Harlan Coben

by Play Dead

  “Where did he play in college?” Laura asked.

  “That’s just it. He didn’t. No one has ever heard of this guy before.”

  “No one? Are you trying to tell me the press hasn’t dug up something on him yet?”

  Earl shook his head. “Not a thing. He claims he lived in Europe, that his family traveled around a lot or something.”

  “And you don’t believe it?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. You mentioned the press before. Well, none of them has been able to substantiate his story. And Seidman refuses to talk to reporters—and you know how Clip feels about good relations with the press. But hell, Seidman doesn’t talk to anyone. He just comes in, plays, and leaves. He’s moody and quiet, and then every once in a while, he’ll say something offhand—you know, impromptu—like he’s one of us. He gets this really pitiful look in his eyes. Like he wants to belong. Then he goes back into his shell.”

  “Could be nothing,” Laura said. “Or it could be he’s hiding something.”

  “Could be,” Earl ventured. “I guess I make him sound like some kind of fugitive from the law. Maybe he is. But I don’t think so. It’s just—I don’t know—so weird. I don’t like him, that’s all.”

  “How good is he?” Laura asked.

  “Hard to say. It’s preseason. I’ve seen a lot of guys who were All-Stars in preseason and then turned into bums.”

  “But what do you think?”

  Earl hesitated. He lifted his glass and took a tiny swig of beer. “Aside from David, he could be the best player I’ve ever seen.”

  Laura spotted the hurt look on his face. It was not easy for Earl to admit that someone could be in the same league with the friend he had so admired. “An unknown walkon?” she said, shaking her head. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “He’s incredible,” Earl went on. “Velvet shooting touch, great passer … Hey, enough about Seidman. I have to talk to you about something important.”

  “Ah, so this was not just a social invitation,” Laura said. “And I thought you loved my company.”

  Earl chuckled. “It’s only the hundredth time I’ve asked you to dinner in the past couple of months.”

  “And I’m not too happy about that,” Serita joked. “You trying to make me jealous?”

  “I wish,” he replied. “Laura, Clip asked me to speak to you.”

  “About what?”

  Earl lowered his head and played with his food. “It’s kind of difficult to talk about.”

  “Go on, Earl.”

  Tears filled the giant man’s eyes. “The Celtics and the city want to pay tribute to David. Opening game at the Garden is in a week. We play the Washington Bullets. At halftime, they’re going to retire David’s number and hang it with the others on the rafters.” Earl stopped and turned away. Laura put her hand on his arm.

  “It’s okay, Earl.”

  Earl sniffled and faced her again. His eyes were red now. Laura glanced at Serita. She, too, was crying. “The mayor will declare it David Baskin Day. After the game, there’s going to be a small gathering at the Blades and Boards for the players, families, press—the usual stuff. Clip wanted to make sure you and your whole family—David’s brother, too—will be there.”

  Laura remained stone-faced. “We’ll be there. All of us.”

  “Good,” Earl managed, his eyes darting around the room. He stood, shaking. “I’ll be right back.” He nearly sprinted out of sight.

  “Big chicken,” Serita managed between her own sobs. “He’s afraid to cry in front of you. He still does it almost every night, you know.”

  “I know,” Laura said. But she did not cry along with her friends. Laura had learned that occasionally, when the pain became too great, her mental block came up automatically. Sure, she heard the sad words, saw the tears, but somewhere along the way to her heart, the pain veered away.

  “I need to talk to you about something else, Serita. But you have to promise not to tell anyone—including Earl. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she said, wiping her eyes with the corner of a napkin.

  “I’m leaving for Australia tomorrow morning.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll be flying out of Logan around noon.”

  “Whoa, Laura, let’s talk about this a second.”

  “Nothing to talk about. You know what Corsel said. The threads are going to disappear if I don’t get over there and figure out what happened. I have to go. You know that.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No, I want to go by myself.”

  “But—”

  “Let me put it another way. I don’t want you to go.”

  “Fuck you, too.”

  They hugged then, tightly, fiercely. Earl came back into the room. He walked over to them and threw his arms around both of them. For a long time, the three of them just held one another in comforting silence.

  16

  “QANTAS flight 182 departing for Honolulu and Cairns is now boarding at gate thirty-seven. Those passengers with children or who need special care may board now.”

  Laura glanced at her watch and saw that her flight was going to take off on time. No small miracle. LAX airport in Los Angeles was packed with travelers today. Laura watched the stone-faced passengers pace through the long corridors, striding purposefully and consistently in that way that only people in airports do. There were no Hare Krishnas in airports anymore. Lyndon LaRouche was the new air terminal religion, the presidency being his holy grail. A man was selling bumper stickers—what one was supposed to do with a bumper sticker at the airport was beyond Laura—asking people to save the whales or harpoon Jane Fonda or some other nonsense. Another man sat behind a sign saying:

  Roses are Red,

  Violets are Blue,

  I’m a Schizophrenic,

  And So am I.

