Harlan Coben

by Play Dead

  Laura nodded. “It’s beautiful.”

  “I’m sorry. You were asking me about Sinclair and Judy?”

  “Yes,” Laura said. “What ended their romance?”

  Diana closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, she slowly turned away from the window, her gray eyes locking onto Laura. “His weakness. His weakness destroyed his relationship with Judy.”

  “His weakness?”

  “Beauty, Laura. Beauty came back and blinded him again.”

  “You mean he found somebody else?”

  Her smile chilled Laura. “Not just somebody else. Like I said before, Judy Simmons was attractive enough, but his last girl …”

  “Yes?”

  “She was incredible to look at, a woman sculpted by the gods. Her kind of beauty could twist a man’s mind, Laura. A man’s soul. And this woman did just that. Her beauty tore at Sinclair until the pain became unbearable. My God, she was gorgeous, nearly as gorgeous as—”

  Diana’s words stopped so suddenly that Laura jumped. The color ebbed away from her face.

  “What is it?” Laura cried. “What’s the matter? Diana?”

  The older woman’s whole body trembled, her eyes wide and out of focus. “Mother of God.”

  “What? What is it?”

  “As gorgeous,” Diana said slowly, “as gorgeous as you.”

  Laura’s eyes narrowed into thin slits. “I don’t understand.”

  “The woman who stole him away … she looked just like you, Laura. You’re the spitting image of her.”

  Laura’s face froze in confusion. A stray thought—an awful, unforgivable thought—stabbed at her chest with a pointed edge. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be. “She looked like me?”

  Diana nodded.

  Without thought Laura reached into her purse. Her mind and body were numb. She took out her wallet and thumbed through it. With trembling fingers she plucked out a photograph. “I know it’s been thirty years,” she began in a voice that had no tone, “but could this be the woman?”

  She passed the picture to Diana Klenke, who once again slipped her reading glasses onto her face. She stared at the picture for a very long time. “Yes, that’s the woman.”

  “How can you be sure? It’s been—”

  “I’m sure,” Diana interrupted. “You don’t forget a woman like that.”

  Laura snatched the picture back, almost defensive now. She held the picture against her chest as if it were more than just an image on paper. After a few moments, her hand pulled the picture back, her gaze studying the woman in the photograph as if for the first time.

  Her mother.

  “Mary,” Diana said suddenly. “Her name was Mary.”

  Laura felt drained, helpless, like a shaken prizefighter who was not sure where the next punch was coming from.

  “And one other thing,” Diana added.

  “Yes?” Laura managed.

  “That woman was the last person to leave Sinclair’s office before his suicide.”

  GRAHAM knew he would have to make the call. There was no real reason to put it off. Besides, he had no idea what had happened in room 607 when David went up there. Baskin might have just been on the receiving end of a chewing out from his mother-in-law. Wouldn’t be the first time a mother-in-law butted in where she didn’t belong. Graham’s, for example, was a full-time nag. She probably wouldn’t fly across the Pacific just to nag him, but Graham wouldn’t put it past her either.

  He picked up the phone and dialed Laura’s number. Graham was a pure procrastinator—had been that way since he was a kid. He liked to put things off, especially delivering bad news. He wasn’t lazy, mind you, and yes, he knew he would have to do it eventually, but if he put it off, maybe it would just disappear altogether or the world would blow up or reality would change. That was why Graham felt relieved when he heard the answering machine pick up.

  He left a message asking Laura to call him and then took another swig of whiskey.

  RICHARD Corsel loved to watch ice hockey. Players would gently glide across a floor of glacial grandeur, lost in the bliss of free skating, only to be on the receiving end of a bone-crunching wallop from some gargoyle with more facial scars than Michael Jackson in bright sunlight.

  What a game.

  Naomi was not so crazy about the sport, nor was she particularly happy about the way the twins had taken to their father’s passion. “You might as well have gotten them into professional wrestling,” she had scolded him.

