by Joël Dicker
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Lauren! I feel like I’m listening to my father!”
“If you carry on like this, Betsy, you’re going to end up completely alone.”
Betsy burst out laughing and got out of her car. If she’d been given a coin every time she heard people say that, she would be swimming in money by now. All the same, she had to admit that, given her situation, she couldn’t blame Lauren. She was indeed living alone in Orphea, newly divorced and childless.
According to Lauren, there were two reasons for Betsy’s successive failures in love. One was the fact that she did not show willing, the other her profession. “I never tell them in advance what you do for a living,” Lauren had said a few times about the dates she arranged for her. “I think it intimidates them.”
Betsy walked into the outdoor seating area of the restaurant. Today’s candidate was named Josh. He had the air of a man who was too sure of himself. He greeted Betsy by giving her the eye in a frankly embarrassing manner and exhaling stale breath. This was not going to be the night she met Prince Charming.
* * *
“We’re very worried, Captain Rosenberg,” Trudy and Dennis Mailer said to me in unison in the living room of their beautiful house in Sag Harbor.
“I telephoned Stephanie on Monday morning,” Mrs Mailer said. “She was in a meeting at the paper, she said, and would call me back. She never did.”
“Stephanie always calls back,” Mr Mailer said.
I could see from the start why the Mailers might have aggravated the police. With them, everything became a drama, even the fact that I had declined a coffee when I arrived.
“Don’t you like coffee?” Mrs Mailer had said desperately.
“Perhaps you’d prefer tea?” her husband had said.
Managing at last to capture their attention, I had been able to ask them a few preliminary questions. Did Stephanie have any problems? No, they were categorical about that. Did she do drugs? No, definitely not. Did she have a boyfriend? Not as far as they knew. Was there any reason they could think of why she should drop out of sight? No, none.
Their daughter was not the kind of person to hide anything from them. But I soon discovered that this was not exactly the case.
“Why did Stephanie go to Los Angeles two weeks ago?”
“To Los Angeles?” Mrs Mailer said in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“Two weeks ago, Stephanie was in California for three days.”
“We didn’t know that,” Mr Mailer said apologetically. “It’s not like her to leave for Los Angeles without telling us. I guess it must have been in connection with the newspaper? She’s very discreet about the articles she’s working on.”
I did not think that the Orphea Chronicle could afford to send its reporters to the other side of the country. And, in fact, it was her job at the paper that raised a number of further questions.
“When and how did Stephanie arrive in Orphea?”
“She had been living in Manhattan for the last few years,” Mrs Mailer said. “She studied literature at Notre Dame. She’s always wanted to be a writer, ever since she was young. She’s had short stories published, two of them in the New Yorker. After her studies, she worked at the New York Literary Review, but she decided to leave in September.”
“Did she give you a reason?”
“She quite soon found a job at the Orphea Chronicle and decided to come back to this area and settle here. She seemed pleased to be away from Manhattan and back in a calmer environment.”
There was a moment’s hesitation. Then Mr Mailer said:
“Captain Rosenberg, we’re not the kind of people who trouble the police for no reason, believe me. We wouldn’t have raised the alarm if we weren’t both convinced that something was wrong. The police in Orphea made it very clear to us that there are no grounds for them to be involved. But even when she took a day trip to the city, Stephanie would send us a text or call us when she got back to let us know that everything was alright. Why text her editor and not her parents? If she had wanted us not to worry, she would have sent us a text, too.”
“Speaking of which,” I resumed, “why does Stephanie go so often to Manhattan?”
“I didn’t say she went there often,” Dennis said. “I was only giving an example.”
“But she does go there often,” I said. “Usually on the same days and at the same times. As if she had a regular appointment. What is it she does there?”
Again, the Mailers seemed not to know what I was talking about. Mrs Mailer, realizing she had not managed to convince me of the gravity of the situation, asked:
“Have you been to her apartment, Captain Rosenberg?”
“No, I’d have liked to, but I didn’t have a key.”
“Would you like to go take a look now? You may see something we didn’t see.”
I accepted, only so that I could close the case. A swift study of her apartment would surely convince me that the Orphea police were right and that there was nothing that pointed to the possibility that Stephanie’s being missing was grounds for my being involved. She could go to Los Angeles or New York as often as she pleased. As for her work at the Orphea Chronicle, it was feasible that after losing her job in the city she had seized on the opportunity presented while waiting for something better to come along.
*
It was a little after eight o’clock when we got to Bendham Road. The three of us climbed the stairs to her apartment. Trudy handed me the key. I turned the key, but the door was not locked. I felt a powerful surge of adrenaline. There was someone inside. Was it Stephanie?
I signaled to Stephanie’s parents to make no noise, say nothing, and gently pushed the door. It opened noiselessly. The shambles in the living room was appalling. Someone had been searching the place.
I whispered to the Mailers. “Go down the stairs. Wait for me in your car. I’ll come and get you.”
