by Joël Dicker
“Someone who doesn’t want to kill, but who has no choice,” Singh replied.
“Is he wiping out traces of the past, is that it?” Derek said.
“I think so. Someone in this town is willing to go to any lengths to protect his secret and prevent you from seeing your investigation through to the end.”
What had Springfield known? What connection was there between him and this whole case? We searched his house, thoroughly scoured his bookstore, but in vain. We found nothing.
That morning, Orphea, the state of New York, and soon the whole country woke to the news bulletins reporting the murder of Cody Springfield. More than the death of a bookseller, it was the succession of events that gripped people. The national media were talking about it now. There was bound to be an unprecedented influx of people into the town.
In response to the situation, an emergency meeting was held at the town hall with Mayor Brown, Major McKenna of the State Police, representatives of the neighboring towns, Chief Gulliver, Montagne, Betsy, Derek and me.
The first question was whether the festival should go ahead. During the night, it had been decided to put all the members of the cast under police protection.
“My advice would be to cancel the show,” I said. “It can only make matters worse.”
“Your opinion doesn’t count, Captain Rosenberg,” Brown said curtly. “For some reason I’m unaware of, you have something against my good friend Kirk Hayward.”
“Your good friend Kirk Hayward?” I said ironically. “Did you call him that twenty years ago when you stole his girlfriend?”
“Captain,” the mayor cried, “your tone and your insolence are unacceptable!”
“Jesse,” Major McKenna said, “I suggest you keep that sort of obser-vation to yourself. What’s important is: do you believe Kirk Hayward really knows something about the Gordon killings?”
“We think there may be a connection between his play and the case.”
“You think? There may be?” The major sighed. “Jesse, do you have any indisputable evidence?”
“No, only suppositions, but well-informed ones.”
“Captain Rosenberg,” Mayor Brown cut in, “everyone says you’re a great detective and I respect that. But it seems to me that, since you arrived in this town, you’ve been causing nothing but chaos, without actually making any progress in your case.”
“It’s because we’re closing in on the killer that he’s getting nervous.”
“Oh, I’m pleased to have an explanation for the mess we’re in right now,” the mayor said. “Anyway, I’m continuing with the play.”
“Mr Mayor,” Derek said, “I believe Hayward is just making fun of you and won’t actually reveal the name of the killer.”
“He may not, but his play will!”
“Don’t play with words, Mr Mayor. I’m convinced that Hayward has no idea of the killer’s identity. We shouldn’t take the risk of letting this play go on. I don’t know how the killer will react if he thinks his name is going to be revealed.”
“Precisely,” Mayor Brown said. “This is something we’ve never seen before. Look at the T.V. cameras, the crowds outside: Orphea is the center of attention. The whole country has forgotten video games and stupid T.V. shows and is holding its breath for a play! It’s remarkable! What’s going on, here and now, is simply unique!”
Major McKenna turned to Gulliver.
“What’s your opinion, Chief Gulliver? Should the play go ahead?”
“I’ve made my feelings on this matter abundantly clear over the last few days, but I’ll say it again. I believe very strongly that the festival should be canceled and the play with it.” He turned to Mayor Brown. “Alan, if you are hell-bent on going ahead, you leave me no choice but to bring forward my retirement and resign with immediate effect. It’s been an honor to work with you, but I won’t let this happen on my watch.”
“Very well,” Mayor Brown said in a flat voice. He turned to Montagne. “Deputy Montagne, I appoint you interim police chief.”
Montagne’s smile was ill-concealed. Betsy forced herself to remain impassive. The mayor turned to Major McKenna.
“What about you, Major, what do you think?”
“It’s your town, Mayor Brown. It’s your decision. I think that even if you cancel everything, that won’t solve the problem of security. The town will still be overrun with media and onlookers. But if you continue with the play, you will have to take drastic measures.”
