by Harlan Coben
'Pretty far-fetched.'
'True enough, but I know a couple of guys who did it. Hell, if you think that's far-fetched, you oughta hear about the case in 1972 that was like this.'
'What happened?' Laura asked.
John Bort adjusted himself in the chair. 'This big informer dies in a fire right before giving his testimony. Arson. Knocked off by the mob, we figured. But something is weird: his money vanishes. Well, my partner and I check it out, check all over, but we can't locate the funds. Guess what happens?'
'What?'
'Two years later the same informer turns up dead . . . again! The son of a bitch hid all his money and then faked his own death! And we fell for it! He moved his money to Ireland and was living there under an assumed name for all that time. And we never knew. Unfortunately for him, the mob didn't fall for it. Somehow, they managed to find him.' John sat back with a smile and shook his head in disbelief. 'Ain't that the weirdest thing you ever heard?'
Laura did not respond. She was already dialing T.C.'s number.
The patient pushed the barbell over his head.
'That's enough for today,' the nurse said.
The patient lowered the bar and shook his head. 'Not by a long shot.'
'You're going to overdue it.'
The patient struggled and the bar went over his head. He was a bit out of shape but not nearly as bad as he feared. 'No chance.'
'You are being very stubborn.'
The patient performed two more repetitions. 'I've been cooped up in that goddamn bed for too long. I need to do a little exercise.'
'This is all highly irregular. We are supposed to imagine that this place is a hospital, not a health spa.' She moved over toward the curtain. 'Why don't you go for a walk outside? The only people who will see you are the locals.'
The patient looked surprised. 'I can start going outside?'
She sighed. 'If you promise not to overdo it.' She opened the closet and reached in. 'The doctor told me not to give this to you until you were ready.'
The patient put down the weights and watched her.
'Here,' the nurse said. 'The doctor said you would be anxious to get your hands on this.'
With a small grunt, she tossed the patient a basketball.
'I'm glad you called, Laura,' T.C. began as he entered her office. He was too jittery to sit on Laura's plush office furniture, so he paced around the room. 'I also wanted to talk to you.'
'About what?'
'You go first.'
She too was feeling somewhat jittery, but she stayed in her chair and performed her customary leg shake. She was not sure what she wanted to say. Nothing made sense anymore but maybe T.C. could help her figure out what was going on. Maybe T.C. could tell her why a man who knew nothing of finance worked out an elaborate scheme to have money disappear just days (or even hours) before his death. 'Do you know John Bort?'
'Your security chief? Sure. Good man. Hell of a storyteller.'
'Did you know he used to work for the FBI?'
'Sure.'
'Well, I asked him about the disappearing account.'
T.C. looked surprised. 'You told him about it?'
'No. I asked him about a hypothetical situation similar to ours.'
'What did he say?'
Laura told him about her short conversation with John Bort. When she finished, T.C. was more fidgety than ever.
'So what are you trying to say, Laura?'
'Nothing, I wanted your opinion.'
T.C. finally sat down. 'David's dead. You've got to come to terms with it.'
'I know that, but I want to know why he moved his money.'
'Like John said, maybe he had a reason for hiding it that we aren't aware of.'
Laura did not buy that. 'And where did he get this sudden know-how about transferring funds?'
'I don't know. He could have gone to some big money expert or something.'
'And the timing? Isn't that a hell of a coincidence?'
T.C. took out a cigar, fighting to remain calm. 'So what do you think, Laura? I saw his body. David is dead. His ghost did not break into your house and rip up a photograph of his father. His ghost is not drinking Margaritas in Tahiti, living off secret bank accounts. There are a million more logical possibilities.'
The phone buzzed. 'Laura?'
'What is it, Estelle?'
'The accountant is here with the check for Mr Baskin.'
'I'll be with him in a minute.'
T.C.'s pale face gained color in a hurry. 'A check for Stan Baskin? What the hell is going on?'
'Nothing.'
'You're giving money to Stan Baskin?'