When they had gone, I took out my pistol and, looking left and right, stepped into the apartment. It had been turned upside down. I began by inspecting the living room. Its bookshelves had been pulled over, the cushions on the couch were ripped open. My attention was drawn to the objects scattered on the floor and I was unaware of a figure approaching me noiselessly from behind. It was when I turned to look in the other rooms that I found myself up against a shadowy apparition who sprayed tear gas in my face, burning my eyes and making it hard to breathe. Blinded, I bent double. I was struck on the back of my head.
A black curtain descended.
* * *
8.05 at Café Athena.
It is said that Cupid arrives without warning, but there was no doubt that Cupid had decided to stay home when he inflicted this dinner on Betsy. For a whole hour now, without a pause, Josh had been talking. Betsy, who had stopped listening to him, amused herself counting the number of “I”s in his monologue, trotting out like little cockroaches that repelled her a little more each time they appeared. Lauren, who did not know where to put herself, was on her fifth glass of white wine, while Betsy made do with alcohol-free cocktails.
At last, perhaps exhausted by his own eloquence, Josh reached for a glass of water and knocked it back in one go. After this welcome moment of silence, he turned to Betsy and asked her in a formal tone, “How about you, Betsy, what do you do for a living? Lauren wouldn’t tell me.” At that very moment, Betsy’s cell phone rang. Seeing the number displayed on the screen, she knew at once it was an emergency.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I have to answer this call.”
She got up from the table and walked away, then came back and told Lauren that, most unfortunately, she had to leave them.
“Already?” Josh said, disappointed. “We have hardly had time to get acquainted.”
“But I know everything about you. It was . . . fascinating.”
She kissed Lauren and her husband, waved at Josh, and quickly left. She must have taken the poor man’s fancy, because he caught up with her on the sidewalk.
“Would you like me to drop you anywhere?” he said. “I have a—”
“A Mercedes Coupé,” she said. “I know, you told me twice. It’s very kind of you, but I’m parked just there.”
She opened the trunk of her car, while Josh stood beside her.
“I’ll get your number from Lauren,” he said. “I’m often in the neighborhood. We could grab a coffee.”
“Sure,” Betsy said, as she opened a large canvas bag.
“You still haven’t told me what you do.”
Betsy lifted a bulletproof vest from the bag. Adjusting the straps around her body, she watched Josh’s eyes open wide and stare at the shiny badge that bore in capital letters the word POLICE.
“I’m deputy police chief here in Orphea,” she said, taking out the holster with her pistol in it and hooking it to her belt.
Josh kept staring, incredulous. She got into her car and set off at speed. The red and blue flashing lights shone through the dusk and her siren made everyone in the street turn to look.
According to the call from the switchboard, an officer from the State Police had been attacked in a nearby building. All available patrol cars as well as the officer on duty had been alerted.
She drove down Main Street. Pedestrians trying to cross turned back and took refuge on the sidewalks, and cars traveling both ways moved onto the curb to let her pass. She drove along the middle of the street, her foot down. She was used to taking emergency calls during rush hour in New York.
By the time she got to the building in Bendham Road, one patrol car was already on the scene. Entering the lobby, she ran into one of her colleagues coming down the stairs.
“The suspect ran out through the back door!” he cried.
Betsy went through the emergency exit at the rear of the building, and found herself in a deserted alleyway. There was an eerie silence. She stopped and listened, hoping for a sound that might point her in the right direction, then broke into a run and came to a little park. Again, total silence.
Thinking she heard a noise in the bushes, she took her gun from its holster and ran into the park. Nothing. Suddenly, she thought she saw a shadowy figure running. She set off in pursuit, but quickly lost sight of him. She finally stopped, disorientated and out of breath, blood hammering in her temples. She heard a noise behind a hedge. She approached slowly, heart pounding. She saw a dark figure advancing with muffled steps. She waited for the right moment, then leaped, pointing her gun at the man and ordering him to stop moving. It was Montagne, who was pointing a gun at her, too.
“Fuck, Betsy, are you crazy?”
She sighed and put her pistol back in its holster, bending double to regain her breath.
“Montagne, what the fuck are you doing here?” she said.
“I could ask you the same question! You aren’t even on duty this evening!”
As head deputy, Montagne was technically her superior. She was only the second deputy.
“I’m on call,” she said. “The switchboard called me.”
“To think I’d almost cornered him!” Montagne said irritably.
“Cornered him? I was here before you. There was only one patrol car outside the building.”
“I came from the street round the back. You should have radioed your position. That’s what team players do. They communicate information, they don’t act like desperados.”
“I was on my own, I didn’t have a radio.”
“You have one in your car, don’t you? You piss me off, Betsy! Since your first day here, you’ve been pissing everybody off!”
He spat on the ground and turned back toward the building. Betsy followed him. By now, Bendham Road had been invaded by emergency vehicles.
“Betsy! Montagne!” Chief Ron Gulliver called over to them.
“We lost him, Chief,” Montagne said. “I could have had him if Betsy hadn’t fucked up, like she always does.”
“Go fuck yourself, Montagne!” she said.
“You go fuck yourself, Betsy!” Montagne retorted. “You can go home, this is my case!”