The mayor thought this over for a moment or two, then declared in a firm voice:
“We provide the town with exceptional security and we continue with the play.”
McKenna listed the security measures that would have to be taken. All access to the town would be controlled, and Main Street closed to traffic. The cast of the play would be lodged at the Lake Palace, which would be placed under police surveillance. A bus with a police escort would bring them to and from the Grand Theater.
When the meeting was finally closed, Betsy cornered Mayor Brown in a corridor.
“Shit, Alan,” she exploded, “how could you appoint Montagne to take Gulliver’s place? You brought me to Orphea to take over, didn’t you?”
“It’s temporary, Betsy. I need you to concentrate on the investigation.”
“You resent me because you were questioned as part of the investigation, is that it?”
“You could have warned me, Betsy, instead of hauling me in like a criminal.”
“If you had told us all you knew, you would never have been a suspect.”
Brown, in no mood to discuss matters further, said, “If this business costs me my job, Betsy, you can pack your bags anyway. So now prove to me what you’re capable of. Lay your hands on whoever is terrorizing this town.”
* * *
The Lake Palace had been transformed into a barracks. The cast of the play had been led into a reception room guarded by the police.
Media representatives and onlookers crowded the front forecourt, boiling in the midday sun, hoping to see Hayward and the cast. Excitement doubled when first a minibus and then some police cars arrived. The cast was about to move to the Grand Theater to begin rehearsals. After a long wait, the actors finally appeared, surrounded by police officers. Behind the security barriers, they were cheered, and their names were called out. The onlookers demanded photographs and autographs, the reporters wanted a statement.
Ostrovski was the first to respond to these requests and he was quickly followed by others. Carried away by the enthusiasm of the crowd, those still worried about the risk of performing in “The Darkest Night” were now relieved of their anxiety. They were on the verge of becoming famous. Live on T.V. screens, the whole of America was discovering the faces of this amateur cast caught in a sensation.
“I told you you’d be stars,” Hayward said.
*
A few miles away, in their house by the ocean, Gerald Scalini and his wife were astonished to see Carolina Eden’s face on their T.V. screen.
In New York, Bergdorf’s wife Tracy, alerted by her colleagues, discovered, to her amazement, her husband playing at being an actor.
In Los Angeles, at the Beluga Bar, Hayward’s drinking companions stared spellbound at their friend appearing on all the news channels. The whole country was talking about his play, “The Darkest Night”.
* * *
The only lead that Betsy, Derek and I could envisage at this stage was that Springfield had been connected to Jeremiah Fold and his small-time criminal activities. So we decided to go back to Ridge’s Club. But when we showed Costico a photograph of Springfield, he told us he had never set eyes on him.
“Who is this guy?”
“A man who was murdered last night,” I said.
“Oh, hell, I hope you guys aren’t planning to come see me every time you find a stiff?”
“You never saw this man at the club? Or hanging around with Jeremiah?”
“No, never. What makes you think there’s a co
nnection?”
“Everything points to the fact that Mayor Gordon, who you don’t know, bought the script of a play called ‘The Darkest Night’ from this man in his bookstore. In that script, Jeremiah Fold’s name appeared in code.”
“Do I look like a man involved with plays?” Costico said.
Costico was too stupid to be a good liar, so we could believe him when he said he had never heard of either Gordon or Springfield.
Was Gordon involved in Fold’s criminal activities? Could Springfield’s bookstore have served as a cover? What if this whole thing about local writers had been a decoy to cover a criminal enterprise? The hypotheses jostled each other in our minds. Once again, we had no evidence.
We decided to go to the motel where Costico had told us he trapped his “slaves”. When we got there, we realized that the establishment had hardly changed with the years. And when we got out of our car, Betsy’s uniform and the police badges on our belts unleashed a stirring of panic among the fauna in the parking lot.
We rounded up the prostitutes, who were all around fifty or older. Among them was one who looked like the madam—her name was Regina—who told us that she’d been in charge here since the mid-’80s.
