by Harlan Coben
'Your husband had me transfer the money to Switzerland.'
'When?'
'Please, I can't say.'
Why was Corsel so damn protective about telling her when? Unless . . . So many questions about David's death hounded her. He had drowned in the rough waters of the Pacific Ocean.
Drowned? David?
It didn't make any sense. She had listened to all their talk about the ocean's dangerous currents, but the excuse rang hollow in her ears. Rough currents or no rough currents, David was an excellent and careful swimmer. He would have checked the currents and tides before diving in. David may have been unpredictable but he never took foolish risks, especially when it concerned his health.
And a man like that drowned?
Murder.
The walls around her seemed to whisper that word. $500,000 was missing, disappearing within a few days of David's death. Coincidence or . . . ?
Murder.
And maybe T.C. and the others suspected the same thing. That would explain their strange behavior toward her. Were they trying to protect her from the truth? Is that the reason T.C. didn't approve of her strong-arm approach to handling Corsel at the bank? Had the devastation of David's death blinded her to the truth?
'The final ensemble is an innovative evening gown . . .'
Laura sat down. The Nikko Hotel and the fashion show evaporated from her mind, dissolving into the sounds of a distant background. Was she going crazy, or, for the first time, were events starting to make sense? Almost four months had painfully crawled by since David's death and Laura still could not accept it. People like David just don't up and die, her mind told her. It just doesn't happen. Not to David . . .
David, what happened to you? What did they do to you?
The fashion show finally came to an end. Serita moved toward Laura and sat down. 'I think it went well.'
Laura nodded.
Serita recognized the now-familiar blank expression on Laura's face, but now there was something more in her friend's glazed look. 'Uh-oh, what now?'
Laura turned to her. 'Something's not right, Serita.' 'What do you mean?'
Before she could answer, one of Benito Spencer's helpers tapped Laura on the shoulder. 'Telephone call for you.'
'Take a message,' Laura said.
'It's a Mr Richard Corsel from some bank in Boston. He says it's urgent.'
Gloria gently dried off her face with a gray towel she grabbed from the rack. Interesting how Gloria's bathroom had been done all in gray. Her parents' was red. Laura's blue. The downstairs one yellow. Yet Gloria's was gray. She wondered if it had been an omen.
Well, not anymore.
She finished drying and draped the towel over the rack. She turned back toward the mirror, using her hands as a sort of comb in her thick blond hair. She studied her reflection for a moment and decided she had never looked or felt better. In fact, she felt so well that despite Dr Harris's protest, Gloria had cancelled the rest of her sessions. She no longer needed psychiatric help. Love was her cure from now on.
Gloria moved back into her bedroom, stepped over her two suitcases and headed down the stairs. When she reached the entrance to the den, she hesitated for a moment before going in.
Gloria turned the corner. Her parents were both reading on the couch. James Ayars's head tilted up when she came in. He glanced at her from behind his half-glasses. In his hands he held The New England Journal of Medicine. Beautiful Mary Ayars sat with her feet on a stool, her hair tied back away from her face. She was skimming through the most recent issue of the New Yorker.
'Hi,' Gloria began.
'Hello, dear,' her mother said, putting down her magazine. 'Is everything all right?'
'Everything's fine,' she responded. 'I just wanted to talk to you about something.'
Her father sat up. 'What is it?'
Gloria was not sure how to begin. 'You know how I've been spending the last few weeks with a friend?'
'Yes?' Mary said.
Gloria's words came quickly. 'Well, my friend is a man - and he's more than just a friend. We went up to the Deerfield Inn a couple of weekends ago and I've been with him every night since.'
Gloria watched her parents. As usual, her father's expression gave away nothing. Her mother's face, on the other hand, seemed to brighten.
'You've found a nice man?' Mary asked hopefully. Gloria nodded. 'He's very special. We've decided to move in together.'
'I see,' Dr Ayars said.
'We're in love.'
'I see,' her father said again with a small nod.
'What's the young man's name, dear?' Mary asked, smiling.
Gloria pushed back her blonde mane. 'Stan Baskin.' The smile vanished from her mother's face as if she had been slapped. 'What?'
