Harlan Coben

by Play Dead

Everything had gone according to plan—until she met David Baskin.

  The taxi slowed to a stop. “We’re here, luv.”

  THE Pacific International Hotel in Cairns was not far from the Peterson office. It was near the center of town and across the street from the Marlin Jetty, where most of the sightseeing and diving boats set sail. The hotel was a popular vacation spot, ideal for those who wanted the tropics of Australia but did not crave absolute seclusion.

  But the occupant of room 607 was not here to vacation.

  The occupant looked out the window but did not notice or care about the breathtaking beauty. There were more important things to worry about. Awful things. Things that had to be taken care of no matter how tragic the consequence. Things so horrible that even the occupant of room 607 had no idea of their full scope.

  And they had to be taken care of now.

  The occupant turned away from the breathtaking view that past visitors had gazed upon for countless hours, and walked toward the phone. There had been very little time to plan. Now, as the occupant lifted the receiver, there was a moment to wonder if there was another option left open.

  No. There was no other option.

  The occupant lifted the phone and dialed.

  “Reef Resort. Can I help you?”

  The occupant swallowed away the terror. “David Baskin, please.”

  THE meeting droned on steadily. The first two hours had moved smoothly enough and the deal was nearly set. But now they were getting down to details, and as usual, a few snags tangled up the works. Laura eyed her watch and realized she was going to be back later than she had originally anticipated. She asked if she could use a phone, excused herself, and dialed the hotel. When there was no answer in their room, she asked to be transferred to the front desk. The same receptionist was on duty.

  “Your husband went out a few minutes ago,” he informed her. “He left a note for me to give you.”

  “Could you read it to me?”

  “Of course. Would you hold on a second?”

  She heard the phone being dropped heavily to the wooden desk and then the sounds of somebody stumbling around echoed into the receiver. “Here it is.” Paper was unfolded. Hesitation. “It’s … it’s rather personal, Mrs. Baskin.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “You still want me to read it?”

  “You already have,” Laura replied.

  “True enough.” He paused, and then reluctantly, he read David’s words. “ ‘Stepped out for moment. Should be right back.’ ” The receptionist cleared his throat before continuing. “ ‘Black garter belt and stockings are on bed. Put them on and wait for me … my, uh, my little sex kitten.’ ”

  Laura stifled a laugh. “Thank you very much. Would you mind giving my husband a message when he gets back?”

  “I’d rather not, ma’am. He’s rather a large mate, you know.”

  This time she did laugh. “No, nothing like that. Just tell him I’ll be back a little later than originally planned.”

  His voice was relieved. “I can do that,” he said. “Yeah, sure, no worries.”

  Laura replaced the receiver, took a deep breath, and returned to the negotiating table.

  TWO hours later, the deal was set. The few minor obstacles had been removed, and soon department stores throughout Australia and New Zealand would be inundated with Svengali products, maybe even before the Christmas season. Laura sat back in the taxi’s plush cushion and smiled.

  So much for business.

  By the time the taxi dropped her in front of the hotel, night was beginning to settle in, snatching the spare rays of the sun that still lighted Palm’s Cove. But Laura was not tired. Business rejuvenated her—business and the thought that David was only a few feet from where she now stood, waiting for her… .

  “Mrs. Baskin?”

  It was the receptionist. She walked toward the desk with a bright smile.

  “Another note from your husband.”

  “Would you like to read this one to me too?” she asked.

  He laughed and handed her an envelope. “I think you can handle this one all by yourself. Thanks anyway.”

  “Thank you.” She opened the sealed envelope and read.

  LAURA,

  BE BACK SOON. WENT FOR A SWIM IN THE OCEAN. I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER. AL- WAYS REMEMBER THAT.

  DAVID

  Puzzled, Laura folded the note and went to the room.

  THE black stockings were on the bed.

  Laura slid them over her ankles and then slowly rolled them up her slender legs. She unbuttoned her blouse and removed it. Her hands reached behind her back and unclasped her lace brassiere. It fell forward and slipped down her arms.

  She strapped on the garter belt and attached the stockings. She stood and looked in the mirror. Then she did what few people who beheld such a magnificent sight would do.

  She laughed.

  That man has made me completely loony, she thought with a shake of her head, remembering what a different person she had been before David had entered her life two years ago. Thinking back, Laura recalled that she and David did not hit it off right away—to be more precise, their first meeting had been about as romantic as a two- car accident.

  They had met on a humid Boston night in July 1986 at a gala black-tie party for the Boston Pops. The place was packed. Everyone who was anyone in Boston society was there.

  Laura hated such events. She especially hated the reason she attended them (she felt she had to), and she hated the phony smiles and the phony lines everyone handed out. Even worse were the men who showed up for such functions—cocky, persistent, and overbearing neo-playboys with egos that were nearly as vast as their insecurities. She had been hit on so many times at these things, she felt like a stubborn nail jutting out of a piece of plywood. Over the years, her manner of dealing with such approaches began to border on the rude. But at times, only a cutting phrase could slow down a charging bull.

