Play Dead

by Harlan Coben

  Stan's eyes flew open. 'I . . . I'm sorry, B Man. I didn't mean any disrespect.'

  B Man's laugh chilled him. 'I know, Stan, I know. Give me a call when you feel the urge. In the meantime, enjoy your brief moments of joy. People like you don't get to experience this very often. When you're ready to go back to your home in the gutter, we'll be waiting to assist you.'

  The phone went dead. Stan turned. Gloria was standing in the doorway. 'Is everything okay?' she asked.

  He went to her and held her closely. 'Everything is fine,' he said.

  She looked up at him. 'You've really given up gambling, haven't you?'

  'Yes,' Stan said, and though it was the truth, he knew that B Man was right, that eventually it would be a lie.

  Chapter 18

  It had been the Garden of Eden. Then it became Hell. The transformation had been sudden. One moment, the Reef Resort Hotel was an idyllic honeymoon hideaway; the next, it was death. Staring at it now, the Reef Resort Hotel became hazy and unreal to Laura, as though she was seeing it in a dream. The building and grounds were all so familiar. She saw the bush, the gardens, the lobby -- even the sunburned receptionist behind the desk. Laura remembered him well. He had handed her the last note David had ever written.

  'Mrs Baskin!' the sunburned man cried out when he saw her. 'How nice to see you again!'

  Laura smiled through her daze and shook the man's hand. 'Nice to see you.'

  'Will you be staying long?'

  Graham stepped between them. 'Only a few minutes.'

  'How you doin', Sheriff?'

  'Very well, Monty. You?'

  'Can't complain,' he replied. 'Something I can do for you?'

  Graham must have been a foot taller than Monty. He stared down at the smaller man. 'Do you remember the day David Baskin disappeared?'

  'Yeah, sure,' the receptionist answered. 'What about it?'

  'He handed you a note before he left, right?'

  'Sure did,' Monty confirmed. 'Christ, that note was a regular riot. You remember it, Mrs Baskin? I read it to you over the phone when you called in. I was never so embarrassed in my life.'

  'Then what happened?' Graham asked.

  'What do you mean?'

  'Did David return to the hotel?'

  Monty nodded. 'Yeah, like I told Mrs Baskin. He came back for a little.'

  'And then he left again?'

  'Right.' Monty said.

  'How long was he back?' Graham asked.

  'Oh, I don't know. About an hour.'

  'What time did Mr Baskin leave the hotel the second time?'

  Monty thought a moment. 'Can't say for sure. Mr Baskin took off right after he got a phone call.'

  Graham and Laura exchanged glances. 'What phone call?' Graham asked.

  Monty shrugged. 'Don't rightly know really. I was doing the switchboard when a call came in for him. I just transferred the call to his room. Mr Baskin came down and rushed out of here a few minutes later.'

  Graham wetted his lips. 'Can you tell me about the voice of the caller?'

  'About the voice?'

  'Sex, accent, anything.'

  Monty thought a minute. 'Well, I don't remember the voice all that well. It was a long time ago. The only reason I remember it at all is because Mr Baskin was a celebrity and after I let the call go through, I kicked myself for not screening it for him. I mean, it could have been some reporter or obnoxious fan. But anyway, all the person said was "Mr Baskin's room, please." But I kinda remember the voice was hushed. Was it a man or a woman? Can't say for sure. But it was a Yankee accent all right. You can't hide that, no matter how hard you try.'

  'Anything else?'

  Monty shook his head. 'Oh, wait. One more thing. The call was local.'

  'How could you tell?'

  'The lines in this hotel are terrible when a call comes from overseas. But there was no static on the line. The call had to have been made from right around here.'

  Graham thanked Monty and then he steered Laura toward a bamboo chair in the corner of the lobby. She sat silently, her bleak eyes staring out toward the pool and beach.

  'Laura?'

  Her head slowly swerved toward his voice. 'Yes?'

  'You okay?'

  She ignored the question. 'Somebody called him.'

  'Seems that way,' Graham agreed. 'Let's try to put this little puzzle together and see what we come up with, okay?'

  She nodded.

