Harlan Coben

by Play Dead

  This is not my cup of tea, Graham thought. He was a simple, small-town sheriff. He liked fishing, hunting, and downing a few Fosters at Luke’s Pub in town. Not too many, mind you, but a nice cold one now and again helps set a man straight.

  Conspiracy, complications, murders—he avoided them like a leper colony. And what was he risking his neck for anyway? From the looks of things, the actual drowning occurred in Cairns. They had a whole police department over there. He could just hand the whole thing over to them, sit back in his chair, and catch a little catnap.

  You’d like that, Graham ol’ boy, wouldn’t you? he thought. But in truth, David Baskin had been vacationing in his jurisdiction. His wife had come to him for help. She could be in real trouble and Graham Rowe was not the sort of mate who turned away from a woman in danger.

  He grabbed a pen and circled all the calls on the bill that had gone to the United States. There were a total of seven made on June seventeenth. The big sheriff had all seven numbers checked out quickly. Three were tourists calling their family in California. One was to Texas. One was even to something called SportsPhone in Cleveland. As he expected, dead ends.

  The same, however, could not be said for the last two calls: both placed to the Boston area from the phone extension in the lobby—the same extension that Baskin had used. Once again, Graham stared at his findings and wished they would change.

  Damn. Why did it have to be this way?

  He shook his head. No use in putting it off. He might as well call Laura and get it over with. She was about to be one unhappy little lady.

  The call connected rapidly. In a matter of seconds, he heard Laura pick up the phone. “Hello, luv,” he said.

  “Graham,” Laura asked, “is that you?”

  He tried to sound jovial. Why he did so he had no idea. “You know somebody else with an Aussie accent?”

  “Have you learned anything? Have they found the passport cards?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Give me the no first.”

  “No, the passport cards have not been located yet. We should have them sometime tomorrow.”

  “And the yes?”

  He let go a long sigh. “We have the phone bill.”

  “Were calls placed to Boston?”

  He closed his eyes. “Yes. Two of them. Both from the lobby of the hotel.”

  Laura’s pulse quickened. “Who did he call, Graham?”

  “One of the calls we already knew about. As we expected, he did call the Heritage of Boston Bank.”

  “And the other call?”

  He could hear the eager and troubled tone in her voice. “Laura, he called T.C. They spoke for nearly an hour.”

  Graham’s words rammed into her midsection. All her worst fears had come full circle. Another lie from T.C. Last night, he claimed that he had never met Mark Seidman. When she saw them sneak out together, she felt a knowing dread crawl over her. He had lied. Somehow, Mark Seidman was connected with all of this. Somehow, the Celtics rookie had a part in this little plot.

  “Laura? You still there?”

  “Yes, Graham. Is there anything else?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Thank you for calling.”

  “No worries. But, Laura, let’s take this slowly, shall we? If T.C. does have something to do with this, it might not pay to let on quite yet. In fact, it might be rather dangerous.”

  Laura remembered what T.C. had said to her just a few days ago. “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.”

  Careless, huh? Maybe it was time to put the shoe on the other foot. Maybe she should let T.C. think he was safe in his web of lies, let him think she had given up on going after the truth behind David’s drowning. And then maybe, just maybe, he would be the one to get careless.

  “I’ll be careful,” she said.

  RICHARD Corsel sat with his fingers on the computer keyboard. He was not typing, not just at this second. For the third time that day, the superadvanced Heritage of Boston Bank computer system had gone down. Richard stared at the blank screen.

  “Mr. Corsel?”

  Richard sighed and swiveled his chair toward the intercom. “Yes, Mrs. Tansmore?”

  “There is a gentleman here to see you. A Dr. James Ayars.”

  “Does he have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know what he wants?”

  “He says he wants to talk to you about his son-in-law’s account here.”

  “Who is his son-in-law?”

  “David Baskin.”

  Richard tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. His mind flashed back to the knife at his throat, to the threats against his twin boys and his wife. Despite those threats, Richard had found out where the money had been transferred to after Switzerland. Somebody now had David Baskin’s half-million dollars and Richard knew who that somebody was.

  But what could he do about it? The psycho with the knife had threatened his children, for chrissake. Laura Baskin was a wealthy woman. She would get along fine without ever learning what had happened to the missing money. He had to keep silent. He had to protect his family. And besides, what good would telling her do? The psycho was powerfully connected. He knew all about Richard’s personal life as well as his conversations with Laura. It would not pay for him to piss off these people. The same was true for Laura Baskin.

  Of course, there was one giant hole in Richard’s theory. Suppose the psycho and his companions were not through with Laura Baskin? If they had murdered David for his money, who was to say that Laura was not going to be the follow-up? And what if they decided that Richard Corsel knew too much? What if they decided to make sure he kept silent by turning Naomi into a widow?

  His mind writhed in confusion. “Send him in.”

  A moment later, James Ayars came through the door. He looked, Richard thought, remarkably like a doctor. Well-groomed, neatly dressed, gray haired, good-looking, serious—a TV doctor for the nineties. Richard stood and shook his hand.

