Harlan Coben

by Play Dead

  Gloria sat back. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything,” he replied. “And please don’t tell another soul.”

  “Never,” she promised. “Stan, can I ask one more question?”

  “Sure,” he said softly.

  She moved her fingers across his hair in long, soothing strokes. “Did you recognize the killer? I mean, was it somebody you knew?”

  “No,” he replied, “but I still remember the face.” Stan closed his eyes. Oh yes, he remembered the face, that twisted expression of pain that still haunted his dreams. He was sure he would never see that face again.

  He was wrong.

  “LET me get this straight,” began the taller of the two police officers who had responded to Laura’s call. He was ultrathin, almost emaciated, with a bobbing Adam’s apple. He strongly resembled Ichabod Crane. “You were out of town for a couple of days, correct?”

  “Yes,” Laura replied.

  “You flew back home and took a taxi to your apartment. You headed up the elevator, got out, walked to your door—Was the door locked?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, door locked,” he repeated, writing in a small pad. “Where were you coming from, Mrs. Baskin?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Well, it’s—”

  A voice interrupted him. “I’ll handle this, Sleepy.”

  The tall officer nicknamed Sleepy (short for Sleepy Hollow) spun toward the voice. “Hey, T.C.! How’s it going?”

  “Not bad, Sleepy,” T.C. answered. “What’s going on here?”

  “Break-in,” Sleepy said.

  “You mind if I take over?”

  Sleepy shrugged. “All yours. Joe’s in the other room. We checked around. No fingerprints. It’s kinda weird, T.C. Some guy breaks in, turns on the VCR—”

  “Thanks, Sleepy. I’ll take it from here.” T.C. glanced quickly at Laura. She was staring back with fury in her eyes.

  “Suit yourself,” Sleepy said. “Joe,” he shouted, “let’s go.”

  “Huh?” Joe called back.

  “T.C.’s here. He feels like taking over.”

  Joe came out from the bedroom and greeted T.C. He and Sleepy quickly left, closing the door behind them and leaving Laura and T.C. alone in the apartment. Neither spoke. T.C. stood and stared at the closed door; Laura kept her eyes on him. After some time had passed, T.C. swung his line of vision toward her.

  “You don’t trust me anymore, do you, Laura?”

  Laura tried to hide her panic. “Should I?”

  “I wish you had, Laura,” he said. “I wish you did.” He took a cigar out of his shirt pocket. “Do you mind?”

  She shook her head.

  He lit the stogie and puffed. “What happened here?” “My house was broken into.”

  “And?”

  “And that’s all.”

  T.C. shook his head. “Laura, I’m going to find out anyway. Wouldn’t it be easier if you just told me?”

  She continued to study his face. Did you kill my husband, T.C? Were you somehow involved in his death? How could you—you whom he trusted and loved so? “I was away for a few days. When I came home, the VCR was playing the last game David played in.”

  “The tape was still on?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then whoever broke in timed the whole thing. He knew when you were coming home.”

  “Sounds logical,” Laura agreed.

  “Who knew your schedule?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Just Serita.”

  “Well, we can rule out her. Where were you anyhow?”

  “On business.”

  T.C. looked at her for a long moment. “You really don’t trust me, do you, Laura?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  “Do you honestly believe I would do something to hurt David?”

  Laura hesitated, her mind tugging her thoughts from one extreme to the other. No, I don’t think that. In a million years, David would never believe you would do anything to harm him. He would prefer death to your betrayal. But could you have done it, T.C.? Is it even a possibility? If I look at the facts coldly, you have to be my major suspect. But when I look at your face, when I remember the times you and David shared … “No, I don’t think you could have hurt him.”

  T.C. released a long breath. The relief on his face was visible. “So where were you?”

  “I was in Australia.”

  “I know.”

  “You know? How could you have—”

  “I have my sources,” he explained.

  “T.C.,” she said slowly, “do you think David was murdered?”

  His simple answer tore a hole through her heart. “Yes.”

  She felt his words dry up her throat. “Did you kill my husband?”

  “No.”

  “Who did?”

  T.C. shrugged. He crossed the room and glanced out the window. “I don’t know. Yet.”

  “Yet? You mean you’re close to finding out?”

  “I was a lot closer before you started stumbling around Australia.”

  “How did you know about that?” Laura asked again.

  “Come on, Laura,” he began. “Open your eyes and take a look around. You’re playing in the big leagues now. Do you think I’m the only one who knew about your trip? Do you think that whoever broke into your place was an amateur?”

  “So how did you find out?” she insisted.

  “Believe me,” he said, “it was no problem for me, and more important, it was no problem for them. You’re out of your league here, Laura. Stop playing games and tell me what you learned over there.”

  Laura stared at him for a brief moment and then everything spilled out all at once. She did not hold anything back. If T.C. had killed David, then she did not care what else happened. Et tu, Brute? But he had not killed David. She was sure of it. He had loved David. No one was that good of an actor. Laura might have been burned by Stan, but she had known T.C. for years, had seen him interact with David under all kinds of circumstances. No, there was no way he could hurt David. His strange behavior was clearly a case of him trying to protect her from something—not because he was trying to cover up a murder plot.

