Harlan Coben

by Play Dead

  “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 had 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 have said 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 showed 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 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 seventeenth and drowned sometime that day between the hours of four and seven o’clock in the afternoon, Australian time. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded, his eyes still on the ceiling. “There is a fourteen-hour time difference between here and Australia—we’re fourteen hours behind them. That would mean Mr. Baskin died sometime on June seventeenth 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 seventeenth at eight thirty in the morning. That’s nearly midnight in Australia and at least five hours after he drowned.”

  Cold fear seeped into Laura.

  “Here,” Corsel continued, tossing the file at Laura. “Read it. According to this, Mr. Baskin called me several hours after his drowning.”

  “Are you sure about the time? Could you have made a mistake?”

  He shook his head. “Not possible. Even though I recognized your husband’s voice and he said the access code number, I insisted on verification due to the magnitude of the transaction.”

  “What do you mean, verification?”

  He swallowed. “I asked him to give me the phone number of where he was so that I could call him back. A woman with an Aussie accent answered and transferred my call. The number is written there. There is also a copy of the phone bill, which reconfirms the time.”

  Laura skimmed through the file until she saw a phone number: 011-61-70-517-999. Then she saw the time of the call. Her heart fell deep into her stomach. How … ? The call had been placed at eight forty-seven a.m. on June 17. Thirteen minutes before midnight in Australia. Several hours after David had drowned.

  “The zero-one-one is for an international call,” Richard Corsel explained. “Sixty-one is the country code for Australia. Seventy is the city code of Cairns.”

  Cairns, Laura thought. That was where she had met with the Peterson Group, the meeting that had taken place while David drowned in nearby waters… .

  “I don’t understand, Mr. Corsel. How could David have placed a call to you after he drowned?”

  Corsel shrugged. “I’m not a detective, Mrs. Baskin. I only know the facts you see in front of you. As much as it pains me to say, I think you were right. Somehow, someone was able to get David’s access code and imitate his voice well enough to fool me. I can’t imagine what else it could be … unless, of course, the coroner was wrong about the time of death.”

  Laura slumped back. If the coroner had been wrong, where had David been for all those hours? And why would David move around his money hours before taking a midnight swim?

  “Can I keep this file, Mr. Corsel?”

  “I’d prefer if you just wrote down what you want to know for now. Of course, I’ll keep trying to track down the missing money. Your husband … I mean, whoever made that call had this access code and insisted on absolute secrecy, so please, Mrs. Baskin, I never showed this to you. This time I’m worried about something a lot more valuable than my job.”

  Laura nodded. She understood what he meant.

  WHEN Laura and Serita arrived at Laura’s place, Laura picked up the phone and dialed 011-61-70-517-999. She pictured her call traveling through thousands of miles of wires and satellite transmissions that led from Boston to a small city on the other side of the world in Australia. After a few seconds, a loud static came over the line. Then she heard the ringing of a telephone.

  Laura gripped the phone impossibly tight and listened. The receiver on the other end was picked up after the third ring. A piercing feedback traveled halfway across the globe, followed by a young woman’s voice: “Pacific International Hotel. Can I help you?”

  15

  LAURA hung up the phone without speaking.

  “What is it, Laura?” Serita asked. “Whose number is it?”

  Laura remembered the hotel so well. The window from the Peterson office had given her a perfect view of the Marlin Jetty’s only high-rise structure. “The Pacific International Hotel.”

  Serita shrugged. “So what does that mean?”

  “The Pacific International Hotel is on the same street as the Peterson Group’s building,” Laura explained, her voice flat. “The call to the bank was placed from a hotel less than a block from where I had my meeting.”

  Serita leaned back in the chair. She kicked her shoes off her feet and across the room. “This whole thing is getting kind of eerie, huh?”

  Laura did not respond.

  “I keep waiting for Twilight Zone music,” Serita said. “So what’s our next step? You gonna call T.C.?”

  “Not yet,” Laura said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I think he already suspects something.”

  “What? How can that be?”

  Laura shrugged. “He’s the professional, right? If I could figure it out, so could he.”

  “So why not work together?” Serita suggested.

  She shook her head. “I don’t think T.C. wants to find out what really happened … or he already has and doesn’t want me to know.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense, girl.”

