by Harlan Coben
The children went back to their hooting and howling while Richard's mind remained anchored to Laura Baskin. Suppose for a second that the fire was not an accident. Suppose it was connected with David Baskin's missing money. The voice of Laura's father, who had visited him yesterday, floated across his mind: 'I suspect that there might be something more to this money transfer than meets the eye. There could be something else at stake here, something very dangerous, something that could hurt my daughter.'
He wished he could just turn his back on the whole thing, but that was no longer an option his conscience would allow. Why had he let Phillipe Gaillaird at the Bank of Geneva tell him who had the money? And why had he listened to him?
Curiosity not only killed the cat, Richie, it kept him awake nights.
If Richard had never heard the damn name, then he would be free to sleep, eat and even watch the Bruins with a clear conscience. Now a decision had to be made. Should he keep his mouth quiet? Or should he tell Laura the name? When Phillipe first told Richard who had the money, the name meant nothing to him. A few weeks later, that changed. Boy, did that change. Now he knew the name too well. It had become a household word in Boston. And frankly, the whole situation had become more than just dangerous. It had become downright eerie.
Richard felt a frosty breeze slide through the room, as if it were he who was standing on the ice rather than the hockey players. What to do? What the hell to do? Should he keep his mouth shut, or should he tell Laura the shocking truth, a truth even Richard had trouble believing? Should he just mind his own business, or should he tell her that the man who had stolen David's money had also stolen his position, his scoring average and his nickname, that the man who had stolen David's money was none other than the Celtics' newest scoring sensation?
Mark Seidman.
Serita steered Laura into the elevator. Neither spoke. For that matter, Laura had barely opened her mouth since Serita picked her up at the airport. Serita had seen Laura in every kind of mood -- joyous, sad, wacky, conservative, serious, goofy, love-struck, angry -- but never had she seen her friend like this. Laura's pupils were dilated, her eyes glassy and dull. She stared out dumbstruck at a world that had suddenly decided to ravage her mind, only asking one question the whole ride home: 'Has Estelle called you?'
'Your secretary?' Serita had replied. 'Why would she call me?'
'Before Judy died,' Laura explained with no emotion in her voice, 'she handed me that photograph I showed you and four keys. I know what three of them open. Estelle is up at Colgate right now trying to learn something about the fourth. I told her to call you if she hears anything.'
'Sorry. She didn't call.'
For the remainder of the ride, the only sound came from the car radio.
The elevator stopped at the eighteenth floor, depositing its two beautiful passengers in the corridor. Serita took Laura's key and guided her into the darkened apartment. The only illumination came from a small flashing red light indicating that a message had been left on Laura's answering machine. Serita flicked on a light switch while Laura collapsed onto the couch.
'Are you feeling okay?' Serita asked. 'You sure you don't want to go to a hospital?'
'I feel fine.'
'Yeah, I can see that. You grimaced the whole ride home. Every time I hit a bump I thought you were going to scream.'
'Never felt better.'
'Uh, huh. So do you want to stop bullshitting me and tell me what happened in Chicago?'
'It's too fantastic. You won't believe it.'
'I'm all ears. What did you learn? Did your aunt and David's father have the hots for one another?'
'Seems so.'
'While he was still married?'
'Yep.'
'Tsk, tsk.' Serita rubbed her hands. 'Go on, girl. You know I love good gossip.'
While Laura was well aware of Serita's love for gossip, she was also well aware that Serita would give up her life before she would ever betray Laura's trust. 'It gets worse,' Laura continued. 'They were serious -- so serious that Sinclair Baskin considered divorcing his wife.'
'Juicy with a capital J,' Serita shot back. 'Do tell, Laura. What happened to this happy couple?'
'He dumped her for another woman.'
'Ah, damn him,' Serita said with a disappointed shake of her head. 'Men are such shits sometimes.'
'The other woman,' Laura continued, 'was my mother.'
Serita's mouth dropped to her knees. 'You're shitting me.'
'Nope.'
'Your mother stole a guy from her sister?'
'And cheated on my father at the same time. Nice, huh?'
'Holy shit,' Serita said. 'But what does it all mean, Laura? What does it have to do with the fire?'
