Play Dead

by Harlan Coben

  The knife now rested quietly against Corsel's throat. He could feel the coldness of the metal. 'Y . . . Yes,' Richard managed. 'My wallet is in my jacket pocket.'

  'I know that, Richie, but I'm really not interested in petty cash. I've got plenty of money of my own, you know what I mean?'

  Richard swallowed, the knife moving along with his throat. 'Wh . . . What do you want?'

  'You see, Richie, that's your problem. You ask a lot of questions, you know? You don't see me asking a lot of questions. I don't ask how Naomi's new job at the boutique is, do I? I don't ask how the twins Roger and Peter are doing at their new school, right? So why are you so interested in other people's business?'

  The intruder's warm spittle pricked in Richard's right ear.

  'Now the way I look at it, Richie, you can do one of two things. One, you can go about your usual business and keep snooping around into Baskin's money. That's up to you, Richie. I wouldn't want to pressure you. You do what you think is best for your family, but I should warn you: it would make me very unhappy if you continued to snoop, Richie. It's not nice. Do you know what I mean?'

  Corsel felt his whole body quiver.

  'Now let me give you choice number two. See how you like this one, Richie, and then make up your mind about what you want to do, okay? Choice two: you forget all about Baskin's little transaction with your bank. You can go back to business as usual and not speak to his wife about it anymore. In return, you and your family will live happily ever after. You will never see me again. Sound nice?'

  Richard managed a nod.

  'But don't decide now, Richie. Think over your two choices for a while before you make up your mind. I'll be able to figure out which option you chose and act accordingly. Any questions?'

  Richard shook his head.

  'That's it, Richie. You're learning already. I'm going to slip out the back door and disappear now. If you turn and see my face or if you decide to chat with the authorities, well, let's just say it would be an unwise move on your part. It may force me to get to know little Roger and Peter better. Do you understand, Richie?'

  Corsel nodded again, tears streaming down his cheeks. He tried to stay calm. He pictured himself sitting at the breakfast table on a typical morning having a nice bowl of Cap'n Crunch with Naomi and Roger and Peter and . . .

  . . . and the psycho in the backseat, his knife slashing across their throats. The screams, the sound of the blade ripping skin, blood spraying all over the place, his wife's blood, his children's blood.

  Oh God, what do I do now? What do I . . .

  Suddenly, the car door opened and the blade was off his throat. Richard was afraid to breathe. He listened to the car door slam closed. He shut his eyes and waited five minutes before opening them again.

  When he reached home, Naomi lectured him for forgetting to pick up the laundry at the cleaners and for not buying the kids some white socks. Richard's response was to give all three of them a hug.

  Earl's penthouse was something out of Architectural Digest. Literally. So much so that the magazine had devoted a cover story to what they called The High-Rise in the Sky. And it was gorgeous. Everything in the penthouse had been done in white. The walls, the chairs, the sofas, the tables, the carpet. The only smatterings of color were the large and varied assortment of paintings that adorned the walls. But somehow the white scheme worked and, more interesting to Architectural Digest, Earl had designed the penthouse totally by himself.

  There were also plenty of windows, all of them offering a fantastic view of Boston. From the gleaming living room, Laura stared out at the lights of the Prudential Building. She moved her glance toward the harbor where occasional lights from boats broke up the blanket of darkness covering the sea. From way up atop this sky-scraper you would never guess how dirty that harbor actually was. But God, she loved Boston. True, she had never really lived anywhere else. Her family had left Chicago and the Midwest when she was just an infant so she really could not make a comparison. But Boston was her city. And David's.

  Earl came out of the kitchen, a Celtics apron tied around his waist. 'Dinner is served.'

  'Good,' Serita answered, moving toward Laura and putting her arm around her friend's shoulder. 'I'm starved.'

  'Well, then sit down and prepare yourself,' Earl said. 'The master chef has created a new masterpiece.'

  Laura smiled and sat down. Earl was truly a renaissance man, she thought. Locked into his lanky, seven-foot frame was a man who played pro basketball, who decorated his own penthouse like a master designer, who cooked exotic dishes like a gourmet chef. He was even writing a book on his basketball experiences called Slam Dunk. 'Smells good. What is it?' Laura asked.