'Just drop it. You said you had something important to tell me.'
'Laura, you can't give him money.'
Laura wished he had never overheard Estelle's announcement. 'Like it or not, Stan Baskin is David's only living relative. He's entitled to some of his estate.'
'He's entitled to shit!'
'That's your opinion.'
T.C. stood quickly and once again began pacing. He was fuming. 'How much is he taking you for?'
'If you want to know the truth, I had to force him to accept it.'
'I'm sure you had to twist his arm. How much?'
'A million dollars. It's for a mall in David's name.' T.C. wanted to laugh. 'He's using the mall scheme? And you fell for it?'
Now it was Laura who was getting angry. 'What are you talking about?'
'Just this: for someone so goddamn smart, you can be so fucking gullible.'
'Don't start this with me again, T.C. I am giving him the money.'
'No, you're not.' T.C. reached into his folder and tossed a photograph on Laura's desk.
Laura picked up the photograph. Her face twisted in confusion. She put down the picture and looked over to T.C.
'Now,' he said. 'I am going to tell you why David hated his brother.'
Chapter 9
Laura could not believe what she was seeing. 'What is this supposed to mean?'
'It's a picture of Stan and your sister,' T.C. said.
'I can see that.'
'Gloria spent last night with him.'
'Jesus, you're a nosy bastard. Have you been following me too?'
'I'm not following Stan to be nosy. I'm following him because I know him.'
'And what great plot has your investigation revealed?'
'You're not going to like it.'
Laura shook her head in disbelief. 'You had the gall to criticize me for intimidating the guy at the bank and then you go around playing Peeping Tom with my sister? I can't believe it.'
'Are you ready to listen or do you want to keep calling me names?'
Laura looked at his eyes. A chill rushed through her. Suddenly, she was not so sure she wanted to hear what he had to say. 'Go ahead.'
T.C. was not sure where to begin. He lit another cigar and considered his words.
Stan Baskin had been scum for most of his life. He was a high-school delinquent who was fortunate enough to possess an enormous amount of superficial style and charm. It always got him through. He was intensely lazy, always looking for the easy way out, always looking for the easy money. Stan would do anything for money. Except work. He preferred setting up scams and cons and he was good. Damn good. Good enough to pilfer big bucks from his unsuspecting victims. But then his Achille's heel always took it away: He gambled.
David tried to convince Stan to get help for his gambling problem. But Stan was like a drug addict or an alcoholic. He was sure he could stop any time he wanted. He just didn't want to stop. Especially when the Redskins were such a sure thing against the Vikings or Rambling Shoe in the fourth race could not lose. Maybe David should have tried harder. Maybe he should have forced him to get help, but it probably would not have done any good. Stan was naturally jealous of his brother. To Stan's way of seeing things, David had it all. His basketball talent was going to be his ticket to the easy money. Stan preferred to ignore the fact that David had worked har
d and spent countless hours on his basketball and academics. But again, maybe that was understandable.
David and T.C. were freshmen when Stan got in over his head. Way over his head. It seemed that an especially large quantity of Stan's 'sure things' had not been so sure. He owed some very bad people a lot of money. He needed a major scam and he came up with a beauty.
It was March. Their mother was in the hospital with ovarian cancer. The basketball season was coming to an end. Everyone on campus was excited because the University of Michigan had reached the NCAA Final Four for the first time in God knows how long. There were constant fraternity parties and all anyone talked about was the big game against U.C.L.A. If Michigan could beat them, they would be in the finals.
Michigan was favored to win by three points.
Laura interrupted him. 'I don't know anything about gambling. What do you mean Michigan was favored by three points?'
'Let's say you bet on Michigan. In order to win your bet, Michigan must win by more than three points. If Michigan wins by less than three points or if U.C.L.A. wins, you lose your bet. Got it?'