Laura stood, her shoulders shrugging in helpless wonder. She walked over to her answering machine and pressed the rewind button. The tape sped backwards with a scratching noise that sounded like a Cuisinart. 'I still have no idea. The more I learn about the past the less I see the connection to the present.'
The tape came to a halt. 'So what do we do now, Laura?'
A loud beep interrupted their conversation. Graham's gruff voice blared through the speaker. 'This is Graham. When you have a chance, luv, give us a call, will ya? I may have found out who David visited at the Pacific International. I'll be at my home number all night.'
His voice . . . so sad, so defeated. Why? What had Graham learned? Laura checked her watch and lifted the phone. 'Now,' she answered Serita, 'we call Australia.'
Stan woke up from his nap with a jump. Another bad dream had plagued his sleep, another nightmare filled with wicked spirits that vanished from sight and memory once Stan opened his eyes and truly awoke. Then only the pounding of his heart, the shortness of his breath, and the frightening aftertaste in his mouth reminded Stan that once again his slumber had been beset by the evil demons of his past.
He threw on a robe and headed toward the kitchen. Tonight was the big meeting. Tonight Stan would see his father's killer for only the third time. The first time had been when he was ten years old. The second, when he was at the Boston Garden. And now the third, to receive his first payment. One hundred thousand dollars. It was a staggering amount of money and would go a long way to giving him . . .
Giving him what?
Stan stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked at Gloria. She was unloading the dishwasher, just putting away some dishes, but Stan remained hushed and watched. The delicate curves of her body under the silk blouse, her soft gentle smile, the concentration in her eyes as she set about her simple task . . . it just made him stop and think. What did he need all that money for? He had stopped gambling. He was bright. He could get a job now, a real job, and stop running away for good. When Stan stopped and looked at Gloria, he thought he could do all those things.
But when she was not around him, when he was alone, he could still feel what B Man had called 'the itch.' He knew then that this talk about settling down was nothing but a pipe-dream, that he was never meant to live that kind of domestic life. And besides, who needed it? Who wanted it? Gloria was after all just a woman, another scheming, deceitful bitch who would disappoint him eventually. She may be a little more subtle than most, and her venom may be gentler, but make no mistake: Gloria was a woman like any other.
The one hundred grand was his protection money. When he finished feeding off Gloria he would have a nice little nest egg to carry him until he found his next mark. He would be on his way. He would be free.
But when Stan's eyes gazed upon Gloria, as they were doing right now, his suspicions broke apart and disintegrated before her warm beauty. He no longer merely lusted after her; he longed for her, to hold her, to comfort her, and yes to make mad, passionate love to her. Something about their relationship was . . . complete. Yes, complete. It was the only word that he could come up with to describe how he felt. What was this strange power Gloria held over him? And where would it lead?
She turned and saw him standing in the doorway.
Her face lit up. God, he loved the way her face brightened whenever she saw him. 'Hi,' she said.
He returned the smile. 'Hi.'
'Have you been standing there long?'
'A couple of minutes. I just wanted to watch you.'
Her cheeks turned red. 'Did you have a nice nap?'
'Very nice.'
'You must be starving. Do you want some dinner?'
'No, thanks. Are you feeling any better now?'
'A little,' she said. 'I still can't believe Judy is dead.' He took her in his arms. 'I know. It'll be a while before it sinks in.' His eyes found the dock behind her head. Seven thirty p.m. In one hour, he would meet his father's killer in an alleyway in south Boston. There, Stan Baskin would allow his fatherless childhood to be bought off for a few lousy dollars. One hundred thousand -- Stan's going price on a father's memory.
She looked at him with great concern. 'Stan, are you okay?'
He held her tighter. 'I'm fine,' he said. 'I'm just fine.'
Serita studied Laura's face. Her skin was pulled tight around her high cheekbones, her eyes a mix of concentration and bewilderment. Laura was the most beautiful woman Serita had ever known. There was something positively hypnotic about it. There were times it unnerved and frightened Serita. Beauty like that could be dangerous. Beauty like that could be fatal. 'Do you want me to leave the room?'