  Graham began pacing in a tight circle. 'First step: you go to your meeting at the Peterson Building in Cairns. David gets dressed and goes outside for a little swim and basketball. Step two: you call the hotel. David is still out. He has left you an amusing little note. Step three: David comes back to the hotel. He goes up to his room. He receives a phone call from an American who was staying in the area -- '

  'That rules out T.C.,' Laura interrupted. 'There is no way he could have made that call locally and gotten back to Boston in time for my phone call.'

  Graham pondered that for awhile. 'Seems logical to me. But that doesn't really tell us much. Just because he didn't place the call doesn't mean he wasn't involved in Mr Baskin's drowning. Now where was I?'

  'David received a phone call.'

  'Right. David receives a local phone call from an American. Then he quickly writes you a rather cryptic note and leaves the hotel. We can probably assume that he went out to meet the caller. That takes us to step four: David went to the Pacific International Hotel in Cairns.'

  'Maybe a taxi driver remembers taking him,' Laura said.

  'A long shot, but I'll check it out. Anyway, we have a witness who placed David at the hotel at about the right time so let's pick it up from there. Step five: David arrives at the hotel. He's a little distracted, probably from something the mystery caller said to him. He goes upstairs for about an hour, presumably to meet the caller. When David comes down, he's disoriented. Something happened upstairs that has upset him.'

  'But what?' Laura asked, speaking more to herself than Graham.

  'No idea,' the big man replied. 'David then takes a walk around the block. He may have even gone into the Peterson Building where you were having your meeting. Then he comes back to the hotel and places a couple of calls to the United States. Who did he call? I don't know. Maybe he didn't get through and decided to call later. He takes another walk around for a couple of hours. We have a witness who saw him standing by the beach at the Marlin Jetty at approximately eleven thirty at night. From here, we have a blank space. The next time anyone saw him, he was dead. Your banker friend Corsel claims to have heard from him at midnight. Could be. Or could be David was already dead by then and the caller disguised his voice.'

  Laura fidgeted in her seat. 'That no longer seems very likely, does it, Graham?'

  Graham shook his head. 'Possible, yes. Likely, no. I think David came back to the hotel and placed a call to the bank. Why? I don't know. I think it had something to do with whomever he met in the Pacific International. Anyway, we'll know where David placed his calls for sure once Gina finds those phone bills. Also, we'll have to question the night porter and maybe the receptionist at the Peterson Building. They may also have seen David. This is just the beginning, Laura. A full investigation is not made in a single day.'

  'So, what's next?'

  Graham shrugged. 'How long are you planning on staying?'

  'I have to leave tomorrow night. There's a ceremony being given in David's memory in Boston on Saturday.'

  'Okay, no worries. What we have to do next is fill in those important gaps. We have to find out who David visited when he got to the Pacific International.'

  'That's the real key, isn't it?' Laura asked. 'The identity of the mystery caller.'

  'Sure seems that way to me,' Graham agreed.

  'And what about this coroner?'

  Graham checked his watch. 'Too late to call Dr Bivelli now. We'll reach him first thing in the morning.'

  Laura swallowed and lowered her eyes. 'Graham, what do you think happened t
o my husband?'

  Graham placed a large hand on her shoulder. 'I don't know, luv, but we'll find out.'

  'Now?' Mark asked.

  T.C. glanced at the clock behind Mark's head. 'Now.'

  With a sigh, T.C. stood and walked over to the telephone. He dialed thirteen numbers and waited for the call to connect.

  Mark began to pace. 'She's never going to buy that Baskin drowned anymore.'

  'I know,' T.C. said. 'I'm working on it.'

  After three rings the phone was picked up and an accented voice said, 'Bivelli residence.'

  'Can I speak to Doctor Bivelli, please?'

  'May I ask who's calling?'

  'My name is Terry Conroy.'

  'Hold on a moment, Mr Conroy.'

  A few seconds later, Dr Bivelli picked up the phone. 'T.C.?'

  'Yeah, Aaron, how's it going?'

  'Not bad, mate. I didn't expect to hear from you so soon.'

  'Yeah, well, things have come up.'

  'What sort of things?'

  'I need another favor.'

  'You know I don't do favors,' Bivelli said. 'Stu told you that before you ever contacted me.'

  'I know, Aaron. You're a true mercenary. But I've already paid you for this job.'

  'You mean the Baskin drowning?'

  'Bingo.'

  'I thought everything went smooth as silk.'