  “Come on, honey, it’s not that bad.”

  “I don’t want my boys playing hockey—do you hear me?”

  But Richard was not worried. After all, he had never played ice hockey. In fact, he didn’t even know how to ice skate. But the game was the perfect spectator sport. Richard became so involved in the banging and hitting and, yes, the artistry of the battle that thoughts of the bank and the bills and his own mortgage disappeared.

  TV 38 was his station. They carried the Boston Bruins games, though that expensive cable station was starting to eat up a lot of the hockey schedule. He would probably have to break down and order SportsChannel soon, but he hated the idea of paying to watch hockey on television. There was something blasphemous about it.

  So Richard turned on the television and settled back in his old recliner. Roger and Peter were on the carpet in front of him, alternating between watching the game and imitating the action. The Bruins were leading the Oilers by a score of 7-5. It should have been a moment of pure diversion for Richard—a moment when his mind was completely at ease. Instead he was plagued by a small blurb he had read in the newspaper. He tried to clear his mind, tried to think of his wife and children.

  His thoughts came drifting back to Laura—Laura and that fire at Colgate University.

  Of course there was no evidence in the newspaper that the fire had anything to do with the missing money. There was nothing in the article to suggest that the psychopath who had placed a knife against Richard’s throat had decided to torch Laura and her aunt. None whatsoever. The article merely stated that fire was being “investigated.” That was hardly reason to start jumping to conclusions and pointing fingers.

  “Goal!” the announcer yelled.

  “Goal!” Peter and Roger mimicked in unison.

  The Bruins had increased their lead to 8-5. Pete and Rog stood up and celebrated. “Wasn’t that an incredible shot, Dad?”

  “Great shot, Pete.”

  “Are you going to take us to a game again this year? How about when they play the Rangers?”

  “I’ll try my best.”

  The children went back to their hooting and howling while Richard’s mind remained anchored on Laura Baskin. Suppose for a second that the fire was not an accident. Suppose it was connected with the David Baskin’s missing money. The voice of Laura’s father who had visited him yesterday floated across his mind: “I suspect that there might be something 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.”

  He wished he could just turn his back on the whole thing, but that was no longer an option his conscience would allow. Why had he let Phillipe Gaillaird at the Bank of Geneva tell him who had the money? And why had he listened to him?

  Curiosity not only killed the cat, Richie—it kept him awake nights.

  If Richard had never heard the damn name, then he would be free to sleep, eat, and even watch the Bruins with a clear conscience. Now a decision had to be made. Should he keep his mouth quiet? Or should he tell Laura the name? When Phillipe had first told Richard who had the money, the name meant nothing to him. A few weeks later, that changed. Boy, did that change. Now he knew the name too well. It had become a household word in Boston. And frankly, the whole situation had become more than just dangerous. It had become downright eerie.

  Richard felt a frosty breeze slide through the room, as if he were standing on the ice rather than the hockey pla
yers. What to do? What the hell to do? Should he keep his mouth shut, or should he tell Laura the shocking truth—a truth even Richard had trouble believing? Should he just mind his own business, or should he tell her that the man who had stolen David’s money had also stolen his position, his scoring average, and his nickname, that the man who had stolen David’s money was none other than the Celtics’ newest scoring sensation?

  Mark Seidman.

  SERITA steered Laura into the elevator. Neither spoke. For that matter, Laura had barely opened her mouth since Serita had picked her up at the airport. Serita had seen Laura in every kind of mood—joyous, sad, wacky, conservative, serious, goofy, love-struck, angry—but never had she seen her friend like this. Laura’s pupils were dilated, her eyes glassy and dull. She stared out dumbstruck at a world that had suddenly decided to ravage her mind, only asking one question the whole ride home: “Has Estelle called you?”

  “Your secretary?” Serita had replied. “Why would she call me?”