  'A treat from the Orient. Thailand, to be more exact.' He lifted the silver cover. 'I call it Shrimp Chow Earl.'

  'Mmmmm,' Serita hummed. 'Let me at it.'

  The three friends began to devour the dish. It was, Laura thought, a delicious meal. Light yet spicy. Perfectly seasoned.

  'This is really good,' she said.

  Earl beamed. 'Thanks, Laura. It's been a while since you've let me cook for you.'

  Laura nodded, not trusting her voice right away. She and David used to eat over Earl's at least once a week. 'I know.'

  Earl smiled at her. 'But David never liked my cooking.' 'That's not true,' Laura argued. 'You're a fantastic cook.'

  'True,' Earl replied, 'but David had the culinary instincts of a cashier at Burger King.'

  Laura chuckled. 'Can't argue with that.'

  'I think it was living with T.C. and his grubby cigars and greasy hamburgers that did his tastebuds in,' Earl continued. 'I used to always tell David that your body is your temple. Now take this dish for example. Fresh shrimp, mushrooms, broccoli and natural spices -- none of that chemical shit. The crap some people put in their body -- unbelievable.'

  'What's for dessert?' Serita asked.

  'Soybean pudding.'

  'Yuck. I mean, I'm all in favor of health, honey, but let's not be extremists.'

  Earl poured his two beautiful guests some Chinese beer and sat back to watch them chow down. He shook his head and smiled. 'It's like watching Dobermanns in front of raw meat. How do you two stay so skinny?'

  'I work it off,' Serita answered.

  'Nautilus machines?' he asked.

  She winked. 'Wrong answer. Try again.'

  'Let me think about it. Meanwhile, I better get some more food before Laura starts scratching the plate.'

  'No really, Earl, this is enough,' Laura said.

  'You sure? Chez Earl has an all-you-can-eat menu.'

  'Positive. I'm stuffed.'

  'Okay.'

  Laura stared at the table that a lifetime ago had seen the four of them laugh themselves silly. Now the conversation rang hollow, the words stilted and uncomfortable in the bright room. 'How's the team look?' she asked.

  Earl shrugged. 'Okay, I guess. We really miss David out there.'

  'Any of the draft picks looking good?'

  'None.'

  'Free agents?'

  'Just one.'

  'Oh, I've read about him in the Globe,' Serita interjected. 'You must have seen it, Laura.'

  'Sorry. I don't read the Sports too much anymore.'

  'It was all over the place,' Serita continued. 'This guy just walked into the gym one day, put up ten grand to challenge Timmy to a shooting contest and won. This complete unknown even broke -- ' She cut herself off.

  'Broke what?'

  'Let's change the subject,' Earl tried.

  'Broke what?' Laura repeated.

  Earl glanced at Serita and then he released a long breath. 'He broke David's three-point shooting record.'

  'What?' Laura asked. 'I remember when David set the mark. The press said it would never be broken.'

  'I know,' Earl said softly.

  'So who is he?'

  'His name is Mark Seidman,' Earl said.

  'And is he good?'

  Earl nodded. 'Sure, he's a great player
and all but . . .'

  'But?'

  'I don't know. The whole thing is weird.'

  'Where did he play in college?' Laura asked.

  'That's just it. He didn't. No one ever heard of this guy before.'

  'No one? Are you trying to tell me the press hasn't dug up something on him yet?'

  Earl shook his head. 'Not a thing. He claims he lived in Europe, that his family traveled around a lot or something.'

  'And you don't believe it?'

  He shrugged. 'I don't know. You mentioned the press before. Well, none of them have been able to substantiate his story. And Seidman refuses to talk to reporters -- and you know how Clip feels about good relations with the press. But hell, Seidman doesn't talk to anyone. He just comes in, plays, and leaves. He's moody and quiet and then every once in a while, he'll say something off-hand -- you know, impromptu -- like he's one of us. He gets this really pitiful look in his eyes. Like he wants to belong. Then he goes back into his shell.'

  'Could be nothing,' Laura said. 'Or it could be he's hiding something.'