She admitted us to the room that served as her office, so that we could be quiet, and, above all, so that we did not scare away the clients.
“What’s going on?” she said, motioning the three of us to an imita-tion leather coach. “You don’t look like Vice to me, I’ve never seen you before.”
“Homicide,” I said. “We’re not looking to get you in any trouble. We have some questions about Jeremiah Fold.”
“Jeremiah Fold?” Regina repeated the name as if we were talking about a ghost.
I nodded. “If I mention Fold’s slaves, does that mean anything to you?”
“Sure it does, sweetheart.”
“Do you know these two men?” I said, showing her the photographs of Gordon and Springfield.
“Never seen them before.”
“I need to know if they were connected with Jeremiah Fold.”
“Connected with Fold? Now, that I really don’t know.”
“Could they have been his slaves?”
“It’s possible. But, honestly, I have no idea. Jeremiah got his slaves from the occasional clients. The regulars generally frequented the same girls and knew they mustn’t touch Mylla.”
“Who’s Mylla?” Derek said. “The girl who was used as bait?”
“Yes. She wasn’t the only one, but she’s the one who lasted longest. Two years. Until Jeremiah died. The others didn’t last three months.”
“Why not?”
“They all did drugs. In the end they weren’t presentable anymore and Jeremiah would get rid of them.”
“Get rid of them how?”
“Overdose. The police didn’t suspect anything. He’d dump the body somewhere and the cops reckoned only that that was one junkie less.”
“But this Mylla didn’t do drugs?”
“No. Never touched any of the stuff. She was a smart girl, very well brought up, who somehow found herself in Jeremiah’s clutches. He kept her because he must have been a little bit in love with her. She was really beautiful. I mean, the girls outside, they’re hookers. She had something more. Like a princess.”
“And how did she trap the slaves?”
“She’d work the side of the road, bring them back to the room, and there they’d be caught by Costico. You know Costico?”
“Yes,” Betsy said, “we spoke with him. But I don’t understand why none of these men rebelled.”
“Oh, you should have seen Costico twenty years ago. He was all muscle. And seriously violent. You couldn’t control him. I saw him break people’s arms and knees to get his way. One day he broke into a slave’s house, woke him in his bed with his wife and beat him up in front of her. What could the guy have done afterward? Complain to the police when he was acting as a mule for drug traffickers? He’d have ended up in a federal penitentiary.”
“So you let him get on with it?”
“It isn’t my parking lot, lady, and it isn’t my motel. And besides, Jeremiah left us in peace. Nobody wanted any trouble with him. I only once saw a guy put Costico in his place. That was a sight for sore eyes.”
“What happened?”
“It was in January 1994, I remember that because it was snowing really hard. The guy comes out of Mylla’s room, stark naked. All he has on him are his car keys. Costico runs after him. The guy opens his car door and takes out a canister of tear gas. He sprays it over Costico, who starts shrieking like a little girl. It was hysterical. The guy gets in his car and takes off. Stark naked! In the snow! What a scene that was!”
Regina laughed at the memory.
“You say a tear gas canister?” I said, intrigued.
“Yes, why?”
“We are looking for a man, maybe connected with Jeremiah Fold, who uses tear gas.”
“I don’t know about that, sweetheart. All I saw was his ass, and that was many years ago. Maybe Costico remembers something. The guy left his pants with his wallet in the room, so I assume Costico didn’t miss the opportunity.”
I didn’t insist, but asked instead:
“What became of Mylla?”
“When Jeremiah died, she vanished. Good for her. I hope she has a new life somewhere.”
“Do you have any idea of her real name?”
“No idea at all.”
Betsy, who sensed that Regina wasn’t telling the whole story, said, “We need to talk with this woman. It’s very important. There’s a guy who’s killing innocent people and causing a whole lot of panic. This guy may be connected with Jeremiah Fold. What was Mylla’s real name? If you know, you have to tell us.”