  Laura shook her head. Los Angeles. The last time she had been in LAX airport, she was on her way to David’s funeral; the time before that, she and David had stopped for one night as they headed toward their honeymoon. Funny how life worked that way. She remembered how excited they had been, how they had rushed out of Los Angeles’s immense airport and headed into the City of Angels to get their blood tests at a nearby hospital.

  “I hate needles,” David had told her.

  “Chicken.”

  “Needles and insects,” he said. “When we’re married, do you promise to kill all the household insects?”

  “I’ll put it in our vows.”

  When the nurse handed Laura the results an hour later, David asked, “Did we pass?”

  Laura smiled as she read the report. Both of them had been deemed healthy by the State of California. They could get married with the state’s blessing. “Passed.”

  “Not even a touch of V.D.?”

  “Nope. Do you want to see it?”

  “Blood-test results? No way.”

  “Whatever you say. We better get back to the airport. Our plane will be taking off soon.”

  “Question.”

  “What?”

  “Do you know how long the flight is?” David asked.

  “No.”

  “I do,” he answered.

  “Great. So why did you ask me?”

  “More than thirteen hours,” he pronounced.

  “So?”

  “More than thirteen hours strapped into an airplane.”

  “The point being?”

  “Well, that’s a long time, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” she agreed.

  “So we have a little time before we have to head to the airport, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, I think it would be good for both of us if we made a quick pit stop in a nearby hotel for rest and rejuvenation—strictly for health reasons, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Well?”

  “No,” Laura said firmly.

  “No?”

  “Stop pouting. I said no.”

  “But thi
rteen hours is such a long time. I know you, Laura. I’m not sure you can hold out that long without …”

  “Without what?”

  “You know what I mean, Laura. I’m only thinking of you.”

  “Your concern is touching.”

  “So?”

  She smiled and threw her arms around his neck. She kissed him passionately. “Who needs a hotel room?” she murmured in his ear. “I always wanted to try it in one of those little bathrooms… .”

  His eyes lit up. “You don’t mean … ?”

  “That’s right,” she said. “Right over the Pacific.”

  “God, I love this woman.”

  “Qantas flight 182 now asks all economy class passengers to begin boarding.”

  Laura stood and made her way to a pay phone, the happy memory melting down to a dull ache. She dialed the operator and charged the call to her credit-card number. The operator put the call through.

  “Heritage of Boston,” a voice answered.

  “Richard Corsel, please,” she said.

  “Hold on, please.” She heard a ringing. Then another voice came on. “Mr. Corsel’s office.”

  “This is Laura Baskin. I would like to speak with Mr. Corsel, please.”

  There was a moment of hesitation. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Baskin. Mr. Corsel is not in at the moment.”

  “I called earlier. I was assured he would be in by now.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Baskin. Would you like to leave a message?”

  “Yes. Please tell him it’s urgent that I speak with him. I’ll call him tomorrow at ten in the morning.”

  “Fine. I’ll give him the message.”

  Eleanor Tansmore put the receiver down and turned toward Richard Corsel. His face was white.

  LAURA slowly hung up the phone. Something strange was going on again. Richard Corsel was ducking her. But why? She looked toward the long line of passengers boarding the Boeing 747. There were still a few minutes left before takeoff. She quickly placed another call.

  “Hello?”

  “Serita?”

  “Laura, honey, where are you?”

  “Los Angeles airport. I have to board in a minute. I need you to do me a favor.”

  “Name it.”

  “Corsel is avoiding me. Could you go over there and see what he’s up to?”

  “What makes you think he’s avoiding you?”

  “I’m getting the runaround when I call. They claim he’s not in.”

  “So? Maybe he’s not.”

  “Not likely. I had him checked out by my office. He hasn’t missed a day in three years and he never works outside of the office.”

  “Laura, you’re sounding a bit paranoid. He contacted you, remember? Why would he be trying to avoid you?”

  “I don’t know,” Laura admitted, “unless somebody … Serita, did you tell anybody about our visit to the bank?”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe someone found out we were there and scared him off.”

  Serita remained silent.

  “Did you tell someone, Serita?”

  “Laura …”

  “Tell me.”

  “I only told T.C.,” Serita said. “And I did that for your own good. You’re scaring me with all this murder talk. I’m afraid you might be getting into something over your head.”

  “Final call for Qantas flight 182 …”

  “Is he the only person you told?”

  “The only one. I swear. But call him, Laura. Please.”

  “Does he know I’m going to Australia?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t tell him. Whatever you do, don’t tell him.”

  “You don’t think T.C. has something to do with all of this? He loved David.”

  “Just don’t tell him where I am,” Laura repeated. “I have to go now. I’ll call you soon.”

  Before Serita could protest, Laura hung up and boarded the plane.

  MARK Seidman stared at T.C. wild-eyed. “You did what?”

  “I had no choice,” T.C. replied.

  “Had no choice? I thought you said no one else would get hurt.”

  “I didn’t hurt him. I just scared him.”

  “You threatened his children, for chrissake.”

  “Look, Mark, Corsel was your responsibility. You said he’d back us.”

  “I misjudged him.”