  'It did,' T.C. said. 'But now we've run into a minor obstacle. I just wanted to let you know that some people may come around asking questions.'

  'After all this time?'

  'Yep.'

  'Well, that's just part of the job. No charge.'

  'Just letting you know.'

  'Appreciate it, T.C., but don't worry.'

  'Good.'

  'But,' Bivelli added, 'one of these days, I'd love to know the whole story.'

  T.C. half smiled. Bivelli knew a little piece of what was going on. Stu another little piece. Hank still another. But none of them knew enough to put the whole story together. 'One of these days,' T.C. repeated.

  Graham reached Dr Bivelli the following morning and set up an appointment for later that same day. Since all the flights between Cairns and Townsville were sold out, Laura chartered a small plane to take them into Townsville. At noon, they arrived at Townsville Memorial Hospital. The office of Aaron Bivelli, M.E., was, of course, on the basement level next to the morgue.

  'Can I help you?' Dr Bivelli asked with solemn enthusiasm, as befitted his somewhat gruesome occupation. He was a short man in his late fifties, completely bald, a protruding paunch testing the buttons on his gray vest. His face was kind and reserved with a bright, trusting smile.

  'My name is Graham Rowe. We spoke on the phone earlier.'

  'Oh, yes,' Bivelli said. 'The sheriff of Palm's Cove.'

  'And this is Laura Baskin.'

  Dr Bivelli turned toward Laura, his face grim. 'I'm very sorry about your husband, Mrs Baskin.'

  'Thank you.'

  'Please,' Bivelli said with a wave of his hand, 'make yourself comfortable.' He walked around to his side of the desk. 'I reread your husband's file after I spoke with Sheriff Rowe this morning, Mrs Baskin. I truly hope I can be of some service.'

  'Maybe you can help us clear up a couple of loose ends,' Graham said.

  'I'll certainly try.'

  'Let me begin by asking you this, Doctor. Could there have been foul play in the death of Mr David Baskin?'

  Dr Bivelli sat back in his chair. 'That's a tough question, Sheriff. I mean, I guess it's a possibility but I doubt it heavily. First of all, Mr Baskin's lungs were filled with water when we found him. That means the cause of death was drowning. He was not killed first and then dumped into the ocean. How did he drown? Well, that's anyone's guess. He was bopped around a lot out there.'

  'Bopped around a lot?' Laura asked.

  'Yes, Mrs Baskin,' Dr Bivelli replied, turning his attention toward her. 'Your husband's body was brutally thrashed around by the rough waters. It was hurled against rocks and crunched against the surf. It was splattered against jagged coral and sliced up very badly. Fish probably gnawed on it.'

  Laura's face blanched.

  'I'm sorry, Mrs Baskin,' he added quickly. 'I'm a pathologist. I never had much use for proper bedside manner.'

  Laura swallowed. 'That's okay. Please continue.'

  'What I'm trying to say is that the body was in horrible shape when we found it. Could someone have knocked him on the head and dumped his body out to sea? Very doubtful but yes.'

  'Why do you say very doubtful?' Laura asked.

  'Because most of the time that's not how it works. Sometimes a man is murdered and his body is dumped in the water to make it look like an accidental drowning. Sometimes a man is killed and a large weight is tied to his body so that it won't be found for a while. But like I said before, David Baskin drowned and rarely is a man knocked out and then left in the water in the hopes he will end up dead. It's too risky. He may survive the ordeal by being rescued by a boat or by waking up or whatever.'

  Graham nodded. 'You say Mr Baskin's body was in bad shape?'

  'Yes.'

  'Beyond recognition?'

  Dr Bivelli eyed Laura. 'Pretty close.'

  'How did you get a positive identification then?'

  Dr Bivelli coughed into a fist. 'Two ways. First, that American policeman who was a friend of his' -- he slipped on a pair of reading glasses and opened the file -- 'an Officer Terry Conroy, was able to recognize certain features. More important, his medical records were sent to me via a fax machine. The dental x-rays arrived the next day and confirmed what we already knew.' Bivelli looked down at the file again. 'According to Officer Conroy, Mr Baskin should have been wearing a 1989 NBA championship ring, but we couldn't use that to i.d. him because his right hand . . . he wore the ring on his right hand, right, Mrs Baskin?'