'David's brother, Mom. Oh, that's right. You didn't meet him. He came to Boston for David's funeral . . . Dad, you met him, right?'
'Actually, I didn't,' James said matter-of-factly. 'There was so much confusion at the funeral and all, I didn't get the chance. But Laura told me what a comfort he has been to her.'
'He has,' Gloria agreed. She glanced toward her mother, whose lovely features were frozen in a look of terror.
James removed his reading glasses. 'So how did this all happen?'
'It just did,' Gloria shrugged. 'We're very much in love.'
Mary finally found her vocal chords. 'Honey, are you really sure about this? I mean, moving in with a man is a big step.'
'I know that, Mom, but I'm thirty-one years old. I'm not a child anymore. I love Stan.'
Panic colored Mary's eyes. 'But, Gloria, I don't think you should -- '
'We wish you the best of luck,' her father interrupted, silencing his wife with a hard glare. 'If you're happy, we're happy.'
Oblivious to her mother's reservations, Gloria ran over and threw her arms around her father's neck and kissed him. Then she did the same to her mother. 'I love you both.'
'And we love you,' James said, smiling warmly. 'We'd love to meet this young man as soon as it's convenient for you. Bring him over for dinner one night.'
'No -- !' Mary stopped, composed herself. 'I mean, only if you want to, Gloria. We don't want to pressure you into anything.'
'You're not pressuring me. I think that would be nice.'
'Good,' her father added.
'Dad, can you help me put my bags in the car?'
'Sure, honey. I'll be there in a second.'
Gloria left the room. James saved his page with a marker and gently placed the periodical on the coffee table. He sighed, slowly stood, and then turned toward his wife.
'I think it's time we talked.'
'I'm telling you there is something weird about that guy,' Earl Roberts said to Timmy Daniels.
'No kidding,' Timmy answered. 'I don't think I've heard him say five words since he beat me in that three-point contest two weeks ago.'
The two players took a sip of water from the fountain and headed back toward the court. Sweat drenched them both. For that matter, sweat drenched all fifteen of the players still in the Celtics camp. It was break time. All the players were scattered around the gym floor, catching their breath during the five-minute rest.
All save one.
Timmy collapsed onto the floor next to Earl. 'The guy doesn't say anything. Just plays and leaves.'
'That's fine with me,' Earl said.
'What makes you say that?'
'I don't like him. Something about him just ain't right.'
'Like?'
Earl shrugged. 'Let's face it. Mark Seidman is a great player. He can shoot and pass like nobody's business. '
'So?'
'So where the hell has he been? How can someone be that good and never have played college ball?'
Timmy positioned himself to watch Mark shoot. 'Got me. I think he told Clip that he went to school overseas. His family traveled around a lot or something.'
'Still,' Earl replied, 'nobody's ever heard of this guy. And he won't say a word to the
press. They've been trying to get him to talk, but he just blows them off. What rookie does that? I mean, it's gonna be his first year in the NBA and he already acts like a prima donna with the media? I don't get it.'
Timmy nodded his agreement. 'It's every kid's dream to play in the NBA and he looks so goddamn sad all the time.'
The two teammates followed the ball as Mark swished jumpshot after jumpshot.
Earl wiped his sweaty face with a towel. 'There's something else that bothers me.'
'I know what you mean,' Timmy said.
'It's like he's trying to play like him on purpose. It's pissing me off.'
Timmy turned toward Earl. 'I don't think that's it,' he said. 'There's other players with that jumpshot.'
'Yeah,' Earl replied, as another of Mark's shots fell through the metallic hoop, 'but how many of them have that kind of accuracy?'
When Laura and Serita entered the Heritage of Boston Bank together, everyone stopped. Typewriters halted their clacking. Heads turned. Eyes stared. Mouths dropped. Men gawked. Walking alone, Laura and Serita could make a man's eyes water; looking at them both at the same time could cause a cerebral accident.
'They're staring at us,' Serita whispered to her.
'You love it.'
'Always did.'
They moved past the bank clerks toward the executive office area. Heads, eyes, mouths, men followed them. When they were out of sight, Laura could hear the typewriters start up again.