Regina looked us up and down, then stood up and went and rummaged in a box of souvenirs. She took out a press clipping.
“I found this in Mylla’s room after she left.”
She handed us the piece of paper. It was a missing persons notice from the New York Times, from 1992. The daughter of a politician and businessman in Manhattan had run away and was nowhere to be found. Her name was Miranda Davis. Along with the notice was a photograph of a girl, then aged seventeen. I recognized her immediately. It was Miranda, the wife of Michael Bird.
CAROLINA EDEN
When I was little, my parents would always tell me you shouldn’t judge people too quickly and should always give them a second chance. I made an effort to forgive Tara and did everything I could to rebuild our friendship.
Following the crisis of 2008, her father had had to give up his apartment, his house in the Hamptons, and cut back his whole lifestyle. Compared with the majority of Americans, the Scalinis did O.K. for themselves. They moved to a nice apartment on the Upper East Side, and Gerald made sure that Tara could stay in the same school, which was something. But it wasn’t quite the same as before. No more chauffeur, no more cook, no more weekends in the country.
Mr Scalini put on a good show, but Tara’s mother would say to anyone prepared to listen, “We’ve lost everything. I’m a slave now, I have to rush to the dry cleaners, then pick up my daughter from school and make food for everyone.”
In the summer of 2009, we moved into The Garden of Eden, our amazing house in Orphea. I say amazing without exaggeration: there was a wonderful spirit given off by the place. Everything had been built and decorated with taste. Every morning that summer, I had breakfast facing the ocean. I would spend my days reading, and above all writing. This house was a writer’s house, I thought, like the ones I’d read about in books.
Toward the end of the summer, my mother persuaded me to invite Tara to spend a few days in Orphea. I really didn’t want to.
“The poor girl’s stuck in the city all summer,” my mother said.
“That’s no reason to feel sorry for her, Mom.”
“Darling, you must learn to share. And to be patient with your friends.”
“She annoys me,” I said. “Sh
e acts like she knows it all.”
“Maybe because she feels threatened. You must cultivate your friendships.”
“She isn’t my friend anymore.”
“You know the proverb: a friend is someone we know well and love anyway. And you were happy when she invited you to her place in East Hampton.”
In the end, I did invite Tara. My mother was right: our reunion did us good. We recovered the energy we’d had at the beginning of our friendship. We spent whole evenings lying on the lawn, talking. One evening, in tears, she confessed she had arranged for her computer to be stolen so that I should take the blame. She admitted she had been jealous of my story, but said it would never happen again, she loved me more than anything. She begged me to forgive her and I did. All those things were in the past.
Now that we had resumed our friendship, relations between our parents, which had become strained along with ours, grew strong again. The Scalinis were even invited to The Garden of Eden for a weekend, during which Mr Scalini, as unbearable as ever, constantly criticized my parents’ choices: “Oh, what a pity you chose this material!” Or, “I’d never have done it this way!” But Tara and I became again inseparable, spending our time in each other’s houses. We also started writing together again. This period coincided with my discovery of the theater. I loved it. I would read plays avidly, even thought to write one. Tara said we could try writing it together. Because of his work on Channel 14, my father was invited to all the previews, so we went regularly to see new plays.
In the spring of 2010, my parents finally bought me the laptop I’d been dreaming about. I couldn’t have been happier. I spent all summer writing, on the porch of our house in Orphea. My parents grew worried.
“Don’t you want to go to the beach, Carolina? Or into town?” they would ask me.
“I’m writing,” I would say. “I’m very busy.”
For the first time, I was writing a play, which I had called “Mr Constantine”. It was about an old man called Mr Constantine who lives alone in a huge house in the Hamptons. His children never come to see him. One day, tired of feeling abandoned, he tells them he’s dying. The children, each hoping to inherit the house, rush to his bedside and give in to all his whims.
