital and come home.
She could no longer remember what she had done after running away on Saturday. She vaguely recalled joining Leyla at a party, getting smashed on ketamine and alcohol, then wandering around various unfamiliar places, a club, an apartment, kissing a guy—a girl, too. She remembered finding herself emptying a bottle of vodka on the roof of a building, and approaching the edge to look down at the movement on the street below her. She had felt attracted by the void. She had wanted to jump, just to see what it was like. But she hadn’t done it. Maybe that was the reason she had got smashed. To have the courage to do it one day. To disappear. To be at peace. Some police officers had woken her in an alley where she was sleeping soundly, in rags. According to the examinations the doctors had made her undergo, she had not been raped.
She was staring at the ceiling. A tear rolled over her cheek to the corner of her lips. How could she have gotten to this point? She had been a good pupil, gifted, ambitious, loved. She had had everything going for her. An easy life, with no problems, and parents who had been with her every step of the way. Everything she had wanted she had had. And then there had been Tara Scalini and the tragedy that had ensued. Since that episode, she had hated herself. She wanted to destroy herself. She wanted to scratch her skin until it bled, to harm herself, so that all the world could see from her marks how much she hated herself and how much she was suffering.
Her father had his ear stuck to the outside of the door. He could not hear her breathing. He half opened the door. She immediately closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. He walked to the bed, his steps muffled by the deep carpet, saw that her eyes were shut, and left the room. He crossed the vast apartment to the kitchen, where Cynthia was waiting for him, sitting on a high stool by the counter.
“Well?” she said.
“She’s asleep.” He poured himself a glass of water and leaned on the counter, facing his wife.
“What are we going to do?” Cynthia said desperately.
Eden sighed. “I don’t know. Sometimes I tell myself there’s nothing we can do. It’s hopeless.”
“Jerry, I don’t recognize you anymore. She might have been raped! When I hear you talking like this, I get the feeling you’ve given up on your daughter.”
“Cynthia, we’ve tried individual therapy, family therapy, gurus, hypnotists, every kind of doctor, everything! We’ve twice sent her to detox and both times it was a disaster. She doesn’t seem like my daughter anymore. What do you want me to say?”
“You haven’t tried, Jerry!”
“What do you mean?”
“Yes, you sent her to every possible doctor, you even went with her sometimes, but you yourself haven’t tried to help her!”
“But what more could I do that the doctors couldn’t?”
“What more could you do? Dammit, you’re her father! You haven’t always been like this with her. Have you forgotten how close you used to be?”
“You know perfectly well what’s happened in the meantime, Cynthia!”
“Yes, I know, Jerry! That’s why you have to mend it. You’re the only one who can do that.”
“And what about that girl who died?” Eden said, his voice choked. “Can we ever mend that?”
“Stop it, Jerry! We can’t turn the clock back. Not me, not you, not anybody. Take Carolina away, I beg you, and save her. New York is killing her.”
“Take her where?”
“Where we were happy. Take her to Orphea. Carolina needs a father, not a couple of parents who yell at each other all day long.”
“We yell at each other because—”
Eden had raised his voice and his wife immediately placed her finger on his mouth to silence him.
“Save our daughter, Jerry. Only you can do that. She has to leave the city, get far away from her ghosts. Leave, Jerry, I beg you. Leave and come back to me. I want to see my husband again, I want to see my daughter again. I want to see my family again.”
She burst into tears. Eden nodded, and she took her finger away from his lips. He left the kitchen and walked resolutely toward his daughter’s room. He flung the door open and drew up the blinds.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Carolina protested, sitting up in bed.
“What I should have done a long time ago.” He opened a drawer at random, then another, and searched them roughly.
Carolina leaped out of bed. “Stop! Stop, Daddy! Dr Lern said . . .”
She tried to get in between her father and the drawers, but Jerry pushed her aside with a vigorous gesture that surprised her.
“Dr Lern said you should stop getting high!” Eden roared, waving a sachet filled with whitish powder.
“Leave that!” she screamed.
“What is this? Fucking ketamine?”
Without waiting for an answer, he walked toward the en suite bathroom.
“Stop! Stop!” Carolina yelled at him, trying to recover the sachet from her father’s hand, while he held her at a distance.
“What are you trying to do?” he said as he lifted the toilet lid. “To die? To end up in prison?”
“Don’t do that!” she implored him, starting to cry—whether out of anger or sorrow was not clear.
He poured out the powder and flushed the toilet, while his daughter looked on, powerless.
“You’re right!” she screamed. “I’m trying to die so that I don’t have to put up with you anymore!”
Her father looked at her sadly and announced in a surprisingly calm voice:
“Pack your bags, we’re leaving first thing tomorrow morning.”
“What do you mean, we’re leaving? I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m not asking for your opinion.”
“Where the hell are we going?”
“Orphea.”