  “Before Judy died,” Laura explained with no emotion in her voice, “she handed me that photograph I showed you and four keys. I know what three of them open. Estelle is up at Colgate right now trying to learn something about the fourth. I told her to call you if she hears anything.”

  “Sorry. She didn’t call.”

  For the remainder of the ride, the only sound came from the car radio.

  The elevator stopped at the eighteenth floor, depositing its two beautiful passengers in the corridor. Serita took Laura’s key and guided her into the darkened apartment. The only illumination came from a small flashing red light indicating that a message had been left on Laura’s answering machine. Serita flicked on a light switch while Laura collapsed onto the couch.

  “Are you feeling okay?” Serita asked. “You sure you don’t want to go to a hospital?”

  “I feel fine.”

  “Yeah, I can see that. You grimaced the whole ride home. Every time I hit a bump, I thought you were going to scream.”

  “Never felt better.”

  “Uh-huh. So do you want to stop bullshitting me and tell me what happened in Chicago?”

  “It’s too fantastic. You won’t believe it.”

  “I’m all ears. What did you learn? Did your aunt and David’s father have the hots for each other?”

  “Seems so.”

  “While he was still married?”

  “Yep.”

  “Tsk, tsk.” Serita rubbed her hands. “Go on, girl. You know I love good gossip.”

  While Laura was well aware of Serita’s love for gossip, she was also well aware that Serita would give up her life before she would ever betray Laura’s trust. “It gets worse,” Laura continued. “They were serious—so serious that Sinclair Baskin considered divorcing his wife.”

  “Juicy with a capital J,” Serita shot back. “Do tell, Laura. What happened to this happy couple?”

  “He dumped her for another woman.”

  “Ah, damn him,” Serita said with a disappointed shake of her head. “Men are such shits sometimes.”

  “The other woman,” Laura continued, “was my mother.”

  Serita’s mouth dropped to her knees. “You’re shitting me.”

  “Nope.”

  “Your mother stole a guy from her sister?”

  “And cheated on my father at the same time. Nice, huh?”

  “Holy shit,” Serita said. “But what does it all mean, Laura? What does it have to do with the fire?”

  Laura stood, her shoulders shrugging in helpless wonder. She walked over to her answering machine and pressed the rewind button. The tape sped backward with a scratching noise that sounded like a Cuisinart. “I still have no idea. The more I learn about the past, the less I see the connection to the present.”

  The tape came to a halt. “So what do we do now, Laura?”

  A loud beep interrupted their conversation. Graham’s gruff voice blared through the speaker. “This is Graham. When you have a chance, luv, give us a call, will ya? I may have found out who David visited at the Pacific International. I’ll be at my home number all night.”

  His voice … so sad, so defeated. Why? What had Graham learned? Laura checked her watch and lifted the phone. “Now,” she answered Serita, “we call Australia.”

  STAN woke up from his nap with a jump. Another bad dream had plagued his sleep—another nightmare filled with wicked spirits that vanished from sight and memory once Stan opened his eyes and truly awoke. Then only the pounding of his heart, the shortness of his breath, and the frightening aftertaste in his mouth reminded Stan that once again his slumber had been beset by the evil demons of his past.

  He threw on a robe and headed toward the kitchen. Tonight was the big meeting. Tonight Stan would see his father’s killer for only the third time. The first time had been when he was ten years old. The second, when he was at the Boston Garden. And now the third, to receive his first payment. One hundred thousand dollars. It was a staggering amount of money and would go a long way to giving him … Giving him what?

  Stan stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked at Gloria. She was unloading the dishwasher, just putting away some dishes, but Stan remained hushed and watched. The delicate curves of her body under the silk blouse, her soft, gentle smile, the concentration in her eyes as she set about her simple task … they just made him stop and think. What did he need all that money for? He had stopped gambling. He was bright. He could get a job now, a real job, and stop running away for good. When Stan stopped and looked at Gloria, he thought he could do all those things.