“No, it’s my case! I was here before you.”
“Do us all a favor and get out of here!”
Betsy turned to Gulliver for support. “What do you think, Chief?”
Gulliver could not abide conflict. “You’re not on duty, Betsy,” he said in a soothing voice.
“I’m on call!”
“Leave this case to Montagne,” Gulliver said.
Montagne smiled and headed back to the building, leaving Betsy and Gulliver alone.
“That isn’t fair, Chief!” she said. “Are you going to let Montagne talk to me like that?”
Gulliver did not want to hear. “Please, Betsy, don’t make a scene. Everyone’s looking at us. I don’t need this now.” Then he peered closely at her and said, “Did you have a date?”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re wearing lipstick.”
“I often wear lipstick.”
“This is different. You look like you’re on a date. Why don’t you go back to him? We’ll talk tomorrow at the station.”
Gulliver headed for the building, leaving her on her own. Suddenly hearing a voice calling to her, she turned. It was Michael Bird, the editor of the Orphea Chronicle.
“Betsy,” he said, coming level with her, “what’s going on?”
“No comment,” she said. “I’m not in charge of anything.”
“You will be soon,” he said with a smile.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean when you take over as police chief. Is that why you were just quarreling with Deputy Montagne?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Michael.”
“Really?” he said, faking surprise. “Everyone knows you’ll be the next chief.”
Saying nothing, she walked back to her car. She took off her bulletproof vest and threw it onto the back seat. She had absolutely no desire to go back to Café Athena. She drove home and sat on the porch with a drink and a cigarette to savor the mild evening weather.
BETSY KANNER
I arrived in Orphea on September 14, 2013, a Saturday.
It was only two hours from New York City, but it could have been on the other side of the world. I had moved from the skyscraper city of Manhattan to this quiet little town, bathed in soft, late-afternoon sunlight. I drove up Main Street and then through my new neighborhood to the house I had rented. I was driving slowly, looking at the people out strolling, the children crowding around an ice cream truck, the conscientious residents tending to their flower beds. Everything was calm and peaceful.
At last I came to the house. A new life was opening up in front of me. The only vestiges of my former existence were my furniture, which I had had brought from New York. I unlocked the front door, went inside, and switched on the light in the hall. To my surprise, I discovered that the floor was cluttered with my cardboard boxes. I quickly looked through the first floor. The furniture was all wrapped, nothing had been put together, my things were all in boxes piled up randomly around the rooms.
I immediately called the moving firm. The person who answered said, “I think you’ve made a mistake, Mrs Kanner. I have your file in front of me and you evidently ticked the wrong boxes. The service you signed for didn’t include unpacking.” She hung up.
I walked outside to get away from the mess and sat on the steps of the porch. I was angry. A figure appeared with a bottle of beer in each hand. It was my neighbor, Cody Springfield. I had met him twice before, once when I viewed the house, and again when I had signed the lease and came to prepare my move.
“I wanted to welcome you, Betsy.”
“That’s very kind,” I said, making a face.
“You don’t seem in a very good mood.”
I shrugged. He handed me a beer and sat down next to me. I told him about my misadventure with the removers and he offered to help me unpack. Within a few minutes, we were carrying my bed up to what was going to be my bedroom.
“What should I do to fit in here?” I said.
“There’s no need to worry on that score, Betsy. People will like you. You can always volunteer to help with the theater festival next summer. That’s an event that always brings people together.”
Cody was the first person I connected with in Orphea. He ran a wonderful bookstore on Main Street, which would soon become a kind of second home to me.
That evening, after Cody had left and I was still unpacking boxes of clothes, I had a call from my ex-husband.
“Are you kidding me?” he said when I picked up. “You left the city without saying goodbye to me.”
“I said goodbye to you a long time ago, Mark.”
“Ouch, that hurts!”
“Why are you calling me?”
“I wanted to talk to you, Betsy.”
“Mark, I have no desire to ‘talk’. We’re not getting back together. It’s over.”
He ignored me. “I had dinner with your father this evening. It was great.”
“Just leave my father alone, O.K.?”
“Is it my fault he loves me?”
“Why are you doing this to me, Mark? Is it revenge?”
“Are you in a bad mood, Betsy?”
“Yes,” I said. “I am in a bad mood! I have furniture still needing to be assembled and I don’t know how, which means I have better things to do than listen to you!”
I regretted saying this, because he immediately offered to come to my rescue.
“You need help? I’ll get in my car and I’ll be right there!”
“No, don’t do that!”
“I can be there in two hours. We’ll spend the night putting your furniture together and setting the world to rights. It’ll be like the good old days.”
“Mark, I forbid you to come.”
I hung up and switched off my cell phone. The next morning, I had a nasty surprise. Mark had arrived.
“What are you doing here?”
He gave me a broad smile. “What a warm welcome! I’m here to help you.”
“Who gave you my address?”
“Your mother.”
“I don’t believe it. I’ll kill her!”
“Betsy, she’s dying to see us back together. She wants grandchildren!”
