by Play Dead
“Gaillaird,” Phillipe answered.
“Phillipe? It’s Richard.”
“How are you, my friend?” the accented voice asked. Gaillaird had been born in Paris but had lived in Geneva since he was seven. Two years ago, Phillipe Gaillaird had made a mistake transferring funds to the wrong bank in the United States. A big multimillion dollar mistake. The kind of mistake that could ruin a Swiss bank. Richard had tracked the money down and gotten it back for him. Phillipe Gaillaird owed Richard Corsel for that favor and he was anxious to repay. Gaillaird did not fancy being in someone’s debt. “I tried to reach you earlier.”
“I got the message.”
“Where are you calling from, Richard? The connection is very poor.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Usually your bank lines are so clear.”
“I’m not calling from the bank.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I have some information for you.”
Richard closed his eyes. “Just forget it, Phillipe.”
“Pardon?”
“Forget I ever asked you about that account. I don’t need to know anymore.”
“Are you sure, Richard?” Gaillaird asked. “I have the name right here.”
“Positive.”
Phillipe paused. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Just leave it alone.”
The Swiss banker’s voice grew serious. “You’re calling from a pay phone?”
“Yes.”
“Listen, Richard, I’ve been working for Swiss banks all my life. I don’t know what’s going on over there, but I have my suspicions. Someone has got to you. That’s okay. Don’t confirm or deny it. It’s none of my business and I don’t want to know. But let me give you a piece of advice. You’re at a phone booth. No one is going to know what is being said. You might as well find out who has the money from the Baskin account. If you never use the information, no one will be the wiser. If the tables turn, knowing the truth may save your hide.”
Richard’s hand gripped the receiver tightly. His eyes darted madly. What Phillipe said made sense. “Okay. Give me the name. But after this call, I don’t think we should talk again.”
“I understand,” Phillipe said.
LAURA handed the Australian official her quarantine form, located her luggage, and made her way through customs. She started to drag her suitcase toward the taxi stand when a large hand reached out and picked it up.
“Sheriff Rowe,” Laura exclaimed, “this is a pleasant surprise.”
Graham smiled through his beard. He lifted the suitcase as if it were a candy bar. “You called me, didn’t ya?”
“Yes, of course, but I didn’t expect you to pick me up.”
The mammoth sheriff shrugged and began to lead her toward his squad car. Laura noticed that everyone around her was wearing shorts. The heat was oppressive, even by the normal standards of tropical Cairns. But then Laura saw the beauty of the place: the bright sun, the trees that looked as if they had been freshly painted green, the pure blue ocean, the golden-sanded beach. Memories rolled over her heavily.
“Slow day,” Graham explained. “I had a choice of picking up a lovely young lady or issuing fishing licenses to a bunch of hicks with no teeth. It wasn’t an easy choice, mind you. The missus preferred I stay with the hicks.” He smiled again. “She’s seen your picture in the magazines.”
Laura returned the smile. “Thank you for coming.”
He put her suitcase in the trunk and opened the passenger door. “Where are you staying, Mrs. Baskin?”
“Laura,” she corrected. “I’m staying at the Pacific International, Sheriff.”
“Graham,” he corrected back. “Now, Laura, why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”
DURING their time off, most models cannot wait to trade in their exotic work wardrobe for a comfortable ripped pair of jeans and tattered sweatshirt. Serita was not one of them. She liked designer clothes—the more outlandish, the better. Right now she was buttoning up a skintight white jumpsuit. When it came to clothes, white was her favorite. She liked the way it contrasted with her ebony skin tone, and judging by the reaction of most people who saw her, her preference was also theirs. On some women, Serita’s outfit might have drawn a few interested glances; on Serita, it drew mouth-dropping gapes.
And of course, she loved that.
I should go into acting, Serita thought with a smile. I’m a big enough ham for it.
So she liked being noticed—what was wrong with that? The way the media played up her outgoing personality, you’d have thought she started wars in the Middle East. Yes, she was brash, but so what? She never hurt anybody. She never bothered anybody. She was having fun, and if they had a problem with that, if they were pissed off because she didn’t want to be quiet and subdued and pristine and boring, then fuck them.
She grabbed her purse and headed toward the door. Laura. Her headstrong friend. What the hell was she doing running halfway around the world? Laura could be so goddamn stubborn sometimes. She was searching, investigating, but for what? The truth? What good could that do? Suppose there had been some foul play. Suppose David’s death was not accidental. Would that really change things? Would that make Laura’s bed warm or bring David back to life? Would that make the agony searing through Laura somehow let up?
No.
Serita knew that Laura would not stop searching until she was satisfied that she knew all the answers. And Laura was not easily satisfied. And more to the point, this had become an almost-welcome distraction for Laura—a way of diverting herself from the pain of reality. But the reality was still there. The reality would come back with a vengeance. When all this was over, David would still be dead … and if his drowning was not an accident, so might Laura.