  “Please sit down, Dr. Ayars.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is there something I can do for you?”

  James got right to the point. “I would like to know about Mr. Baskin’s missing account.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “David Baskin was my son-in-law. Before he died, a great deal of money was transferred out of his account. It disappeared, so to speak. I would like to know where it went to.”

  Richard almost breathed a sigh of relief. Obviously, Laura had been smart enough not to endanger her father by telling him what she had learned. “I’m sorry, Dr. Ayars. That’s confidential information.”

  “Confidential?”

  Richard nodded. “Suppose, Doctor, that you transferred money out of this bank. Would you want any relative to be able to come in and find out about it?”

  “Fair enough,” Dr. Ayars agreed, “but Mr. Baskin is deceased.”

  “That does not change his rights.”

  “But certainly the next of kin has a right to know what happened to his money.”

  “In most cases, yes. But you are not next of kin, Dr. Ayars. Your daughter is.”

  “I understand that, but my daughter has gone through a terrible ordeal these past few months. Couldn’t I act as her proxy?”

  “You could,” Richard replied, “if you had her power of attorney.”

  Dr. Ayars leaned forward, his face clouded. “Have you learned anything new about this matter?”

  “I’m sorry. That’s also confidential.”

  James settled back into the chair. “I respect what you’re saying, Mr. Corsel,” he said in a quiet voice, “but I suspect there may be more to this money transfer than meets the eye. There could be something else at stake here—something very dangerous, something that could hurt my daughter. I need to know what happened to that money.”

  The two men
stared at each other for a moment. “I wish I could help you,” Richard said, “but this situation involves bending more than a few bank rules. You’re asking Heritage of Boston to break the law.”

  “Then how do I find out what happened?”

  “I suggest you speak to your daughter about this.”

  James realized it was useless to push any further. “Thank you, Mr. Corsel,” he said as he turned to leave. Once out in the lobby, James wondered what his next step should be. Either way he looked at, if Judy’s crazy suspicions were right or wrong, his daughter was going to continue to suffer. James would do anything to help Laura, to shield her from any more pain, but what could he do to help?

  Whatever it took.

  James found his car and pulled out of the lot. His daughter had gone through enough torment. He would not let her go through any more—no matter what the cost.

  AN argument had raged in Judy’s mind all day. Should she call Laura or not? If Judy was wrong about Mark Seidman, calling Laura could be catastrophic. It could reopen old wounds and help the present ones gush anew. It could cause irrevocable harm. And to face facts, Judy did not know the whole story of Mark Seidman. More specifically, everything her mind had dreamed up boiled down to little more than creative conjecture. Being logical Judy knew that she should not contact Laura yet.

  So how come she was dialing her niece’s phone number?

  In a strange way, it was time for Judy to stop worrying about what might be best for Laura. Trying to protect her could take away Laura’s one last chance for true survival. The risk had to be taken. Judy had no choice. If she was wrong, Judy would be harming Laura by telling her. But if she was right and chose not to tell Laura, then she would be guilty of perpetrating the worst possible crime against her niece.

  Judy’s hand gripped the receiver impossibly tight as the first ring echoed into her ear.

  “Hello?”

  Judy’s vocal cords froze.

  Laura repeated her greeting. “Hello? Hello?”

  “Laura?”

  “Aunt Judy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you answer me?”

  “Bad connection. Sorry.”

  “Forget it. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. And you?”

  “Doing okay. Thanks for coming last night. It meant a lot to me.”

  “No thanks necessary. You know how I loved David.”

  Silence hung uncomfortably in the air. “This isn’t a social call, Aunt Judy, is it?”

  What to say? How to say it? “Not exactly, Laura.” “Does it involve last night?”

  “Yes.”

  There was another lull. “I’m listening.”

  Just dive in, Judy. There is no easy way. “It’s about David’s death.”

  Judy’s words sliced through the phone line like a scythe. Laura’s face fell, her voice barely a whisper. “What?”

  “It’s about David’s death. It’s probably nothing—”

  “What about David’s death?”

  “Laura, I know this is a shock for you. Just bear with me, okay?’

  Judy could hear Laura’s breathing start to settle. “Go on.”

  “There are things,” Judy began, “that you know nothing about. Things that happened many years ago.”

  “Many years ago? But David drowned in June.”

  “I know that,” Judy continued, trying like hell to keep an even tone, trying not to get too emotional and start screaming, screaming until she could not stop. “But sometimes the past can overlap with the present, Laura. That was what happened with David.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know you don’t, sweetheart.”

  “Are you trying to say that David did something in the past that caused his death?”

  “No, not David. He was an innocent victim.”

  “Then why—?”

  “Listen to me, Laura. I need to talk to you, to show you what I mean.”

  “Show me?”

  “David might be here….” She stopped herself. An idea had surged into her head, and her mouth had moved with too much speed. This was a dangerous game she was playing, putting the two of them together, but maybe it was the only way to find out if her theory was true. “I have some photographs and stuff, but we can’t go over this all on the telephone. Can you come here tomorrow evening? Seven o’clock?”

