by Joël Dicker
In the parking lot of the airfield in Orphea, Jerry Eden was sitting at the wheel of his car, waiting. A loud engine noise tore him from his thoughts. He looked up and saw the helicopter arriving. He got out of the car and watched the machine come down onto the asphalt a few dozen yards away. Once the engine had been turned off and the propellers stopped, the side door of the helicopter opened and Cynthia Eden got out, followed by their lawyer, Benjamin Graff. They came through the gate separating the landing pad from the parking lot and Cynthia rushed into her husband’s arms, sobbing.
Eden, still embracing his wife, exchanged a friendly handshake with his lawyer.
“Benjamin,” he said, “tell me there is no chance Carolina can go to prison.”
“What quantity of drugs did she have on her?”
“I have no idea.”
“Let’s go straight to the police station. We have to prepare for the hearing. In normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be worried, but there is the background of the Scalini case. If the judge prepares his case properly, he’s bound to find out about that and may be tempted to take it into account. That could be a problem for Carolina.”
Eden was shaking. His legs could barely support him. He asked Benjamin to take the wheel. A quarter of an hour later, they presented themselves at the police station in Orphea. They were admitted to an interrogation room, and a short while later Carolina was led in by two police officers. She was in handcuffs. When she saw her parents, she burst into tears. One of the officers removed her handcuffs and she immediately rushed into their arms. “My baby!” Cynthia cried, hugging her daughter to her as hard as she could.
The officers left them alone in the room and they sat down around the plastic table. The lawyer took out a file and a notepad from his briefcase and immediately got to work.
“Carolina,” he said, “I need to know exactly what you told the police. I particularly need to know if you told them anything about Tara.”
*
At the Grand Theater, Hayward’s auditions were in full flow. Mayor Brown was sitting onstage next to the director, growing more and more anxious as the hours passed. Nobody seemed suitable.
“Don’t worry,” Hayward kept saying. “There’s talent in this town, I know it. It’s just a matter of time.”
“Time is the one thing we don’t have,” the mayor said glumly.
Hayward called the next two aspiring actors up onstage. Two men stood and made their way to the stage. Meta Ostrovski and Steven Bergdorf.
“What are you two doing here?” Hayward asked.
“I’m here to audition,” Ostrovski said.
“So am I,” Bergdorf said.
Hayward got up to hand both men their lines. Then he sat again and read out the stage directions that were their cue.
It is a gloomy morning. Rain is falling. On a country road, the traffic is paralyzed. A vast bottleneck has formed. The motorists, at the ends of their tethers, blow their horns angrily. A man is jogging along the side of the road, past the line of motionless cars. He approaches the officer on duty.
Ostrovski jogged towards Bergdorf, making a convincing show of being out of breath. Mayor Brown sat up a little in his seat.
OSTROVSKI: What’s going on?
STEVEN BERGDORF: There’s been an accident.
OSTROVSKI: How? What happened?
STEVEN BERGDORF: It was a motorcycle. The man went straight into a tree. It’s a mess back there. If I were you, I’d keep on going.
As the scene unfolded, against all his expectations the mayor found himself being drawn into their performances. The difference from what had come before was night and day.
“Kirk,” he hissed. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Thirty seconds later, Hayward had made his decision.
“O.K.,” he said, getting to his feet. “I think I’ve seen enough.”
“No, wait, Kirk!” Ostrovski said, putting his hands together as if in prayer. “You’ve got to give us more time.”
“Relax, Meta,” Hayward said with a sly smile. “You’re in the play.”
He then turned to face the auditorium and the other waiting aspirants, as Ostrovski went over to clap Bergdorf on the back.
“We have our first two cast members!” the director announced.
* * *
The afternoon was coming to an end when, in the main room of the courthouse in Orphea, after an interminable wait, Carolina Eden finally appeared before Judge Abe Cooperstein.
Escorted by a police officer, she advanced unsteadily toward the judge, her body exhausted by a night in the cells and her eyes red with tears. “So, what do we have here?” Judge Cooperstein said, skimming through the report he had been passed. “Case number 23450, munici-pality of Orphea against Miss Carolina Eden. Miss Eden, I read here that you were arrested yesterday afternoon at the wheel of a car, while stuffing heroin up your nose. Is that correct?”
Carolina threw a terrified glance at Benjamin Graff, who encouraged her with a nod of the head to answer as they had agreed.
“Yes, your honor,” she replied.
“May I know, miss, why a nice girl like you is taking drugs?”
“I made a big mistake, your honor. I’m in a weird place in my life right now. But I’m doing everything I can to get out of it. I’m seeing a psychiatrist in New York.”
“So this isn’t the first time you’ve taken drugs?”
“No, your honor.”
“Are you a regular consumer?”
“No, your honor. I wouldn’t say that.”
“But the police did find a large quantity among your effects.”
Carolina lowered her head. Jerry and Cynthia Eden felt their stomachs knotting. If the judge knew anything about Tara Scalini, their daughter was in big trouble.
“What are you doing with your life?” Cooperstein said.
“Not much right now,” Carolina said.