  “And in doing so, you risked everything. First he caved in and told Laura the money had been moved to Switzerland. Now he’s told her that the transfer was made after Baskin’s death.”

  “But that’s all he knows,” Mark countered. “He can’t tell her anything else.”

  T.C. shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong. Corsel is a bright guy. He’s moved up the company ladder rather swiftly. He promised Laura he’d check into it. He feels responsible.”

  Mark Seidman began to pace, his fingers toying with his blond locks. “There had to be another way. Christ, you threatened him at knifepoint.”

  “I don’t like it any better than you do,” T.C. snapped, “but I had to stop him. Suppose he kept digging, Mark? Suppose he found out what happened to Baskin’s money? The whole plan could be jeopardized.”

  “But to threaten his kids …”

  “Time was short. It was all I could think of. And even threatening his family wasn’t enough.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Corsel already told Laura that Baskin called the bank hours after the drowning supposedly took place. Now there is no way Laura will quit searching until she finds a satisfactory way to explain that.”

  Mark turned away from T.C. and looked out a window. “There’s something else I don’t understand, T.C.”

  “What?”

  “How come Laura hasn’t come to you for help in all this?”

  T.C. shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s another part of our plan that has gone astray. I’m not sure she completely trusts me anymore.”

  “But she can’t suspect you have anything to do with the drown—”

  “Maybe she does,” T.C. interrupted. “Maybe she does.”

  RICHARD Corsel sat in his office. He stared at the two pens jutting up from the marble holder on his desk. He had been doing that for most of the day. Try as he might, concentration would not come to him for even the briefest of moments.

  Lack of sleep, he thought. The previous night had seemed endless. He had wandered through his house, gone downstairs, finished off the Shop-Rite All Natural Vanilla Ice Cream, and reread the newspaper. He had walked back up the stairs and quietly opened the twins’ door. Roger and Peter were both asleep, their breathing steady and deep. Richard tiptoed over to Peter’s bed. Peter still had his Red Sox cap on his head. Richard had bought the twins Red Sox caps when they went to Fenway Park the previous month to watch the Sox play the Detroit Tigers. What a day that had been. Peter almost caught a fly ball; Roger had eaten so many hot dogs he came home with a stomachache. Corsel smiled at his sleeping children. He gently took the hat off of Peter’s sleeping head and laid it on the night table, next to the Garfield the Cat lamp.

  He took a Sominex, counted sheep, even read boring bank newsletters. Nothing worked.

  “Mr. Corsel?” his intercom shrieked.

  “Yes, Eleanor.”

  “There’s a call for you on line four.”

  “I’m not taking any calls.”

  “It’s a Mr. Phillipe Gaillaird from the Bank of Geneva. He said it’s urgent.”

  “Tell him I’m not here.”

  “But—”

  “Just tell him I’ll call him back,” he said firmly.

  There was a moment of silence. “Yes, Mr. Corsel.”

  Richard leaned forward and lowered his face into his hands. He stood and crossed the room. He moved down the hallway and into the executive lavatory. The door swung into an empty and silent bathroom. He walked over to the mirror and splashed cold water onto his face.

  Richard realized that he wou
ld have to call Phillipe back. If not, Phillipe would keep calling the bank and that was no good. The psycho with the knife would not like that. No, Richard would have to reach Phillipe and tell him to forget the whole thing, to forget about tracing the Baskin account. The question was how. The psycho with the knife was clearly a pro with powerful connections. If he had learned all those things about Richard’s family and his conversation with Laura Baskin, he might also have placed a bug on Richard’s phone. The psycho might even have someone tailing him. And if the psycho got the wrong idea and thought that Richard was still trying to trace David Baskin’s account …

  He let the thought hang in the air.

  Richard had considered the possibility of calling the police or going to his superiors, but what could he say? His superiors would want to know why he had passed confidential information to Laura in the first place; the police would be powerless in protecting his family from the well-connected psychopath, who knew all about Naomi’s new job and about Roger and Peter’s school. But Richard also knew that as long as that guy was out there, the danger to his family would continue to exist. And what about Laura Baskin? Could he just turn his back on her without even giving her a hint about what kind of people she was up against? True, he had only met her twice, but he was convinced she would not give up easily on all this. Laura Baskin would push and push until …

  He decided to let that thought hang in the air, too.

  What the hell should he do?

  He went back to his office, grabbed his briefcase, and went up to one of the bank clerks. He handed the young girl a twenty-dollar bill.

  “I need change. All quarters.”

  “All quarters?” the clerk repeated. “Why?”

  “I’m taking a long drive on a toll-infested road,” he said wearily. “Just let me have them, please.”

  With a shrug, the clerk counted out the quarters. “There you go. Eighty quarters.”

  He put them in his briefcase and headed outside. He grabbed a taxi, took a subway, changed trains and lines three times, and ended up near the Bunker Hill Monument. He found a telephone booth. No way he could have been followed and no way the call could be traced—not when you used quarters from a telephone booth.

  He placed the first group of quarters in the slot. Then he dialed Phillipe Gaillaird’s private line at the Bank of Geneva in Switzerland.