  'Could be,' Earl ventured. 'I guess I make him sound like some kind of fugitive from the law. Maybe he is. But I don't think so. It's just -- I don't know -- so weird. I don't like him, that's all.'

  'How good is he?' Laura asked.

  'Hard to say. It's pre-season. I've seen a lot of guys who were All-Stars in pre-season and then turned into bums.'

  'But what do you think?'

  Earl hesitated. He lifted his glass and took a tiny swig of beer. 'Aside from David, he could be the best player I've ever seen.'

  Laura spotted the hurt look on his face. It was not easy for Earl to admit that someone could be in the same league with the friend he so admired. 'An unknown walk-on?' she said, shaking her head. 'It doesn't make sense.'

  'He's incredible,' Earl went on. 'Velvet shooting touch, great passer . . . Hey, enough about Seidman. I have to talk to you about something important.'

  'Ah, so this was not just a social invitation,' Laura said. 'And I thought you loved my company.'

  Earl chuckled. 'It's only the hundredth time I've asked you to dinner in the past couple of months.'

  'And I'm not too happy about that,' Serita joked. 'You trying to make me jealous?'

  'I wish,' he replied. 'Laura, Clip asked me to speak to you.'

  'About what?'

  Earl lowered his head and played with his food. 'It's kind of difficult to talk about.'

  'Go on, Earl.'

  Tears filled the giant man's eyes. 'The Celtics and the city want to pay tribute to David. Opening game at the Garden is in a week. We play the Washington Bullets. At halftime, they're going to retire David's number and hang it with the others on the rafters.' Earl stopped and turned away. Laura put her hand on his arm.

  'It's okay, Earl.'

  Earl sniffled and faced her again. His eyes were red now. Laura glanced at Serita. She too was crying. 'The Mayor will declare it David Baskin Day. After the game, there's going to be a small gathering at the Blades and Boards for the players, families, press -- the usual stuff. Clip wanted to make sure you and your whole family -- David's brother too -- will be there.'

  Laura remained stone-faced. 'We'll be there. All of us.'

  'Good,' Earl managed, his eyes darting around the room. He stood, shaking. 'I'll be right back.' He nearly sprinted out of sight.

  'Big chicken,' Serita managed between her own sobs. 'He's afraid to cry in front of you. He still does it almost every night, you know.'

  'I know,' Laura said. But she did not cry along with her friends. Laura had learned that occasionally, when the pain became too great, her mental block came up automatically. Sure, she heard the sad words, saw the tears, but somewhere along the way to her heart, the pain veered away.

  'I need to talk to you about something else, Serita. But you have to promise not to tell anyone -- including Earl. Okay?'

  'Okay,' she said, wiping her eyes with the corner of a napkin.

  'I'm leaving for Australia tomorrow morning.'

  'What?'

  'I'll be flying out of Logan around noon.'

  'Whoa, Laura, let's talk about this a second.'

  'Nothing to talk about. You know what Corsel said. The threads are going to disappear if I don't get over there and figure out what happened. I have to go. You know that.'

  'I'll go with you.'

  'No. I want to go by myself.'

  'But -- '

  'Let me put it another way. I don't want you to go.'

  'Fuck you, too.'

  They hugged then, tightly, fiercely. Earl came back into the room. He walked over to them and threw his arms around both of them. For a long time, the three of them just held one another in comforting silence.

  Chapter 16

  'Qantas flight 182 departing for Honolulu and Cairns is now boarding at gate 37. Those passengers with children or who need special care may board now.'

  Laura glanced at her watch and saw that her flight was going to take off on time. No small miracle. LAX airport in Los Angeles was packed with travelers today. Laura watched the stone-faced passengers pace through the long corridors, striding purposefully and consistently in that way that only people in airports do. There were no Hare Krishnas in airports anymore. Linden LaRouche was the new air-terminal religion, the presidency being his holy grail. A man was selling bumper stickers -- what one was supposed to do with a bumper sticker at the airport was beyond Laura -- asking people to save the whale or harpoon Jane Fonda or some other nonsense. Another man sat behind a sign saying: Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, I'm a Schizophrenic, And So am I.