Serita had visited the Heritage of Boston Bank earlier this morning. Corsel was nowhere to be found. Now she was heading for a four o’clock shoot by Quincy Market for a jeans company. She grabbed her coat off the hook, reached for the knob, and opened the door.
“Hi, Serita.”
Serita jumped back, startled. “T.C., you scared the hell out of me.”
“Sorry,” T.C. said. “I guess I should have called first.”
“That’s okay,” Serita replied. “Something I can do for you?”
T.C. bit off the end of his cigar. He put the Dutch Masters in his mouth but did not light it right away. “I was looking for Laura. Do you know where she is?”
Serita shrugged. “She’s not at Svengali?”
He shook his head slowly. “I spoke to her secretary—what’s her name again?”
“Estelle.”
“Right, Estelle. I spoke to Estelle. She told me Laura is out of the city for a few days. She said Laura is on some kind of sales trip.”
“And she didn’t tell you where?”
“She claims she didn’t know. Maybe Canada. She said it was a big fashion secret or something.” T.C. took out his lighter and flicked it on. He placed it on the end of the cigar. The flame rose and fell in rhythm to his puffing for a few moments until the end of the cigar lit. “I was hoping you could tell me where she went. I’m worried about her, Serita.”
“Worried? Why?”
T.C. took a deep breath. “You know how you told me she’s suspicious about David’s death being a simple accident?”
“Yeah.”
“And how she even thought that I suspected the same thing?”
“Right.”
“Well,” T.C. said, “she was right. I do suspect the same thing.”
Serita’s eyes widened. “You mean—”
“I mean that there is a very good chance that David’s drowning was not accidental.”
Serita felt her body spasm. She moved back into the house and beckoned T.C. to follow. He closed the door and they both sat down. “He was murdered?”
“May have been murdered,” T.C. corrected, “or something else. We’re talking theory here, remember?”
“What do you think happen
ed?”
He scratched his neck and then looked forward. “I don’t know exactly. It could be that a few bad boys discovered they could get their hands on David’s loot by knocking him off.”
“Do you have any idea who?”
“None. But whoever it was is well connected and powerful. No amateur could pull this off. We’re talking about some very nasty people here, people who wouldn’t mind killing somebody who snoops around in their business. That’s why I want to find Laura.”
“You think she’s in danger?”
“Think?” he repeated. “Serita, this is Laura we’re talking about. She’s not a trained detective, and let’s face it, subtlety is not her strong suit. She’s going to go busting around like a bull in a china shop. Very nasty people don’t like that. Very nasty people have a way of making people like Laura disappear without a trace.”
Serita stood. “I need a drink. You want something?”
“No.”
She grabbed the bottle of vodka she kept in the freezer and poured herself a shot.
“Serita,” T.C. began, his words coming slowly, “did Laura say anything to you that might give us a clue to where she went?”
Tears worked their way into Serita’s eyes, but she forced them back down. She was scared, but she had made a promise to Laura, and come hell or high water, Serita would stick to it. Besides, T.C. had raised a few interesting points. If David had been murdered, the killer was indeed well connected. He or she had learned David’s confidential bank number and where David and Laura were honeymooning. He or she had the capability of pulling off a murder and executing a complicated money transfer through Switzerland. Not too many people fit that description. Not too many people could pull off such a crime. Serita only knew one person who could do it. Right now, that person was sitting in her living room wanting to know where Laura was.
“No,” she replied, “not a word.”
LAURA told Graham Rowe the whole story. She started with the house being broken into, the open calendar on the desk, the missing photograph, the missing money, Richard Corsel, the money transfer to Switzerland—everything. By the time she finished, they were settled into the plush chairs in the sitting room of her suite at the Pacific International Hotel.
Graham began to pace back and forth, his head nodding as he listened to her words. He petted his beard with his hand. “That’s certainly a strange story, Laura.”
“I know.”
“Very strange,” he repeated as though clarifying the notion in his own mind. “You say that nobody knew David’s bank number except the two of you?”
“Right.”
Graham peered at her. “That would make you a pretty good suspect, wouldn’t it?”
“No,” Laura said matter-of-factly. “I’m the wife. I would have inherited everything anyway. There would have been no reason for me to go through the whole money-transfer scheme.”
He nodded at her. “I didn’t mean—”
“Please don’t apologize,” she interrupted him. “We have to explore every possible avenue. We might as well get rid of that one first.”
“True enough,” he replied. “Now let me make another observation, which you may find a tad more insightful than my first: you suspect your husband’s mate T.C. may have something to do with this.”
Laura stood. “What makes you say that?”
“Simple,” Graham said. “If you still trusted him completely, he’d be here with you. He was the first one you called when David disappeared. By your own definition, he’s a good cop who was David’s best mate. So why isn’t he here investigating all of this?”
Laura glanced out the window. Down the block stood the Peterson building. Why had she gone to that damn meeting with the Petersons anyway? Why hadn’t she just stayed with David? “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve always trusted T.C., and so did David. They were very close. I can’t believe he would do anything to hurt David. He loved him. And yet …”
“Yet?”