“Why’s that?”
Carolina started crying. She wanted to tell him the whole story, to tell him about Tara. She deserved to go to prison. Since she couldn’t get a grip on herself, she couldn’t answer the question, and Cooperstein went on:
“I admit, Miss Eden, that there’s a point in the police report that troubles me.”
There was a moment’s silence. Jerry and Cynthia felt their hearts explode in their chests. The judge knew the whole story. Prison was guaranteed. But Cooperstein asked:
“Why did you park outside that house to take the drugs? I mean, anyone else would have gone to the woods, the beach, a private place, right? But you parked by the gate of a house. Just like that, in full view. It’s hardly surprising the occupants called the police. You must admit that’s strange.”
The tension for the Edens was too great.
“It’s our old vacation home,” Carolina said. “My parents had to sell it because of me.”
The judge was intrigued. “Because of you?”
Eden wanted to stand up, or cry out, or do anything to stop the hearing. But Graff got in first. He took advantage of Carolina’s hesitation to reply in her place:
“Your honor, all my client asks is to make amends and come to terms with life. It’s obvious that what she did yesterday was a cry for help. She parked outside the house because she knew she would be found. She knew her father would think to look for her there. Carolina and her father came to Orphea to find themselves and get their lives back on the right footing.”
Judge Cooperstein looked away from Carolina, gazed at the lawyer for a moment, then returned to the defendant.
“Is that true, young lady?”
“Yes,” she said in a low voice.
The judge seemed satisfied with the answer. Graff’s stratagem had worked.
“I think you deserve a second chance,” Cooperstein decreed. “But remember: this is an opportunity you have to seize. Is your father here?”
Eden stood up immediately.
“I’m here, your honor. Jerry Eden, Carolina’s father.”
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“Mr Eden, this concerns you, too, since I understand you came here with your daughter to rebuild your relationship.”
“That’s correct, your honor.”
“And what were you planning to do with your daughter here in Orphea?”
The question caught Eden off guard. The judge, noticing his hesitation, added:
“Don’t tell me, Mr Eden, that you came here just to let your daughter see out her angst by a hotel swimming pool?”
“No, your honor. We wanted to audition together for the play. When Carolina was little, she said she wanted to be an actress. She even wrote a play three years ago.”
The judge allowed himself a moment’s thought. He looked at Eden, then at Carolina, and declared, “Very well. Miss Eden, I suspend the sentence provided you participate with your father in this play.”
“Thank you, your honor,” Carolina said with a smile. “I won’t disappoint you.”
“I hope not, Miss Eden. Let’s be quite clear about this: if you fall down again, or if you are again arrested in possession of drugs, you won’t be treated with such leniency. Your case will be dealt with in a state court. That means that if you offend again, you’ll go straight to prison for several years.”
Carolina promised and threw herself into her parents’ arms. They went back to the Lake Palace. Carolina was exhausted and fell asleep as soon as she sat down on the couch in their suite. Eden drew Cynthia out onto the balcony to talk in peace.
“How about you stay with us? We could spend the time together, as a family.”
“You heard the judge, Jerry, it’s you and Carolina.”
“There’s nothing to stop you staying with us.”
Cynthia shook her head. “No, you don’t understand. We can’t spend the time together as a family. Right now I don’t have the feeling we are a family anymore. I . . . I don’t have the strength. I don’t have the energy. For years now, you let me handle everything. Oh, sure, you pay for it all, Jerry, and I’m truly grateful, don’t think I’m not. But when was the last time you did anything for this family, apart from the financial aspect? All these years you’ve left me alone to handle everything and make sure the family functions properly. All you did was go to work. And not once, Jerry, not once did you ask me how I was. How I was getting along. Not once, Jerry, did you ask me if I was happy. You assumed happiness, you assumed that in St Barts or in an apartment with a view of Central Park we must be happy. Not once, Jerry, did you ask me that fucking question.”
“Did you ever ask me if I was happy?” Jerry said. “This fucking work of mine, which you and Carolina hate so much—did you ever ask me if I hated it, too?”
“What stopped you from resigning?”
“The only reason I did all that, Cynthia, was to offer you a dream life. Which the two of you don’t seem to want, when it comes down to it.”
“Oh, really, Jerry? Are you going to tell me you preferred that little boarding house to our house by the ocean?”
“Maybe,” Eden said.
“I don’t believe you!”
Cynthia contemplated her husband in silence for a moment. Then she said in a choked voice:
“I need you to repair our family, Jerry. You heard the judge. Next time it’ll be prison for Carolina. How are you going to make sure there isn’t a next time, Jerry? How are you going to protect our daughter from herself and stop her ending up in jail?”
“Cynthia, I—”
She would not let him speak. “I’m going back to the city, Jerry. I’m leaving you here with the mission of repairing our daughter’s life. This is an ultimatum. Save Carolina. Save her, or I’m leaving you. I can’t live like this anymore.”
* * *
“Here it is, Jesse,” Derek said, pointing to the run-down gas station right at the end of Penfield Road.