  “I’ll fly up right now. I’ll be there in a couple of hours—”

  “No,” Judy cut in. “I want you to be here tomorrow night at seven p.m. Don’t come any earlier.”

  “Why seven p.m.?”

  “Please, Laura, just trust me on this, okay?”

  “But I want to know—”

  “Tomorrow. Seven p.m. I love you, Laura.”

  “I love you, too, Aunt Judy.”

  Laura heard the phone click. She replaced the receiver and turned to her guest. Sitting in front of Laura was her mother. The color in Mary’s face had drained away in the last minute or two, leaving a skeletal death mask in its place.

  23

  FIRE. Satan’s soothing bathwater. Emblem of Hell. Instrument of mass destruction. Fire devoured everything in its path without concern for value or worth. Fire scorched the skin, fused the flesh to bones, choked the life out of lungs eventually leading to …

  The killer drove past the Connecticut state line and into New York on the way to Colgate University.

  … Death.

  I often wonder about Death. What is it really? No one has any idea, do they? People have speculated since the beginning of time but each original concept of the hereafter has been as absurd as the one before. How did Hamlet put it before his own demise? Didn’t he describe death as “an undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns?” Is that what we fear, the unknown quantity of the Great Beyond? Is it a glorious heaven, a destructive hell, a great black nothingness, or all of the above?

  Tears stood in the killer’s eyes—tears of regret and sadness.

  I have sent people to the mysterious other world. I have handed two souls to the Grim Reaper, never to return. …

  Three, if I include David.

  The killer’s body trembled, rage pulsing through its veins and arteries. One simple word was shouted. “No!”

  No! I will not take the blame for that. I did not kill him. People react to their situation. David Baskin did what he thought best. And that was a shame. Despite his father, I couldn’t help but admire David Baskin. And I am not a murderer. Not in my heart. I never meant to hurt anybody, not really. Yes, I killed Sinclair Baskin. I put a gun against his forehead and I pulled the trigger, but it was an act spawned from a thoughtless fury against a man who deserved to die. Like David Baskin, I reacted to a set of circumstances. And as far as my second murder is concerned—

  The steering wheel spun in the killer’s hands, nearly driving the car off the road.

  The second murder. What about the cruel butchery of my second, nameless victim? Can I dismiss that as easily as the death of Sinclair Baskin? No. Guilt will burn eternally inside me for slaying that unstained soul. Why did I have to do it? He was, after all, an innocent victim. My only solace comes from a Machiavellian concept: the ends justify the means. History would say that the decision was a clever one, and in the end, I have to agree. Just look at Laura if you don’t believe me.

  The killer glanced at the map, spotting the exit leading to Hamilton, New York. Hamilton was the home of Colgate University.

  Thirty years ago. All of that happened more than three decades ago. Kennedy was still alive. Incredible. So long ago and still not an hour goes by when I am not reminded of my days in Chicago. They haunt my every step, my every dream, though I do step and sleep with a clear conscience. But I thought, hoped, prayed that all of the secrets of the past had been laid to rest years ago. I assumed that the past was just that—the past. I never expected it to hurt me again.

  Or did I?

  In the back of my mind, didn’t I
know that the past would survive and resurface one day? I guess I did. But all of a sudden, horrible secrets are coming at me, tidal-waving at me, laughing and taunting and threatening to destroy everything I cherish. Stan Baskin, a man frighteningly like his father, wants to blackmail me. I will deal with him tomorrow night. Deal with him brutally.

  And Judy. After all these years, Judy wants to talk about the past. Why? Why couldn’t she just let it be? Why does she insist on keeping the past alive, on helping it thrive with its full wrath intact?

  The car exited the highway. The container of kerosene rolled back and forth in the trunk, making a clanking noise when it hit the metallic sides. A book of matches sat on the dashboard. Hamilton was not very far off now.

  First Judy.

  Then Stan.

  Then … ?

  JUDY made herself a cup of tea and sat in the kitchen. Her eyes glanced at the clock for the third time in the last four minutes:

  Six twenty p.m.

  If everything went according to schedule, Mark Seidman and Laura would both be arriving in about forty minutes. She realized that she had created a volatile situation by telling them both to be here at the same time. The last few hours had been spent questioning that decision. Judy carefully weighed the risks against the rewards and realized that there was no contest. She had to do it. Enough time had been wasted, enough lives thrashed apart and left to decay in the hot sun.

  She took out the Lipton tea bag, read the little health tip on the tag, and tossed the bag into the garbage can. A half teaspoon of sugar and a drop of milk were added. She had hoped to brew up some nice herbal tea. One of the students in her seminar on nineteenth-century American poetry had spent a semester in Asia and had brought her back a whole slew of wonderful teas from mainland China. But, alas, Judy had used them all up already. So it was back to Lipton for today. Tomorrow she would go out to that avant-garde gourmet shop in town and pick up some new herbs.