“Orphea? What’s gotten into you? I’m not going back there! And anyway I already made plans. Leyla has a friend who has a house in Montauk and—”
“Forget Montauk. Your plans just changed.”
“What? No, you can’t do this to me! I’m not a baby anymore, I can do what I want!”
“No, you cannot do what you want. I let you do what you wanted for far too long.”
“Get out of my room at once and leave me alone!”
“You’re my daughter, you’re nineteen years old, and you’re going to do what I tell you. And what I tell you is: pack your bags.”
“What about Mom?”
“It’ll be just you and me.”
“Why should I go anywhere with you? I want to discuss it with Dr Lern first.”
“No, there won’t be any discussion with Lern, or with anybody. It’s time we put limits on you.”
“You can’t do this to me! You can’t force me to go away with you!”
“Yes, I can. Because I’m your father and I order you to do it.”
“I hate you! I hate you, do you hear me?”
“I know you do, Carolina, you don’t need to remind me. Pack your bags now. We’re leaving first thing tomorrow morning.” There was ur
gency in his tone.
He left the room resolutely, went and poured himself a Scotch, and drank it down in a few mouthfuls, gazing through the picture window at the spectacular night sky over New York.
PART TWO
Toward the Surface
-4
Secrets
FRIDAY, JULY 11 – SUNDAY, JULY 13, 2014
JESSE ROSENBERG
Friday, July 11, 2014
Fifteen days to opening night
I was drinking a coffee with Derek while waiting for Betsy. We were at the marina in Orphea.
“So he wouldn’t tell you anything?” Derek said. “Not even when you got him what he asked for?”
“Nothing. He told me that he’s been thinking about this play for years and now that he has the chance to put it on he’s not going to discuss it in any detail until the time is ripe. He said that all would be revealed on opening night, or some nonsense like that.”
Betsy arrived a few minutes later, but she didn’t sit down.
“Mayor Brown wants to see us,” she said. “Before his press conference.”
I downed the last of my coffee. “Let’s go.”
When we entered the mayor’s office, he seemed in a good mood.
“I wanted to thank you, Captain Rosenberg,” he said, motioning for us to sit, “for finding us a play for the festival. You’ve done this town a great service.”
Derek and Betsy sat, but I remained standing.
“Thank you, Mr Mayor,” I said, “but I can’t pretend that I don’t have concerns about Hayward. Betsy arranged for me fly out to L.A. because we had reason to believe he met with Stephanie Mailer before her death. But he refused to tell me what they discussed or what he knows until opening night. A woman has been murdered and Hayward wants us to wait two weeks! That’s totally unsatisfactory in my view. Now that he’s here, I think we should take him in for questioning.”
Brown got to his feet, color rising to his cheeks. “Rosenberg. This man is all that’s standing between us and canceling the festival. Don’t you think he deserves the benefit of the doubt? That this town deserves it? We need him. Without a play we’re sunk. All I’m asking is that you back off for two weeks. And, please . . . Be civil to Hayward.”
Just then, over the intercom, Brown’s secretary announced Kirk Hayward’s arrival.
“Starting now, Rosenberg,” Brown said, straightening his tie.
The office door opened and Hayward appeared.
“Chief Hayward,” Brown said, shaking his hand. “Glad to see you back. You look well. I’m looking forward to hearing more about this play you’re putting on for us.” He gestured toward Betsy, Derek and me. “You know Captain Rosenberg, of course. And you may remember Sergeant Scott. But perhaps you haven’t yet been introduced to Betsy Kanner, Deputy Police Chief here in Orphea.”
“We spoke on the telephone,” Betsy said, offering Hayward her hand.
“They were just leaving, as it happens,” Brown said, shooting me a stern glance.
Moments later, Meta Ostrovski arrived at the mayor’s office door. Entering the room, he looked Hayward up and down for a moment before introducing himself.
“Meta Ostrovski, the most famous and most feared critic in the country,” Hayward said with a smile. “The play I’m putting on is going to have ramifications well beyond the festival, and, of course, I have every hope that it will please as distinguished a critic as you are, sir.”
“Only a critic can decide what’s good and what’s bad. And my judgment will be unsparing!”
“Mr Ostrovski, you are going to say the play is terrific!” Mayor Brown advanced upon them. “We made a deal, and I require you to abide by it . . .”
Ostrovski scowled, but after a moment’s pause murmured his assent.
Brown turned to Hayward. “Where’s the cast?”
“I don’t have one yet,” Hayward said.
“What do you mean, you don’t have a cast?”
“I’m going to cast the play here, in Orphea.”
Brown opened his eyes wide in astonishment. “What do you mean, you’re going to cast it here? The first night is in two weeks’ time!”
“Don’t worry, Alan. I’ll prepare everything over the weekend. Auditions on Monday, first rehearsal on Thursday.”
“Thursday?” Brown said in a choked voice. “But that’ll leave you only nine days to rehearse a play that’s going to be the centerpiece of the festival!”