I turned off, drove across the concrete forecourt and pulled up outside the lighted store. It was 11.15. There was nobody at the pumps, and the place seemed deserted.
Outside, the air was stifling in spite of the late hour. Inside, the air-conditioning made the atmosphere icy. We advanced along the aisles of magazines, drinks, and potato chips until we came to the counter, behind which, hidden by a display rack of chocolate bars, a white-haired man sat watching T.V. He greeted me without taking his eyes off the screen.
“Which pump?” he said.
“I’m not here for gas,” I said, showing him my badge.
He immediately switched off the T.V. and got to his feet. “What’s this about?”
“Are you Marty Connors?”
“Yes, that’s me. Why are you here?”
“We’re investigating the death of Mayor Gordon, Mr Connors.”
“Mayor Gordon? But that was years ago.”
“According to my information, you witnessed something that evening.”
“Yes, that’s right. I told the police about it at the time, and they told me it was nothing.”
“I need to know what you saw.”
“A black vehicle driving at high speed from Penfield Road and going straight ahead in the direction of Sutton Street. It drove right past here. I was at the pump, I just had time to see it go past.”
“Did you recognize the model?”
“Of course. A Ford E-150 van, with a strange design at the back.”
Derek and I looked at each other. Tennenbaum drove a Ford E-150 van.
“Did you see who was driving?” I asked.
“No, I didn’t. At the time I thought it was just kids playing around.”
“And what time was this exactly?”
“Around 7.00, but I can’t tell you the exact time. It might have been 7.00, it might have been 7.10. You know, it happened in a fraction of a second, and I didn’t really pay attention. It was only later, when I found out what had happened to the mayor and his family, that I thought there might be a connection. That’s when I contacted the police.”
“Who did you talk to? Do you remember the name of the officer?”
“Yes, of course, it was the chief himself who came to question me. Chief Hayward.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“The same thing I just told you. He said it was nothing to do with the case.”
Lena Bellamy had seen Tennenbaum’s van outside Mayor Gordon’s house in 1994. Now Marty Connors, who had spotted the same vehicle coming from Penfield Road, had confirmed that. Why had Hayward hidden it from us?
Leaving the store, we sat in the car for a while. Derek unfolded a map of the town and we studied the route the van had taken, according to Marty Connors.
“The van went down Sutton Street,” Derek said, moving his finger across the map, “and Sutton Street leads to the top of Main Street.”
“If you remember, on the opening night of the festival, Main Street was blocked off apart from a section at the top to allow vehicles with permission to get to the Grand Theater.”
“You mean like the kind of permission the volunteer fire officer on duty might have had?”
Even back in 1994, we had already wondered if anyone had seen Tennenbaum drive past the barrier on Main Street in order to get to the Grand Theater. But the only thing that emerged from questioning the volunteers and the police officers who had been on duty was that there had been such chaos that nobody had seen anything. The festival had been a victim of its own success: Main Street was crowded, the parking lots were overwhelmed. The teams had been unable to cope. The instructions to channel the crowds and the traffic had not been followed for long. People had started parking anywhere they could and walking where there was space, treading on the flowered borders. It was quite impossible to know who had gone through the barrier and at what time.
“So Tennenbaum came along Sutton Street to get back to the theater, just as we thought,” Derek said.
“But why did Hayward never tell us that? If we’d known of that testimony, we’d have been able to pin it on Tennenbaum much earlier. Did Hayward want him to get away with it?”
/> Connors suddenly appeared at the door of the store and came over to us.
“It’s lucky you’re still here,” he said. “I just remembered something. Back then, I mentioned the van to the other guy.”
“What other guy?” Derek said.
“I don’t remember his name. But I know he wasn’t from around here. The year after the murders, he came back to Orphea regularly. He said he was conducting his own investigation.”
JESSE ROSENBERG
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Ten days to opening night
The front page of the Orphea Chronicle:
THE DARKEST NIGHT:
FIRST ROLES CAST
Today is scheduled to be the last day of the auditions that have attracted an extraordinary number of aspiring actors from all over the region, much to the delight of the town’s storekeepers. The first to have been cast in a role is none other than the famous critic Meta Ostrovski (photograph opposite). He has spoken of the play as a chrysalis from which “those who thought they were caterpillars emerge as beautiful butterflies”.
Betsy, Derek and I got to the Grand Theater just before the start of the third day of auditions. The auditorium was deserted. Hayward was alone onstage. Seeing us arrive, he cried:
“You have no right to be here!”
I did not bother to reply. I took hold of him by the collar. “What have you been hiding from us, Hayward?”
I dragged him into the wings, where nobody could see us.
“You knew at the time that it was Tennenbaum’s van parked outside the Gordons’ house. And you covered up the gas station attendant’s testimony. What do you know about this case?”
“I’m not saying anything!” Hayward blustered. “How dare you bully me like this?”
I took out my pistol and stuck it in his belly.
“Jesse, what are you doing?” Betsy said.
“Let’s calm down,” Hayward said in a wheedling voice. “What is it you want to know? I’ll allow you one question.”
“I want to know what ‘The Darkest Night’ is,” I said.