  And God, it felt good to trust him again. It felt good to let it all out, to share her secrets and fears, to once again be able to lean ever so slightly on him.

  When she finished speaking, Laura handed T.C. the ring she found under the pillow.

  “Did you show this to Sleepy or Joe?” T.C. asked.

  She shook her head. “I was going to, but I wasn’t sure I should. What does it mean, T.C.? What’s going on here?”

  T.C. stubbed out his cigar, picked at the ashes with the end of a used match, and sat down. He examined the ring like a jeweler pricing a diamond. “There are things,” he began, “I didn’t want to tell you—things you’re better off not knowing.”

  “Like what?”

  “Please, Laura, just let it rest.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me David was murdered?”

  “I was just looking out for your welfare.”

  “How? By coddling me? By lying to me?”

  “By protecting you,” he corrected. “Laura, look what these people have pulled off. Christ, they even timed your return to the apartment. And what good would telling you have done? You’ve already put your life in jeopardy, and now you’ve chased away the killer. I wanted them to think they were in the clear. It makes them careless.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Stay out.”

  Laura’s voice was nearly a whisper. “I can’t.”

  “For your sake.”

  “I don’t care—”

  “About yourself?” T.C. interrupted. “Well, David would. David wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. He loved you, Laura. He made me promise to watch out for you.”

  Laura closed her eyes, trying to silence him by turning away.<
br />
  “And what about your family?” he continued. “Are you willing to put them in danger, too?”

  Laura remembered the note taped to the television. “Do you really think the killer would … ?”

  “Go after them? These guys play for keeps, Laura. They kill people as easily as they say hello.”

  “But why? Why did they kill David?”

  T.C. thought for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, Laura. But I intend to find, out.”

  GRAHAM Rowe clicked on the fan. Damn, it was hot. Living in Palm’s Cove, you get used to hot, but today was one for the record books. The humidity was thick enough to coat your skin.

  He sat back in the chair and glanced around the office. There was paperwork to do, and Graham hated paperwork. He glanced at his guns, the empty cell, anything, as long as it would help him avoid doing that damn paperwork for another minute and a half.

  He felt sticky, his shirt pasted to his skin. He pulled the front of it away from his body for a second and then let it drop back. Yuck. He was in desperate need of a shower. Maybe he should run home and quickly shower and change. That would make him feel better. Then he could come right back and be ready to really get down and do the entire week’s paperwork with no worries. Yes, that was what he should do. No worries.

  He started to rise, stopped, sat back down, smiled. You are one major procrastinator, Sheriff Rowe. You should be ashamed of yourself—trying to sneak out of here like that to shower and change clothes. You know very well that in this friggin’ heat your fresh clothes will be as sopped as these before you finish the walk back to the car.

  With a sigh, he reached for the stack of fishing licenses. He began to thumb through them when the phone rang.

  “Sheriff’s Office.”

  “Graham? Is that you?”

  Graham recognized Gina Cassler’s voice immediately. “How’s it going, Gina?”

  “Answering your own phone, Graham?”

  “This isn’t a hotel, luv. I don’t have a receptionist. What’s up?”

  “We should have the passport cards in another day or so,” Gina began, “but my nephew came through already. I have the phone bills right here.”

  The sheriff felt a jolt of excitement race through him. “Any calls to America late that night?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “And they were made from the lobby phone at right about the time you expected.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” Graham said softly. He cradled the phone on his shoulder and reached for his car keys. “I’m on my way over there now.”

  20

  HORDES of Celtics fans beset the entrance ramps of the Boston Garden for the long-awaited opening game. They scrambled through the stairwells, the concession stands, the long aisles. Wealthy season-ticket holders with their courtside seats greeted the longtime ushers like old friends at a reunion. The masses in the upper deck stared in familiar awe at the championship banners and retired numbers that hung from the rafters. At halftime of tonight’s game, two new banners would be added to this historic collection: the 1989 championship and David Baskin’s uniform.

  Six months had passed since David had led the Celtics to that NBA championship flag. Six months had passed since White Lightning had been awarded the league’s Most Valuable Player Award. And six months had passed since David Baskin had drowned off the coast of Australia.

  The mood was ambivalent. The fans were in a quiet and yet frenzied state. A slight hush glided across the parquet floor, for things were not the same on this cool November evening: White Lightning would strike no more.

  Laura and Serita stood by the court-level entrance. From this spot the players would soon sprint out to the deafening ovation (Celtics) and boos (visitors) of the fans. Tears prickled Laura’s eyes as she peeked out at the familiar arena. She had not been here since the championship series last season, but nothing had changed. The paint was still chipped, the climate still unbearably stifling.

  Two security guards stood next to her. Serita took her hand. “Ready?” she asked.

  Laura nodded. The two guards whisked them out of their protective hideaway and into the bright glare of the Garden’s spotlights. Laura and Serita tried not to move too quickly, tried not to look too conspicuous. No one seemed to have noticed them, or if they had, they did not say anything. Laura proceeded forward without turning her head to the left or right. She could sense rather than hear the crowd quieting, but she dismissed that as a by-product of her overactive imagination. Still, something was strange. No one was staring at them. No one was catcalling. No one was pointing.