  But when she was not around him, when he was alone, he could still feel what the B Man had called “the itch.” He knew then that this talk about settling down was nothing but a pipe dream, that he was never meant to live that kind of domestic life. And besides, who needed it? Who wanted it? Gloria was after all just a woman—another scheming, deceitful bitch who would disappoint him eventually. She might be a little more subtle than most, and her venom might be gentler, but make no mistake: Gloria was a woman like any other.

  The one hundred grand was his protection money. When he finished feeding off Gloria, he would have a nice little nest egg to carry him until he found his next mark. He would be on his way. He would be free.

  But when Stan’s eyes gazed upon Gloria as they were doing right now, his suspicions broke apart and disintegrated before her warm beauty. He no longer merely lusted after her; he longed for her, to hold her, to comfort her, and, yes, to make mad, passionate love to her. Something about their relationship was … complete. Yes, complete. It was the only word that he could come up with to describe how he felt. What was this strange power Gloria held over him? And where would it lead?

  She turned and saw him standing in the doorway. Her face lit up. God, he loved the way her face brightened whenever she saw him. “Hi,” she said.

  He returned the smile. “Hi.”

  “Have you been standing there long?”

  “A couple of minutes. I just wanted to watch you.”

  Her cheeks turned red. “Did you have a nice nap?”

  “Very nice.”

  “You must be starving. Do you want some dinner?”

  “No, thanks. Are you feeling any better now?”

  “A little,” she said. “I still can’t believe Judy is dead.”

  He took her in his arms. “I know. It’ll be a while before it sinks in.” His eyes found the clock behind her head. Seven thirty p.m. In one hour, he would meet his father’s killer in an alleyway in south Boston. There, Stan Baskin would allow his fatherless childhood to be bought off for a few lousy dollars. One hundred thousand—Stan’s going price on a father’s memory.

  Gloria looked at him with great concern. “Stan, are you okay?”

  He held her tighter. “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m just fine.”

  SERITA studied Laura’s face. Her skin was pulled tight around her high cheekbones, her eyes a mix of concentration and bewilderment. Laura was the most b
eautiful woman Serita had ever known. There was something positively hypnotic about it. There were times it unnerved and frightened Serita. Beauty like that could be dangerous. Beauty like that could be fatal. “Do you want me to leave the room?”

  Laura located Graham’s number and began dialing. “I’d prefer if you stay, but if you want to get out while you still have the chance, I’ll understand.”

  Serita remained in her seat. “I’m here for as long as you need me.”

  Laura’s shaking fingers were barely able to dial. “You’re a good friend.”

  “The best,” Serita shot back with a smile. “So tell me about this sheriff. Is he cute?”

  Laura chuckled, appreciating the distraction. “In a grizzly-bear sort of way. He’s a real mountain man.”

  “I could use some of that, honey. Earl with all his smooth sophistication is starting to get to me.”

  The call connected through. Laura heard the first ring. “You love him, you know.”

  Serita opened her mouth to protest. Then she closed it. “Yeah, I know.”

  Third ring. Laura’s leg began to shake. Her hand gripped the receiver. “About time you admitted it.”

  Fourth ring. Serita smiled. “I don’t want to get corny on you, Laura, but whatever happens, I want you to know that you’re the best friend I ever had.”

  Fifth ring. “Same here.”

  Finally, the ringing stopped. The receiver was lifted and a gruff voice barked, “Hello?”

  “Graham?”

  “Laura, I’m glad you called.”

  “I just got your message. I was away for a couple of days.”

  “Anything wrong?” the big man asked.

  “Plenty,” she replied. “This thing keeps getting weirder and weirder.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “My aunt called me the day before yesterday,” Laura began. “She said she had to tell me something about David’s death. The drowning had something to do with the past, she said. I don’t know. She wasn’t making complete sense. She wanted to tell me about it in person.”