Laura located Graham's number and began dialing. 'I'd prefer if you stay, but if you want to get out while you still have the chance I'll understand.'
Serita remained in her seat. 'I'm here for as long as you need me.'
Laura's shaking fingers were barely able to dial. 'You're a good friend.'
'The best,' Serita shot back with a smile. 'So tell me about this sheriff. Is he cute?'
Laura chuckled, appreciating the distraction. 'In a grizzly bear sort of way. He's a real mountain man.'
'I could use some of that, honey. Earl with all his smooth sophistication is starting to get to me.'
The call connected through. Laura heard the first ring. 'You love him, you know.'
Serita opened her mouth to protest. Then she closed it. 'Yeah, I know.'
Third ring. Laura's leg began to shake. Her hand gripped the receiver. 'About time you admitted it.'
Fourth ring. Serita smiled. 'I don't want to get corny on you, Laura, but whatever happens I want you to know that you're the best friend I ever had.'
Fifth ring. 'Same here.'
Finally, the ringing stopped. The receiver was lifted and a gruff voice barked, 'Hello?'
'Graham?'
'Laura, I'm glad you called.'
'I just got your message. I was away for a couple of days.'
'Anything wrong?' the big man asked.
'Plenty,' she replied. 'This thing keeps getting weirder and weirder.'
'Why? What happened?'
'My aunt called me the day before yesterday,' Laura began. 'She said she had to tell me something about David's death. The drowning had something to do with the past, she said. I don't know. She wasn't making complete sense. She wanted to tell me about it in person.'
'So did you see her? What did she say?'
'Nothing. When I arrived, someone had set fire to her house. My aunt died in the blaze.'
'Sweet Lord. That's awful.'
'I want to know what is going on before someone else gets hurt, Graham. Maybe I should just forget about it for the sake of everyone's safety, but I can't. David is dead and I want -- I need -- to know what happened to him.'
'I understand. He must have been a very special guy.'
Laura felt tears slide down her cheeks, tears for David and now for Judy as well. 'He was,' Laura said, 'very special.'
There was a moment of silence. 'Yeah, well, Gina Cassler finally got her hands on the passport cards.'
'And you've gone through them?'
Graham paused. 'Yes.'
'Was T.C. there?'
'No,' Graham replied slowly. 'Frankly, Laura, none of this makes any sense.'
Laura nervously twisted the phone cord around her hand. 'Maybe David's mystery visit can clear this all up. Maybe the person who saw David at the Pacific International can explain what happened.'
'Maybe,' Graham muttered.
'Graham?'
He did not answer right away. 'Yes?'
'Who did David see at the hotel?'
'Your mother, Laura. Before he died, David visited your mother.'
The phone dropped from her hand.
Serita leaped out of her chair. 'Laura? Honey, what is it?'
Laura's eyes narrowed in concentration.
'What's the matter? What did he say?'
Now Laura knew that there was only one way to get to the bottom of this once and for all. Her line of vision swung toward Serita and locked onto her face.
'I have to talk to my mother,' she said. 'I have to talk to her right now.'
Chapter 27
Time for Death Number Four.
The killer glanced at the clock on the car dashboard. There was still half an hour to kill before the meeting with Stan Baskin, the last meeting Stan would ever have with anyone. Stan was about to die. Stan was about to join his father, his sibling, Judy Simmons . . .
... and David? What about David?
I don't know anymore, the killer thought. I just don't know.
The gun sat in the glove compartment. It had been a long time since the killer had fired a gun, not since the barrel had been pressed against Sinclair Baskin's skull. The killer had watched while Sinclair's head exploded into small pieces. Blood splashed. Fragments of bone and tissue flew in every direction.
It had all been so simple. With one pull of the trigger Sinclair Baskin had been reduced from a human being with emotions and hopes and dreams to a worthless pile of decaying flesh.
So simple.
And it would not be too different with Stan Baskin. He was truly his father's son. Blackmailing a murderer. And not just any murderer but the murderer of his own father. Only a low-life would conjure up such an idea. Imagine: Stan Baskin wanted to turn his father's murder into a profit-making venture. What kind of depraved creature could do such a thing?
It boggled the mind.