“He’s been acting so weird lately.”
“In what way?”
“There’ve been a lot of things. He keeps disappearing all the time. He tried to stop me from putting pressure on Corsel at the bank. He shoves away all the strange happenings as coincidence. And that’s not like the T.C. I know. The T.C. I know would go through hell to trace down any clue, especially if it involved David.”
“So then he doesn’t know you’re here?” he asked.
She shook her head.
Graham sat back down. “Well, then, what do you say we get this investigation started?”
“What should we do first?”
“Do you have a photograph of David?”
She reached into her handbag and pulled out a photo of him that she had taken the previous February. David’s cheeks were red from the wind, his breath visible in the bitter winter morning. But his smile flashed brightly through the harsh weather. “Here,” she said handing it to him. “What are you going to do with it?”
“The call to the bank came from this hotel, right?” he said.
“So?”
“So,” Graham answered, “we’re in the hotel already. Let’s see if any of the staff remember seeing David.”
THEY spent the next several hours interviewing the staff. Most were not even on duty on that fateful day in June; others did not recognize the man in the photograph.
“Now what?” Laura asked.
Graham thought a moment. “Let’s go to the bar on the second floor.”
“You think the bartender might have seen him?”
“Very doubtful,” the sheriff replied. “I was thinking more along the lines of having a drink. Man is not a camel, you know.”
She followed him up the stairs. They sat on stools and waited for the barmaid to serve them. Laura looked at the woman behind the bar. She was young, not more than twenty-three or twenty-four. Very attractive in an Ivory Soap-girl sort of way. Outdoorsy-looking. Welltoned body and long auburn hair. The color of her hair reminded Laura of her aunt Judy.
“What can I get ya?” she asked Graham.
“A couple of Four Xs.”
“Coming right up.”
Laura nudged Graham. “Four X?”
“It’s a local beer. You like beer, don’t you?”
She nodded. “What do we do next, Graham?”
“Not sure yet. If no one recognizes him, then it could be your banker Corsel was right. Someone disguised David’s voice and called from here. The question is who.”
The pretty bartender came back with two huge mugs filled with Four X beer, the foam spilling over the sides. “Here you go.”
“Thanks, luv.” Graham took a sip. “Mind if I ask you a question?”
“Not at all,” the bartender said. “What can I do for you?”
Graham tossed the photograph toward her. “Have you ever seen this man? He may have been in the hotel sometime in June.”
“June, you say? No, can’t say I recognize the mate. Has he done something wrong? He’s awful handsome for a criminal.”
Graham took back the picture. “No, nothing wrong. We just need to know if he was in the hotel.”
“Handsome mate,” she repeated. “What’s his name?”
“David Baskin.”
“The basketball player who drowned up the coast?”
Graham nodded. “This is his widow, Laura.”
“I’m so sorry, ma’am. Really I am.”
“Thank you,” Laura said.
“But if you have any questions about him being here, you oughta ask my Billy.”
“Who is Billy?” Graham asked.
“My beau. He’s a big fan of American basketball. He watches it on the telly every week, and once he starts watching, a crocodile gnawing at his leg can’t get his attention.”
“And he saw Mr. Baskin?”
“That’s what he said,” the bartender continued. “I didn’t believe him at first. I mean, what would a basketball star be doing here? I said, ‘Bill
y, you’re just making it up.’ So he says, ‘Oh, yeah,’ and hands me an autograph he got. Then I believed him.”
“Where is Billy now?”
The bartender checked the clock behind her. “Should be arriving any minute now. He’s a bellboy. You should be able to find him in the front lobby. Tall, skinny guy.”
Laura had already tossed money on the bar and was walking out of the bar when Graham thanked the girl and joined her.
“BILLY?”
The tall, gangly youngster spun toward Graham’s voice. He was as skinny as a poster child, and Laura wondered where he found the strength to lug suitcases. He was an average-looking boy, red-faced from the sun and covered with the last remnants of what must have been bad acne. “Yes?”
“Billy, my name is Sheriff Rowe. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The boy’s eyes darted about the lobby. “Have I done something wrong, Sheriff?”
“No, son. I just need to ask you a few questions about David Baskin.”
“David Baskin? What can I …? Wait a minute. You’re Laura Ayars, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“You’re even prettier in person than on the telly. I know all about you. I was your husband’s biggest fan—well, his biggest fan in Australia anyway.”
“Billy,” Graham said, “did you see Mr. Baskin in this hotel?”
“Sure did.”
“When?”
“On the day he died. He came right through these doors.”
“You’re sure?”
Billy nodded. “I got his autograph to prove it. He was a very nice fellow. I saw him come in and head straight for the elevator. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, the David Baskin right here in this hotel. I play a little basketball myself but there was no one like White Lightning. Nobody. He was the greatest. So I sprinted over to the reception desk and grabbed a pen and piece of paper and asked him for his autograph. He said, ‘Sure, kid. What’s your name?’ I told him and then he signed it for me. He even scribbled the date.”