Stan came up with a plan on the day of the game, a plan that involved David. Stan reasoned his baby brother would welcome the opportunity to help him out. And he wasn't asking much. All he wanted David to do was shave off a few points. What difference would it make to David if Michigan only won by two points instead of five? David didn't have to throw the game. All he had to do was keep it close.
David of course did not see it that way. 'I can't believe you're asking me this.'
'But I need your help.'
'No way, Stan. You got yourself into this. You get yourself out. Then do yourself a favor. Get some help.'
'I will. I promise. Just do this one -- '
'Bullshit. Get help and then we'll talk.'
The conversation became nasty and David threw Stan out.
'And that's what happened between them?' Laura asked.
T.C. shook his head. 'That's just the beginning.'
Stan had no money to gamble with. He had hoped to pay off his debt by convincing his rather unfriendly mob friends to bet on U.C.L.A. He had told them that David had promised to go along with his plan. Now Stan was in big trouble. He couldn't go back and tell the mob that he had lied and his brother had refused to do it. They would have done a slam dance on his ribs with a crowbar.
As one might have guessed, Michigan won big. Nine points to be exact. The mob was really steamed. They had lost major dough in Stan's scam and someone was going to pay for that. The word went out: find Stan Baskin.
But Stan knew how to survive no matter what the cost to others. He was already hiding in the outskirts of South Dakota. He knew that the mob would track him down eventually, but by then he would have the money. The mob however has never been known for its patience. They wanted blood. They wanted to recoup their losses. And they wanted to do it in a hurry. The mob wanted a fall guy and Stan Baskin was not around.
So they chose David.
The championship game between Michigan and Notre Dame was to take place two nights after the U.C.L.A. game. Everyone agreed that the teams were even and hence the game would be too close to predict. If you wanted to bet on it, you bet straight up. If your team won, you won the bet. It was that simple. The media meanwhile spent most of its time building up the confrontation between the two freshmen sensations, Michigan's David Baskin and Notre Dame's Earl Roberts.
It would be three years before that confrontation took place.
The mob's plan was simple. Get the money back by fixing the championship game. And how do you do that? Again, keep it simple. Bet on Notre Dame and then make sure Michigan's superstar cannot play.
The night before the game, David was sleeping in his hotel room -- or at least trying to sleep. Who would blame him for tossing and turning the night before the biggest game of his life? This was the game he had dreamed of all his life and so sleep would come only in small spurts.
Around three a.m., the lock on David's door was jimmied open. Five men quickly entered.
David sat up. 'What the . . . ?'
Before he could move, four of the men pinned him down on the bed. David struggled but he was dealing with professionals who had done this kind of thing plenty of times before. He didn't have a chance.
'Cover his mouth,' one whispered. 'I don't want anyone to hear him scream.'
David's eyes widened with fright as someone pushed a pillow into his face. He flailed his head back and forth in panic, but it was a worthless maneuver. He felt one of the men grab his right foot, one hand by the toes, the other on the heel.
'Hold him tight!'
The man twisted David's foot all the way around until he heard the ankle snap. Then he twisted it a little farther for good measure. The bones in his foot grated against one another. David's scream was lost in the pillow.
The men quickly left. They had never even turned on the lights so David had no chance of identifying them. His ankle was badly broken. He was in a cast for two months. That week, David had two of his worst head attacks. They were so bad that T. C. feared for his friend's life.
Michigan lost to Notre Dame by fifteen points.
'There's more to this story, isn't there?'
T.C. nodded.
Stan could not hide forever. He needed to pay back his debt in a hurry. And he figured out a foolproof way of doing it.
The details are not important. No one ever found out for certain how Stan did what he did. But there are a million different ways to go about it. Stan might have gotten power of attorney. Mrs Baskin might have signed something while on some hospital medication. Who knows? What was important was the end result: Stan stole the money from his mother.
Imagine a son who would wipe out his cancer-stricken mother's savings account to pay a gambling debt to the mob. Imagine a son who could leave his poor, sick mother penniless and without any way of paying off her medical bills while she lay dying in a hospital bed. It boggles the mind.