  She nodded. The ring. She had forgotten all about the last championship ring that had adorned David's hand. And that was the only piece of jewelry that he liked to wear -- that and the wedding band they intended to buy when they returned from their honeymoon.

  Bivelli cleared his throat again. 'Yes, well, his right hand was gone.'

  'Gone?' Laura repeated.

  Bivelli lowered his head. 'As I said, many parts of the deceased were badly damaged.'

  'I see,' Graham replied. 'Let me ask you this, Doctor. How exact was the estimated time of death?'

  'For a drowning like this, it's never more than guess-work, ' Dr Bivelli continued. 'I could have been off by as much as twelve to fifteen hours.'

  'You estimated the time of death to have been around seven p.m.,' Graham reminded him. 'Would it shock you to hear that we have an eyewitness who saw Mr Baskin at midnight?'

  'Not at all, Sheriff,' Bivelli replied casually. 'Like I said earlier, dissecting a drowning victim with a battered body is not going to produce exact, scientific results. I wish it did. My time estimate was influenced in large part by statements made by Mrs Baskin. She said her husband went for a swim at around four or five in the afternoon. It would certainly be more logical to assume that he died within a few hours of that time than after midnight.'

  Graham scratched at his beard. 'One last question and then we'll be out of your way. Why were you called in on this case? Why wasn't the local coroner used?'

  Bivelli shrugged. 'I can't say for sure, but I can make a guess.'

  'Please do.'

  'First off, Mr Baskin was a foreigner and a rather famous personality,' Bivelli began. 'When a death of that magnitude occurs, the Aussie government usually gets involved and I have done quite a bit of work for them in the past. They feel comfortable with me. Townsville is only about an hour flight from Cairns, so they probably thought I would be the better man for this particular situation.'

  'Then Officer Terry Conroy of Boston didn't contact you?'

  'No, he did not.'

  Graham rose. Laura did the same. 'Thank you, Doctor Bivelli. You've been very helpful.'

&n
bsp; 'Anytime, Sheriff,' he replied with a firm handshake. 'And again, Mrs Baskin, please accept my most sincere condolences.'

  They headed down the hall and into the elevator. When the door slid closed and the lift started to move upward, Laura turned to Graham. 'He's lying.'

  Graham nodded. 'Like a rug.'

  Judy stared at the photograph.

  Tears welled in her eyes as she stared at the all-too-familiar images. How many years would this go on? How long would this black-and-white photograph be able to jab painfully into her heart? God, how she had loved him. She had loved him like no other man before or since. Had he ever felt the same? Judy thought the answer was yes. She remembered a time when they were both deliriously happy, a time when they were so in love that nothing else mattered . . .

  . . . until something took him away. Until something blinded him like a great flash of light.

  I killed him. My jealousy pushed that gun against his head and pulled the trigger.

  She had been so foolish, so impatient, so damn young. Why couldn't she just sit back and wait. Eventually, he would have realized his mistake and come back to her.

  Why did I do it? Why couldn't I have just let it be?

  But these were questions that had haunted her for thirty years, and still she had no answers. If only she could have it to do all over again. If only she hadn't acted so stupidly. She folded the photograph and put it back in her purse.

  'Miss Simmons?'

  She looked up. Her safety deposit box rested on the bank clerk's forearm. 'Would you like to follow me, please?' The bank clerk led Judy into a private room. 'When you're finished, just let me know.'

  'Thank you.'

  The bank clerk smiled and left. Judy turned toward her box. Her hand reached down and pulled back the top. The first thing she saw were some old treasury bonds her parents had left her. Her father had died suddenly years ago when he was only fifty-seven; her mother had passed away just last year. She missed them both terribly. So few people in this world love you unconditionally.

  She thumbed past her birth certificate, the old warranties, the useless financial statements. Then she spotted it. Her fingers reached down, gripped the leather cover and pulled. The small booklet came out. With shaking hands, Judy placed it on the table in front of her. She read the fading cover: Diary 1960.

  Since 1955, Judy had kept yearly diaries. All the events of her seemingly average life were kept safely tucked away on these blue-lined pages. And for the most part, average the words were -- gibberish about the loss of her virginity, her first time experimenting with marijuana, her secret fantasies. In a phrase, her yearly journals contained nothing beyond the standard diary drivel.