  Laura had built a wall around herself—more like a fortress with a shark-infested moat. She also knew that she was developing a reputation of being a “cold bitch,” a woman who “knew she was hot and thought her shit didn’t stink.” This reputation was well-known and, in her mind, untrue. But Laura did little to discourage it since it helped keep some of the animals at bay.

  At this particular party, she had been standing a few yards away from the buffet table, watching with disbelief as the well-dressed patrons attacked the food like the poor in Bangladesh. That was when she turned away and bumped into David.

  “Excuse me,” she said without looking at the man.

  “Grim sight,” David replied motioning toward the ravenous savages at the buffet table. “Welcome to Day of the Locust.”

  She nodded and began to walk away,

  “Wait a minute,” David called after. “I don’t mean to sound like a groupie but aren’t you Laura Ayars?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is David Baskin.”

  “The basketball player?”

  “The same. Are you a basketball fan, Miss Ayars?”

  “Not in the least bit, but it would be impossible to live in Boston and not hear your name mentioned.”

  “I blush in modesty.”

  “I’m sure you do. If you’ll excuse me …”

  “The brush-off already? Before you go, Miss Ayars, may I just say that you look enchanting this evening.”

  Her voice was tainted with sarcasm. “Original line, Mr. Baskin.”

  “David,” he replied calmly. “And for the record, I’m not handing out lines.” He paused. “May I ask why you don’t like basketball?”

  Typical jock, Laura thought. He thinks that the planet Earth could not possibly spin without grown men grunting and sweating while running back and forth in a meaningless wave. This guy shouldn’t take long to get rid of. He’s probably not used to carrying on a conversation that involves complete sentences.

  “It’s inconceivable, is
n’t it?” she began. “I mean, it must be impossible for you to imagine a thinking person who doesn’t enjoy watching illiterate men whose brain capacity is in adverse proportion to their height try to jam a spherical object through a metallic circle.”

  His expression did not change. “Aren’t we a little cranky today?” he replied. “And all those big words. Very impressive. Have you ever been to the Boston Garden to watch the Celtics?”

  Laura shook her head in mock self-pity. “I guess I haven’t really lived yet.” She looked at her watch but did not even see the time. “My, my, time does fly. I have enjoyed this little chat, but I really must be go—”

  “We don’t have to talk about basketball, you know.”

  The sarcasm was still there. “We don’t?”

  His smile remained unfazed. “No, we don’t. Believe it or not, I’m capable of discussing matters of greater substance: economics, politics, peace in the Middle East—you name it.” He snapped his fingers and his smile grew. “I have an idea. Why don’t we talk about something really intellectual—like modeling! But no, I mean, it would be impossible for you to imagine a thinking person who doesn’t enjoy watching people whose brain size is in direct proportion to their body-fat level try to look as much like a mannequin as humanly possible.”

  For a moment their eyes met, and then Laura lowered her head. When she looked up again, David was smiling in such a way as to soften his words.

  “Lighten up, Laura,” he said gently, an expression she would hear so many times in the future. “I wasn’t trying to do anything but talk to you. I’ve read a lot about you and Svengali—yes, some basketball players can indeed read—and I thought you would be an interesting person to meet. I wasn’t looking for anything else, but with your looks, I’m sure you think this just another line. And I don’t blame you. Maybe it is.”

  He bowed slightly and began to turn. “I won’t bother you anymore. Enjoy the party.”

  Laura watched him walk away, hating herself for being so defensive, for not trusting the motives of even one man. He had spoken her mind as though her forehead was a window in which he could see her thoughts. But even so, this man would be all wrong for her. A jock? Forget it. She decided simply to push David Baskin from her mind. Strangely, she couldn’t do it.

  Back in Australia, a near-naked Laura leaned over and reached for the clock.

  Ten fifteen p.m.

  The sound of the bush penetrated through the darkness that had blanketed her window. If it were anybody else but David, she would be seriously worried. But David was a superb swimmer, an Olympic participant, and more to the point, he was masterfully unpredictable, always throwing a surprise at those who knew him, always tossing an unexpected curve into life. And this was one of the reasons the sports media loved him so. He was the player whose locker the reporters rushed to after a game, the man with the perfect quote for the morning edition. He was the polite yet cocky superstar who always managed to live up to his off-color predictions.

  Laura threw a blanket over her body. The night air was cool, tingling her nerves as it gently caressed her skin. Hours came and left, taking with them the excuses that had staved off Laura’s panic and dread.

  SHE got dressed at half past midnight and headed down to the lobby. The same receptionist was still on duty and Laura wondered if he ever slept.

  “Excuse me,” she began. “Have you seen my husband?”

  “Mr. Baskin? No, ma’am. Haven’t seen the mate since he went swimming.”

  “Did he say anything to you before he left?”

  “Not a peep, ma’am. He just handed me the key and that note I gave you. He didn’t even look up.” The receptionist saw the worried look on her face. “Has he not shown up yet?”

  “No, he hasn’t.”