After that, David did his best to take care of her, but she was very ill and now she was also heartbroken over what her own son had done to her.
She died six months later. Stan never went to the funeral.
'Now do you understand, Laura?'
Laura just sat there. She felt drained by just listening to the story. 'But this all happened years ago. I'm not going to defend it, but supposed you just looked at Gloria's past? What would you conclude? You'd say she's trouble, right?'
'Wrong. I may think she's weak or self-destructive, but she never meant to hurt anybody but herself. And more important, her past is just that. The past.'
T.C. opened up his folder. 'This is Stan's record. He's been arrested twice in the last three years for fraud. I called the arresting officer, a Lieutenant Robert Orian. He told me that Stan is well known for using his charm and good looks to seduce wealthy women. It's hardly an original bit. He bilks them for as much as he can and then gambles it away. He does however add a strange twist to the old game.'
'What?'
T.C. hesitated. 'He doesn't just walk away. He dumps them. He dumps them as cruelly as possible. Makes the woman feel like a worthless hunk of shit. One of his victims had a nervous breakdown. Another attempted suicide. Stan has been diagnosed as having a narcissistic personality disorder with a rather unhealthy hatred of the female sex. He knows how to hurt and degrade women, Laura, and he likes to do so.'
'Jesus.'
'I did a little more investigating,' T.C. continued. 'Stan owes again. He owes big bucks to some bookie with a propensity for breaking bones.'
Laura sat up. 'His hand?'
'Broken. Actually, it's just his finger. Very mean break. Stan needs the money fast. You're his new scam, Laura, but I'm not too worried about that. You can handle yourself.'
T.C. lifted the picture of Stan kissing Gloria and handed it to Laura. 'But what about Gloria?'
The patient read Sunday's Boston Globe. He had always loved Sunday papers. During
his college years, he and his roommates would emerge noon time Sunday from the dormitory after a particularly rough Saturday night, grab some brunch, and spread out with a few Sunday papers. By dinner time, the newspapers resembled a floor covering.
It was a tradition he continued to maintain.
He put down the Parade Magazine section and rummaged through the different sections until he found Sports. Usually he skipped the sports section, and that surprised a lot of people. But lately, he had changed his thinking.
Section C. . An article by Mike Logan. The patient had always liked Mike Logan. He was a good reporter who had a genuine love for his job and the Boston Celtics
CELTS GEARING UP FOR ROUGH ROAD
by Mike Logan
My team -- our team -- is in trouble, folks. Big trouble. You may remember last season's Eastern Conference play-offs. The Celtics barely squeaked by the Chicago Bulls and the Detroit Pistons. And I mean barely. No room to spare for mistakes.
Then the Boys from Beantown faced the Los Angeles Lakers for the NBA Championship. Let's face it. They should have lost. Had it not been for a last-minute miracle by David Baskin, the Celtics would not be the defending champions today.
Yes, other NBA teams are rising. And yes, the Celtics are sinking. Sinking fast.
It's not their fault. The David Baskin tragedy was not their doing. But excuses don't win championships. Great players, coaches and organization do. The coaching is no problem. The same with Clip Arnstein's organization.
Ah, but the players!
No one could argue about the talent of team center Earl Roberts or the outside shooting touch of Timmy Daniels or the ball-handling of Johnny Dennison. They're great. No doubt about it. But without White Lightning, this is just a good team. Not a great one. They need a great forward.
But how do they get one?
In the past Clip Arnstein, alias 'The Miracle Worker,' came up with something. And why not this time? After all, the Celtics still have the best organization in basketball. The Miracle Worker thrives in these situations. Usually he digs up a surprise draft pick. But this year, even Clip admits the draft picks are mediocre at best. Maybe he'll find a free agent. But no, the free agent camp has produced no superstars. Maybe he'll make another great trade. Uh-uh. The other teams don't want to help out the Celtics and most organizations are afraid of getting burned by Clip.