  “I know. It’s just a feeling I can’t shake.”

  “Well, I think you better shake it and talk to him.”

  “Maybe later,” Laura said. “Right now, I think I’m going to take a shower and change.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll change when you’re finished. Can I borrow that new white outfit of yours?”

  “Sure. It’ll probably look better on you anyway.”

  “It’s my ebony complexion.”

  Laura smiled dully and headed into the bathroom. Serita waited for her friend to turn on the shower before picking up the phone and dialing.

  “T.C.,” Serita said quietly, “I need to talk to you.”

  STAN Baskin looked out the window at the Charles River. In many ways, the new apartment was nothing special. It consisted of one bedroom, a living room, a bathroom, a kitchen, and a terrace. As far as Stan was concerned, you could get rid of the bedroom, the living room, the bathroom. Just leave him the terrace. The view soothed him like a gentle touch. Though he and Gloria had moved in only a couple of days ago, Stan had already spent what seemed like countless blissful hours gazing at the Charles River. He watched the college couples stroll along her banks; he watched the crew boats from Harvard slice through her still waters. And at night, the Charles became a sparkling jewel of lights reflecting off of nearby buildings and onto her shiny, wet coat.

  Usually, Gloria sat beside him and watched, too. But she never disturbed him when he was lost in his own thoughts. Gloria had an uncanny knack for knowing when he wanted to talk and when he just wanted to be left alone. Right now, she was at Svengali’s headquarters putting together a new marketing scheme for the teenage set. She would not be home for several hours yet.

  Stan moved away from the window. He knew that he needed to find a job (or a good con) soon. The ten grand he had made from his part in the Deerfield Inn scam was running low. Shit, the B Man had made a nice little profit on that one. He got the fifty grand Stan owed him, plus ten grand interest and another twenty grand net profit minus whatever minuscule amount he paid that Neanderthal Bart.

  Stan picked up the newspaper from the couch. He had a tip about a horse in the seventh race named Breeze’s Girl. The horse, his contact had assured him, could not lose. But somehow it did not feel right. Stan rarely, if ever, bet on a filly. Be they human or animal, females could not be depended upon to come through for you.

  The clock read three o’clock. Gloria usually came home between six and seven. At least three more hours until she was back. Stan shook his head, wondering why he would be counting the hours until she r
eturned. If he did not know himself better, he could swear that he sort of missed her. But of course that was impossible. Stan Baskin did not miss women. They missed him.

  He moved back into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of orange juice. When he was a little kid, his mother had squeezed him fresh orange juice every morning because she knew how much he loved it. His poor old lady. She had ended up dying of cancer. What an awful fuckin’ disease, he thought. You’re either lucky enough to be in remission or you get to stay in bed and wait for the cancer to claim your life, wait as the disease eats away at you from within. Or worse, the doctors make you go through that chemotherapy shit. No way would I go put up with that, Stan thought. If I’m ever in her shoes, I’d go out and buy myself the biggest gun I could find and press it against my temple and pull the trigger.

  Bam.

  Dead. Quick and painless, just like what had happened to his dad—or so they all thought. Only Stan knew better.

  Every morning Stan’s mother squeezed him fresh orange juice. “It’s good for you,” she would say. But Stan needed no encouragement to drink the pulpy liquid with the little seeds. He loved Grace Baskin’s fresh squeezed orange juice. But then his father died (was murdered) and all that changed. Stan had been only ten years old at the time—David not yet two.

  The funeral had been jammed with thousands of people from the university: professors, deans, secretaries, students. All the neighbors were there, too. Stan stood quietly next to his mother. She wore black and cried into a white handkerchief.

  “We have to think of David now, Stan,” she said to him as they lowered the casket into the ground. “We have to make up for the fact that he is going to grow up without a father. Do you understand?”

  Stan nodded to his mother. But in truth, he did not understand. Why should David be the one to worry about? He had never even known their father. David had never played catch with their dad. He had never gone fishing or to museums or to ball parks or to movies or even to the dentist with him. Fact was, David wouldn’t even remember Sinclair Baskin.

  Grace Baskin did not see it that way. Never did. She decided to put all her energies into raising her precious David. She chose to be two parents for her younger child, even if it left none for her older son.