The killer parked the car two blocks away from the alleyway. Time check: 8:10 p.m. Perfect. Twenty minutes to check out the surrounding area. What was the killer going to look for? No idea really. It just seemed the right thing to do; that is, to make oneself familiar with the murder scene before committing the foul deed. Just in case. This way, if something was wrong or had been overlooked, perhaps it would become obvious. Better safe than sorry.
The glove compartment fell open. A hand reached in and closed around the gun. It felt oddly comforting to handle such a powerful weapon -- especially in this neighborhood. South Boston was the perfect place to commit a murder. The sound of a gunshot is more common to the inhabitants of this neighborhood than a school bell.
Would this be the last murder? Unfortunately not.
Not again. Please, not again . . .
After Stan was discarded, there was still one more person who had to die, one more weed to be pulled out by the root.
The car door opened. The killer stepped out and moved quickly through the cold toward the alleyway.
Stan pulled out of the parking space and onto the road. Finding a spot near Gloria's apartment was like finding a black man at a KKK rally. Not easy. This coveted space was claimed by another car before Stan had managed to unlock the door and get in. He would probably have to stick it in a garage when he got back. Twenty-five bucks to park. Highway robbery. But soon Stan would have one hundred thousand dollars. Soon he would have all the money he needed and there would be no need to circle the block four hundred times just to find a parking space.
Don't take the money . . .
The annoying voice in his head was babbling nonsense again. Of course he should take the money. Of course he should bleed the maggot for every cent he could get.
Don't go, Stan. Stay away . . .
He shook his head no. True, blackmail was a dangerous game. Very dangerous. But Stan had a switchblade with him and, more important, he was dealing with an amateur. This wasn't B Man or somebody like that. He wasn't screwing around with the big-time. His victim was a scared rabbit. Harmless.
That's right, Stan My Man. Harmless. Just ask your father . . .
Stan's mind journeyed back to May 29, 1960. The look on the killer's face as the gun went off, the hatred in the cold eyes . . . that face could kill again. That face may appear innocent and innocuous on the outside, but Stan had witnessed the rage behind the facade. Stan had seen what a normal, civilized citizen could become if pushed too far.
You don't want to do this, Stan. You don't want to take money from your father's murderer . . .
Then what was he supposed to do instead? Forget he had ever seen the killer? Seek vengeance? Tell the police? Walk away? What? What was he supposed to do?
Stan pushed the voices out of his head. Money. Lots of it. That's what he was heading for right now. To hell with studying the morality involved. What was he supposed to be anyway, a saint? Don't make me laugh. Stan Baskin did not let a good scam go by because of an irrational voice in his head. Stan Baskin did not let easy money just float on by him.
He turned left and headed into South Boston. He did not bother to look in his rearview mirror. If he had, he may have noticed a familiar red car following him.
Gloria stayed about fifty yards behind Stan's car. She was no detective and she had no idea of the mechanics involved in tailing a car, except for what she had seen on television and in the movies. This area of Boston was foreign to Gloria. She had no idea where Stan's final destination was, but she was sure there had to be a safer way of getting there than driving through this concrete jungle of muggings, crime and murder. What was Stan doing here?
Spying on a loved one was not something Gloria did often -- never, to be more precise -- and she was scared. But Stan was in trouble, big trouble. Every part of her knew it. Her body kept shaking as the familiar, unsettling cravings knocked on her door like an old friend.
Come on, Gloria, the cravings would say. Just take a little snort and you'll be free. A little high never hurt anyone. You can control it now. Come on. Heck, you should have no trouble finding a little something to get you nice and high in this neighborhood. Just stop the car near that park over there.
She could almost feel her hands listening to the cravings, turning the wheel toward the park. But she fought it off. Most people thought that drug addiction was a disease that could be cured. But that was wrong. Gloria had learned the painful truth: you are never fully cured. You may think everything is okay for a day or a week or even a month, but then something will happen. Something will go wrong with your life and you will feel all alone. That is when the addict in you strikes -- not when you're strong and prepared to do battle, but when your defenses are down. Drugs, your addict reminds you, are your only real friends. They're there when you need them. They never disappoint or let you down. They make you feel good. They let you forget about the rest of the world.