An elderly secretary with gray-green hair looked up from her desk. She slipped on her glasses and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. A sign on her desk read Eleanor Tansmore. 'May I help you?'
'We'd like to see Mr Richard Corsel,' Laura said.
'I see,' Eleanor Tansmore replied. 'Do you have an appointment?'
'Not exactly,' Laura said, 'but he knows we're coming.'
'Well, Mr Corsel is very busy today. Perhaps you can call later and set up an appointment.'
'I have a better idea,' Serita interrupted. 'Why don't you buzz Mr Corsel and tell him we're here?'
'And whom shall I say is calling?'
Serita smiled devilishly. 'We're the two women Mr Corsel purchased from our, uh, agent. A Mr Tyrone Landreaux.'
'Excuse me?' the secretary said.
'One black, one white. Just like he ordered.'
'What?'
'Hurry, honey. Buzz him. My time is money. Big money, if you know what I mean.'
Eleanor Tansmore lifted the phone and smiled wryly. 'Did you bring your own whips and chains this time?' she asked Serita. 'You know how Mr Corsel hates to use his own.'
Serita looked at the woman in astonishment. 'Are you putting me on?'
'Yes.'
A smile of respect danced across Serita's lips. 'You're all right, Mrs T.'
'You're not so bad yourself,' Mrs Tansmore replied. 'Now sit down over there.'
'I'm sorry for my friend's behavior,' Laura interrupted, 'but if you could just tell Mr Corsel that Laura Baskin is here to see him, I think he'll make time to see us.'
'Laura Baskin? The model?'
'Former model,' Laura corrected.
'I read about your husband. I'm very sorry.'
'Thank you.'
Eleanor Tansmore looked toward Serita. 'And who is your witty companion?'
'Her bodyguard,' Serita replied.
The secretary smiled a phony secretary's smile. 'If you'll both sit down, I'll buzz Mr Corsel.'
Laura and Serita sat down. One of the office doors opened and a short executive with a thin mustache came out.
'That him?' Serita asked.
Laura shook her head no.
'Good.'
The executive stared at the two gorgeous women sitting in the waiting room. He sucked in his protruding stomach and smiled at them. Serita returned his greeting with a seductive wink. Then she slowly crossed her mile-long legs. The man nearly tripped over his own tongue. Serita laughed.
'Cut that out,' Laura warned.
'Sorry.'
'I swear, I can't take you anywhere.'
'I'm just trying to keep the mood light.'
'Knock it off.'
'Okay, but I've never seen you so uptight. It's not good for you, Laura. I'm just trying to keep you loose.'
'Serita?'
'What?'
'Am I crazy? I mean, all this conspiracy and murder stuff.'
Serita shrugged. 'Probably.'
'Thanks.'
'Look, Laura, you're not going to put this behind you until you figure out exactly what the hell happened. So go for it. Leave no stone unturned. If there's something weird going on, you'll find it. If not, you'll find that out too.'
Eleanor Tansmore came over. 'Mr Corsel will see you now.'
Laura rose. 'You coming?'
'Nah,' Serita answered with a smile, 'I'll wait here with my buddy Mrs T. Tear him apart on your own.'
'You're a good friend,' Laura said. She turned and headed down the hallway.
When Laura disappeared into Corsel's office, the smile vanished from Serita's face. She blinked away a tear. 'The best,' she whispered to herself.
Dr James Ayars faced his wife of thirty-three years. His mind flashed back to the first time they met. He had been an intern in Chicago, working a hundred hours a week when it was slow. At the time, he had been dating a bright student from the University of Chicago named Judy Simmons. Pretty little Judy Simmons. Nice girl. Auburn hair. Fine figure. Fun to be with. Young Dr Ayars had been very taken with Judy Simmons.
Until he met her younger sister Mary.
The first time Judy introduced him to Mary he felt a gurgling in the pit of his stomach. He had never seen such a beautiful creature in his life, never imagined such beauty existed. Mary Simmons smiled at him on that day, casting her powerful spell of sensuality upon him. The spell left him writhing and helpless in her presence. His eyes burned with unquenchable desire whenever he saw her. He knew that he would have to make her his wife. No matter what, he had to have her, possess her, cherish her . . .