  “Well, now, I wouldn’t worry too much about that. Your mate has got quite a reputation in the papers of being a bit of a wild one. He’ll be back by morning.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” she said, unconvinced. She considered looking for David but realized it would serve no real purpose except to satisfy her need to—in her mind at least—do something besides sit in their suite. But the reality was that a lone American strolling through the Australian bush in complete darkness hardly constituted a competent rescue party. More likely, David would come home while she was busy getting lost in the wilds.

  Laura went back to her room, firm in the decision that she would not panic until morning.

  WHEN the room’s digital dock read seven a.m., Laura officially began to panic.

  2

  “THE call will be put through in a moment, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.”

  Laura sat back and stared at the telephone. With the time difference, it was nearly nine p.m. yesterday in Boston and she wondered if T.C. was going to be home yet. His shift normally ended at a little past eight and she knew that he often stayed a lot later.

  Laura’s hands trembled, her face and eyes harried and swollen from the torment of the seemingly endless night she had just endured. She glanced out the window and saw the sun shining. The bright rays and the clock beside her bed were the only clear signs that last night had turned into today, that the night had indeed given way to morning. But for Laura, the night continued, her heart squeezed in a nightmare that would not move on.

  She closed her eyes for a moment and remembered the second time David Baskin had entered her life. It was three weeks after their initial encounter at the Boston Pops, three weeks in which their short conversation constantly jabbed at the back of her mind like a dull ache, never all-consuming but still bothersome enough to make its presence felt whenever she tried to forget about it.

  Subconsciously (or so she would claim), Laura began to skim through a few of the many articles about him. Though the press could not shovel enough praise about David’s talent, sportsmanship, and positive influence on the game, Laura was more fascinated (well, not fascinated, she told herself—more like interested) by the few sprinkles of information about his upbringing, his academic prowess at the University of Michigan, his time spent in Europe as a Rhodes scholar, and his selfless work with the handicapped. She found herself feeling oddly guilty about the way she had treated him, as though she had somehow to even the score or stay forever in his debt. It might be nice to see him again, she told herself, and maybe just apologize so he would see that she wasn’t really a cold person.

  That was when she began to accept invitations to functions and gala parties that he was likely to attend. She, of course, would never admit that David Baskin had anything to do with her social calendar. It was just coincidence, she would claim. Svengali needed her exposure at these events, and if David Baskin happened to be there, well, life sometimes worked that way.

  But to her inward dismay, David made only token appearances, smiling broadly as people gathered around him to shake his hand and slap his back. Laura thought she noted a wince or small look of revulsion on his face as these phonies reached out to touch him, but it might have been just her imagination.

  David never approached her, never so much as glanced her way. Finally, Laura decided to do something truly childish. Spotting him by the bar at one such event, she took what has been termed by teenage girls as a “strategic walk”—i.e., a casual stroll where she would “accidentally” bump into him. It worked. He spotted her. He smiled cordially at her (or was there something else in the smile, like mockery?) and then moved on without a word. Her heart sank.

  Laura returned to her office, fuming. She felt embarrassed at her behavior, upset she was acting like a high school girl with a crush on the football captain. She could not understand why she felt this need to confront him again. Was it simply because he had bested her, made her reconsider her normal behavior and defense mechanisms? Or was there an attraction—albeit, dormant—causing this static electricity in her brain? True, he was not bad-looking, rather handsome in an unconventional way. His face and body were dark and strong like that of a lumberjack on a l
ite-beer commercial. His green eyes were warm and friendly, his thick hair groomed short. Actually, he was quite attractive, more natural and real-looking than the supposedly gorgeous male models she used to work with.

  But even if Baskin wasn’t a typical, self-centered, immature jock, he was nonetheless a jock, hero-worshipped by adolescents of all ages, a man who played a child’s game as a career. Undoubtedly, he was a playboy-athlete, surrounded by airy bimbos who sought the spotlight and wanted to get on television with the other wives in the stands. And Laura wanted nothing less than to be considered another bimbo, another conquest of the immortal Celtic great. Clearly, David Baskin was the very antithesis of what she would want in a man, if indeed she had been interested in a relationship at all. Right now there was no room for a man. Svengali was her ambition, her lifelong dream and partner.

  Laura tilted her chair back and put her feet on her desk. Her right leg shook as it always did when she was somehow uptight or in deep thought. Her father had the same annoying habit. They both drove people crazy because the movement was no mere quiver—it was a full-fledged shake. When her dad or she really got that right leg going, the chair, the desk, the very room would vibrate under the leg’s tenacious assault. For those in the area, it was an unnerving spectacle—one that Laura had tried unsuccessfully to stop herself from doing.

  The vibrations her leg caused eventually knocked her pencil holder off the desk, but she did not stop to pick it up. After a few more minutes of leg shaking, Laura managed to dismiss the basketball player from her mind as Marty Tribble, her director of marketing, entered her office with a large smile.

  Marty Tribble was not a man who smiled all that often during working hours. Laura watched him confidently stroll into her office, his hand pushing away the few strands of gray hair that had lasted the five decades of his life, his face beaming like a Little Leaguer after his first home run.

  “We’ve just made the advertising coup of the year,” Marty exclaimed.