  When they reached their seats, Laura saw that Stan and Gloria were already there. Stan stood and smiled brightly. “Ah, Laura, how nice to see you again.” He took her hand and kissed it lightly.

  Laura closed her eyes to avoid Stan’s customary smirk. Not now, she told herself. Not tonight. For one night, pretend he is David’s brother and not some maggot. “Thank you, Stan. This is my friend Serita.”

  Stan turned his attention toward Serita. “Another lovely creature,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it. “Sitting with three such ravishing beauties—I will surely be the envy of every man in the arena.”

  Serita choked back a laugh. She and Laura exchanged kisses with Gloria and then took their seats. Serita leaned over and whispered, “Is he for real?”

  Laura shrugged.

  Stan hopped out of his seat and into the aisle. “I’m going to grab some popcorn. Would you ladies care for anything?”

  “No, thank you,” Laura said flatly.

  “Nothing for me,” Gloria added.

  Serita said, “Can you get me a soda?”

  “Sure,” Stan replied. “What kind?”

  “Diet Coke.”

  “Diet?” Stan repeated, his smile on automatic. “Why would someone with your figure need diet?”

  Serita rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and held back a chuckle. She waited until Stan had headed out of earshot before leaning toward Laura. “Another good line,” she said in a whisper dripping with sarcasm.

  Laura shushed her and turned toward her sister. “How are you, Gloria?”

  “I’m doing great,” Gloria said. “How was your trip?”

  “Productive, I guess. Where are Mom and Dad?”

  “They were going to pick up Aunt Judy at the Sheraton,” Gloria answered. “They should be here any minute.”

  “Good.”

  “Laura,” Gloria continued, “I want to ask you a favor.”

  Laura’s eyes met her sister’s, knowing what Gloria was going to say and wondering what she should say in return. “Name it.”

  “It’s about Stan.”

  “What about him?”

  “I know you two have your trouble,” she began. “I don’t know what it’s all about, but I love him, Laura, really love him. Can’t you give him another chance? For me? Please?”

  Laura took a deep breath—a maneuver she used frequently to stall for a little extra time. It worked. When she finally opened her mouth, her reply was interrupted by the arrival of her parents and her aunt. Laura, Gloria, and Serita greeted James, Mary, and Judy. Everyone busily exchanged embraces and kisses. Laura hugged each one of them tightly, holding on for a few extra moments as though she were gaining strength from each embrace. It felt nice.

  James returned her hug with surprising vigor. “How’s my little girl?”

  “I’m fine, Daddy,” Laura said.

  “Bullshit,” he whispered.

  Laura managed a small laugh. “I miss him so much,” she whispered back.

  “I know, honey,” he said. “I know.”

  They managed to release each other. Laura looked at her father. David’s death had aged him, too. James Ayars’s face was a bit more worn—a few new worry lines had been etched into his face. As always, he was dressed immaculately. His suit was covered with a Burberry trenchcoat, matching scarf, matching hat, matching gloves.

  Mary was taking off her heavy overcoa
t. Laura noticed that her mother still trembled fiercely. The combination of sleepless nights and a few too many wines with dinner had continued to change Mary’s rosy complexion into a pasty one.

  “Where’s your new young man?” James asked Gloria.

  Gloria beamed. “He’ll be here in a minute. He just went to get some popcorn.”

  Dr. Ayars smiled encouragingly at his older daughter. “We’re all looking forward to meeting him.”

  “I just know you’re going to like him,” Gloria added.

  “I’m sure we will,” he replied gently.

  Laura eyed her mother with concern. Despite the Garden heat, Mary’s body trembled like she had been left out in the frigid cold. “Are you okay?” she asked her mother.

  Mary tried to force on a smile but it never made it to her eyes. “Just a little cold. Nothing to worry about.”

  For a moment, no one spoke. They all just glanced around the Garden, at the parquet floor, and at one another.

  “There he is!” Gloria cried.

  Laura looked behind them. Stan moved briskly down the stairs. He smiled at Gloria as if he had eyes only for her. What a slug, Laura thought, but she had to admit to herself that his lovesick-puppy act was good. Very good.

  Heads swirled in the general direction of Stan as he continued his trip down the aisle. He was practically skipping, joy in his every step. He bounced down to their row and greeted Gloria with a quick kiss on the cheek. Gloria blushed and grabbed his hand.

  “Mom, Dad, Aunt Judy,” she began, “I’d like you to meet Stan Baskin.”

  Stan turned toward them, stuck out his hand and froze. His smile disappeared. The color in his face ebbed away. His mouth dropped open.

  Mary and Judy stared back at him with looks that mirrored his own. Only James ignored Stan’s expression. Dr. Ayars stood and took the outstretched hand. “Nice to meet you, Stan,” he said.

  Like a boxer who uses the standing-eight count to get his bearings back, Stan began to recover. His smile returned, though not to its original potency. He shook James’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.” He then greeted Judy and Mary cordially, not meeting their eyes and theirs not meeting his. Finally, he sat down.