“That’s more than enough time. I’ve been thinking about the play for twenty years. Trust me: this play will cause such a stir, they’ll be talking about your festival all over the country.”
At that moment, one of the mayor’s staff opened the inner door. “Mr Mayor, the press are all here and they’re getting impatient.”
Brown sighed. There was no way he could back down now. He had no alternative but to give Hayward all the support he could.
* * *
Bergdorf entered the town hall, announced himself at the reception desk, and asked directions to the press room. He had just arrived in Orphea. He had last been back for the festival the year before, when he had been inspired to write a rave article for the Review, titled “The Smallest of the Great Festivals”, in which he urged readers to visit the town. No surprise then that he had been put on the council’s mailing list. Yesterday he had been sent a reminder about the press conference that would be held the following day at eleven o’clock at the town hall, in the course of which the mayor was going to “reveal the exceptional play which would be performed as a world premiere for the opening of the theater festival.”
A municipal employee showed him the way, leading him to a room in which journalists were listening attentively as Mayor Brown finished his introduction:
“. . . and that’s why I’m very pleased to announce that ‘The Darkest Night’, a brand-new creation by director Kirk Hayward, will be performed as a world premiere at our festival.”
He was sitting at a long table, facing the auditorium. Bergdorf noticed, much to his astonishment, that Meta Ostrovski was on the mayor’s left, and that on his right sat Kirk Hayward, who, the last time he had seen him, had been the town’s chief of police. It was now Hayward’s turn to speak.
“I’ve been working on ‘The Darkest Night’ on and off for many years alongside my Hollywood commitments, and I’m very proud that the public will at last get a chance to discover this gem, which is already arousing enormous enthusiasm among the country’s most important critics, including the legendary Meta Ostrovski, who’s right here and will be able to tell you how highly he rates this play.”
Thinking about his vacation in the Lake Palace—paid for by the taxpayers of Orphea—Ostrovski smiled and nodded at the crowd of photographers snapping him.
“A great play, my friends, a very great play,” he assured them. “A play of uncommon quality. You know that I don’t hand out compliments lightly. But this is really something! A triumph of world theater!”
Bergdorf wondered what the hell Ostrovski was doing here.
Hayward, galvanized by the warm welcome he was getting, now resumed: “What makes this production so remarkable is that the play is going to be performed by a cast from the local population. I’ve always wanted to give a chance to the inhabitants of Orphea.”
“An amateur cast and an unknown director!” Michael Bird raised his voice. “Mayor Brown is knocking it out the park!”
There was laughter, and a murmur ran around the room. Mayor Brown, determined to salvage what he could, declared:
“Kirk Hayward has come here, interrupting his work in L.A., to bring us a class act.”
“What makes this play exceptional,” Hayward said, “is that it’s going to be the opportunity for some amazing revelations! There are things still to be said about the murders that took place here in 1994. By inviting me to put on my play, Mayor Brown will make it possible for the veil to be lifted, for the truth to be revealed.”
The gathering was now spellbound.
“We have come to an understanding,” Mayor Brown said—he would have preferred to remain silent about this detail, but he could see that it was a way to get the attention of the assembled press. ”I have agreed with Mr Hayward, whom some of you will remember as Chief Hayward, that while we are proud to be putting on ‘The Darkest Night’, it is in addition our hope—indeed our expectation—that in the course of the play its author will reveal crucial information based on his own twenty-year study of the 1994 killings. It is my particular hope that the presentation of this play will lead the police to bring their investigation to a successful close.
“On opening night,” Brown went on, “I hope there will be a very large audience to support a play that will allow the truth to be at last established.”
At these words, there was a moment of stunned silence, at the end of which the journalists, sensing they had a priceless piece of news, burst into noisy movement.
Steven Bergdorf was deep in thought, a new gleam in his eyes. This whole idea of putting on a play in return for revelations about a criminal case was unique in the history of culture. His instinct told him to stay a while in Orphea.
Just as the conference was on the verge of breaking up, a journalist stood to address a question to Ostrovski. “Mr Ostrovski. You’ve read the play. If Mr Hayward won’t share with us the sensational information it reveals, can you tell us who the killer was?”
Ostrovski smiled, ignoring the warning look from Brown. “My dear boy,” he said to the journalist, “I would only be too happy to, but I’m afraid that certain passages were redacted.”
Hayward cut in. “There’s no point asking anyone else. Only I will have access to the secret the play will reveal. And I will not divulge anything until opening night.”
* * *
In her office in the Orphea police station, Betsy had installed a T.V. and a V.H.S. player.
“We got a video of the 1994 play from the director Buzz Lambert,” she told me. “We need to watch it. We hope it might show us something new.”
“Was your visit to Lambert productive?” I asked.
“Very,” Derek said enthusiastically. “First of all, Lambert described an altercation between Hayward and Mayor Gordon. Hayward wanted to perform his play during the festival and Gordon apparently said, ‘You’ll never perform that play while I’m alive.’”