  Laura shook her head. Los Angeles. The last time she had been in LAX airport, she was on her way to David's funeral; the time before that, she and David had stopped for one night as they headed toward their honeymoon. Funny how life works that way. She remembered how excited they had been, how they had rushed out of Los Angeles' immense airport and headed into the City of Angels to get their blood test at a nearby hospital.

  'I hate needles,' David had told her.

  'Chicken.'

  'Needles and insects,' he said. 'When we're married, do you promise to kill all the household insects?'

  'I'll put it in our vows.'

  When the nurse handed Laura the results an hour later, David asked, 'Did we pass?'

  Laura smiled as she read the report. Both of them had been deemed healthy by the State of California. They could get married with the state's blessing. 'Passed.'

  'Not even a touch of V.D.?'

  'Nope. Do you want to see it?'

  'Blood test results? No way.'

  'Whatever you say. We better get back to the airport. Our plane will be taking off soon.'

  'Question.'

  'What?'

  'Do you know how long the flight is?' David asked.

  'No.'

  'I do,' he answered.

  'Great. So why did you ask me?'

  'More than thirteen hours,' he pronounced.

  'So?'

  'More than thirteen hours strapped into an airplane.'

  'The point being?'

  'Well, that's a long time, don't you think?'

  'Yes,' she agreed.

  'So we have a little time before we have to head to the airport, right?'

  'Right.'

  'Well, I think it would be good for both of us if we made a quick pit-stop in a nearby hotel for rest and rejuvenation -- strictly for health reasons, of course.'

  'Of course.'

  'Well?'

  'No,' Laura said firmly.

  'No?'

  'Stop pouting. I said no.'

  'But thirteen hours is such a long time. I know you, Laura. I'm not sure you can hold out that long without . . .'

  'Without what?'

  'You know what I mean, Laura. I'm only thinking of you.'

  'Your concern is touching.'

  'So?'

  She smiled and threw her arms around his neck. She kissed him passionately. 'Who
needs a hotel room?' she murmured in his ear. 'I always wanted to try it in one of those little bathrooms . . .'

  His eyes lit up. 'You don't mean . . . ?'

  'That's right,' she said. 'Right over the Pacific.'

  'God, I love this woman.'

  'Qantas flight 182 now asks all economy-class passengers to begin boarding.'

  Laura stood and made her way to a pay phone, the happy memory melting down to a dull ache. She dialed the operator and charged the call to her credit-card number. The operator put the call through.

  'Heritage of Boston,' a voice answered.

  'Richard Corsel, please,' she said.

  'Hold on, please.' She heard a ringing. Then another voice came on. 'Mr Corsel's office.'

  'This is Laura Baskin. I would like to speak with Mr Corsel please.'

  There was a moment of hesitation. 'I'm sorry, Mrs Baskin. Mr Corsel is not in at the moment.'

  'I called earlier. I was assured he would be in by now.'

  'I'm sorry, Mrs Baskin. Would you like to leave a message?'

  'Yes. Please tell him it's urgent that I speak with him. I'll call him tomorrow at ten in the morning.'

  'Fine. I'll give him the message.'

  Eleanor Tansmore put the receiver down and turned toward Richard Corsel. His face was white.

  Laura slowly hung up the phone. Something strange was going on again. Richard Corsel was ducking her. But why? She looked toward the long line of passengers boarding the Boeing 747. There were still a few minutes left before take-off. She quickly placed another call.

  'Hello?'

  'Serita?'

  'Laura, honey, where are you?'

  'Los Angeles airport. I have to board in a minute. I need you to do me a favor.'

  'Name it.'

  'Corsel is avoiding me. Could you go over there and see what he's up to?'

  'What makes you think he's avoiding you?'

  'I'm getting the run-around when I call. They claim he's not in.'

  'So? Maybe he's not.'

  'Not likely. I had him checked out by my office. He hasn't missed a day in three years and he never works outside of the office.'

  'Laura, you're sounding a bit paranoid. He contacted you, remember? Why would he be trying to avoid you?'

  'I don't know,' Laura admitted, 'unless somebody . . . Serita, did you tell anybody about our visit to the bank?'

  'Why would you ask that?'

  'I don't know. Maybe someone found out we were there and scared him off.'

  Serita remained silent.