The obsession had frightened him.
Of course it had not been that easy. There was Judy to consider, but sweet, kind Judy had understood. She stepped out of the way and wished them both the best of luck.
Now, some thirty-four years later, Mary was still ravishing. There were still times when James's stomach gurgled when he beheld her awesome beauty. Their marriage had had its share of problems (what marriage didn't?) but overall, James would say it had been excellent. They had raised two wonderful children. Life had been good . . .
. . . except . . .
'What's going on?' James asked his wife.
'Going on?' Mary repeated.
'You know what I mean. First you didn't approve of David. Now you don't approve of his brother. Why?'
Mary swallowed. 'I . . . I'm not really sure. I just don't trust that family.'
'Why not?'
'I don't really know, James.'
'Mary, you've always been a good mother. I've always been very proud of the way you've handled our daughters. Do you remember when Gloria was having all her problems and I swore I would never let her back in this house again?'
Mary nodded.
'Well, I was wrong,' James said. 'And you knew it. But you knew fighting me on the subject would be worthless. So instead, you showered me with kind words. You made me understand that no matter what Gloria had done, she was still our daughter. Do you remember?'
Again, Mary nodded.
'Now I think it's my turn,' he continued. 'I think you should seriously look at the consequences of what you are doing. Look at what happened when you rejected David -- '
'What?' Mary interrupted loudly. 'You're not blaming me, too?'
'Laura doesn't blame you,' he assured her gently, 'and neither do I. Laura is in pain right now. She lashes out and says things she doesn't mean.'
'It wasn't my fault,' she insisted. 'I was doing what I thought right.'
'What do you mean by that?' he asked. '
What did you have against David?'
'I was just doing what I thought was best.'
'Best for whom?' James asked.
She turned back to him, her eyes blazing defiantly. 'For Laura.'
'And is the same true with Gloria and Stan? Are you doing what's best for Gloria?'
Mary closed her eyes tightly and leaned back. Thoughts flew aimlessly through her mind. She tried hard to concentrate but it was so difficult.
James was so wise sometimes, she thought. He was right, of course. This time, her words had not been said in the hopes of protecting her daughter. This time, she had put herself first. And that was wrong. Her daughters must always come first. Always.
Fear crawled around Mary's shoulders. Calm down, she told herself. After all, what harm could Stan Baskin cause her and her family now?
The answer made her shiver.
A nervous smile danced about Richard Corsel's face as he stood to greet Laura. His thin hair needed combing. His face needed a shave. He was hardly the neat and proper bank vice president Laura had encountered in the past.
'Mrs Baskin,' he said, his smile stretching for a moment before returning to its original state, 'it's a pleasure to see you again.'
'Thank you.'
'Please have a seat,' he continued. 'How are you feeling on this fine day?'
'Fine.'
'Good, good.' He looked around liked a caged animal searching for an opening. 'Can I get you something? Coffee?'
'No, thank you. Mr Corsel, you said on the phone you have something urgent to tell me.'
His smile collapsed as if from exhaustion. 'I do -- or at least I might.'
'I don't understand.'
He shook his head slowly. 'Neither do I, Mrs Baskin. Neither do I.'
'What do you mean?'
Corsel picked up a pen and then put it back down. 'I mean I looked through your husband's records again. Something might be wrong.'
'Wrong?'
'Might be wrong,' Richard Corsel corrected. He opened his desk drawer and took out a file. 'May I ask you a question, Mrs Baskin?'
Laura nodded.
Corsel leaned back in his chair. His gaze rested on the ceiling and stayed there. 'According to the newspapers, your husband went swimming on June 14 and drowned sometime that day between the hours of four and seven o'clock in the evening Australian time. Is that correct?'
'Yes.'
He nodded, his eyes still on the ceiling. 'There is a fifteen-hour time difference between here and Australia -- we're fifteen hours behind them. That would mean Mr Baskin died sometime on June 14 between one a.m. and four a.m. Boston time.'
'Right.'
Corsel sat forward, but he still could not look at her. 'His call to me came on June 14 at eight thirty in the morning. That's nearly midnight in Australia, and at least five hours after he drowned.'