Harlan Coben

by Play Dead

  With one last look of total composure, Serita made her grand exit. Once offstage, her cool expression changed completely.

  “Out of my way,” Serita hissed as her casual runway stroll turned into a Carl Lewis-type sprint. On her way to the dressing room, her hands were busy working at unhooking the zippers. Four helpers raced after her. One managed to change Serita’s earrings while she was still moving. Another touched up her makeup. When Serita reached the dressing room (actually, part of the hotel’s kitchen), the third helper slipped off the silver highheeled shoes and replaced them with black shoes with a somewhat lower heel. Helper number four slid a white blouse over Serita’s shoulders. Wild-eyed, Serita stood and dashed back toward the runway entrance with yet another helper trailing her with a pearl necklace. Serita stopped and rolled her eyes at Laura as the pearls were wrapped around her swanlike neck.

  “I hate this,” she whispered toward Laura.

  “Who are you kidding?” Laura asked. “You love it.”

  “True.”

  Forty seconds after Serita had exited the runway wearing a silver formal gown with a gold belt, she stepped on again wearing a navy business suit complete with leather tie.

  “Doesn’t Serita look smart in the latest …”

  “They love you!” exclaimed an assistant standing next to Benito Spencer. Spencer silenced his assistant with a sharp glare. He took a drag on his cigarette with enough intensity to inhale a tennis ball through a straw.

  Laura turned and smiled reassuringly at her latest designer, Benito Spencer (his real name was Larry Schwartz). He was a thin-faced, long-haired twenty-three-year-old who had to know that today would decide his fashion future. The critics out in the audience—ordinary folks who just happened to have accumulated an enormous amount of power in the fashion world—would make or break Benito Spencer. Tomorrow morning, Benito would be the “newest fashion genius” or a “washed-up no-talent.” Despite all the publicity, that decision would be made by these critics, many of whom had never been able to achieve their own dream of finding a sponsor and having their own show like Benito. For Svengali, today was merely a small financial gamble. For Benito, it was much more.

  The young designer stubbed out the cigarette and fidgeted with a dress, searching for some way to keep himself busy. Laura truly wished Benito the best. He was a sensitive man who she believed had tremendous talent. She was confident he would do well today.

  Laura used to look forward to the thrill of introducing a new talent to the fashion world. For weeks she would work on promoting new lines with the passion of a sculptor in front of a fresh piece of marble. She would stay late at the office and go over every detail of the presentation until everything was absolutely perfect. And when it was completed, when she could finally step back and look at the fruits of her long hours of labor, joy and a sense of fulfillment would fill her. But work no longer gave her such feelings. Now life held no emotions like happiness, affection, passion. Now life meant merely survival. It was an alternative to death—a welcome or unwelcome alternative, she could not say. Svengali was the life preserver she clung to in her sea of despair. Work, like life, had become just a way of passing time, an occasional distraction from reality.

  But work had never been like that before. She remembered the joy of preparing her previous fashion presentation when David was still alive. The show had taken place a few days before she and David had taken off for Australia—a lifetime ago. Every night during that long week, Laura had stayed in the Svengali office until nearly midnight. A few nights before the show at the Beverly Hills Hotel, she sat alone in her office going over the show’s seating. The seating was a crucial element in a good fashion show. If you snubbed a major critic and forgot to put him or her in one of the front rows, the presentation would flop no matter how good the designs were.

  She had been working at her desk, her head lowered over the list of fashion magazines that would be attending. She knew the critic from Vogue was having a small tiff with the one from Mademoiselle, so it would not pay to seat them next to each other. And the critic from …

  Laura stopped. Though she knew the office was deserted, she felt eyes on her. She slowly raised her head toward the door.

  “Hi,” David said softly.

  She looked at him. There were tears nestled in the corners of his eyes. “How long have you been standing there?” she asked.

  “About five minutes.”

  “Are you okay?”

  He nodded. “I’m fine. I just wanted to surprise you.”

  “What’s wrong, David?”

  He smiled now. “Nothing, my love. Nothing at all.”

  “You’re crying.”

  “Just tearing, Laura.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged, moved into the room, and embraced her. “What can I tell you? I came in to surprise you. You’ve been working so hard lately and I thought a little break would be fun.”

  “You thought right,” Laura added.

  “Anyway, I came up to the door. You were sitting there at work and … I don’t know. I just love watching you. I love watching the way your head tilts when you’re reading. I love the way you smile when you’re thinking of a new idea. I love the way you brush back your hair with your finger. I even love the way your leg shakes. So I was watching you, mesmerized, and I was thinking about how beautiful you are and about how much I love you and all… .”

  Laura kissed him. “You are the sweetest—”

  “Don’t you start, too,” David interrupted. “Only so much corny stuff I can handle at one time.”

  “I love you, David. I will love you forever.”

  “This Svengali Special by Benito Spencer is perfect for the woman on the go. It can be worn with or without the jacket… .”

  Why had it all been cruelly snatched away from her?

  The faces of the important critics in the front row blurred into one large mass of fleshy tones. More than two weeks had passed since Laura had confronted and made up with her mother—two weeks during which Laura had done her best to bury herself in the preparation for this show. But still the conversation with her mother kept pricking at her mind with tiny needles. Her mother was hiding something—Laura was sure of it. Her mother was hiding something about David.

  But what could it be? Could there have been something in David’s past that he had kept from her? And if he had, how would Laura’s mother know about it? And why wouldn’t her mother say what it was? What could have happened to David that would explain all the peculiar happenings … ?

  Murder.

  Laura’s thoughts jerked wildly. She tried to push the thought away, but it remained anchored in her mind. T.C., Aunt Judy, her father—they were all acting so strangely …

  Murder.

  … as if they suspected something …

  In the background the Svengali announcer: “You’re sure to be a hit in this red ensemble… .”

  A half a million dollars was missing. Five hundred thousand dollars. People would do crazy things for that kind of money. Cheat. Swindle. Deceive. Rob. Mug. Kidnap.

  Murder.

  Laura replayed her conversation with Richard Corsel at the bank.

  “Your husband had me transfer the money to Switzerland.”

  “When?”

  “Please, I can’t say.”

  Why was Corsel so damn protective about telling her when? Unless … So many questions about David’s death hounded her. He had drowned in the rough waters of the Coral Sea.

  Drowned? David?

  It didn’t make any sense. She had listened to all their talk about the ocean’s dangerous currents, but the excuse rang hollow in her ears. Rough currents or no rough currents, David was an excellent and careful swimmer. He would have checked the currents and tides before diving in. David may have been unpredictable but he never took foolish risks, especially when it concerned his health.

  And a man like that drowned?

  Murder.

  The walls around her
seemed to whisper that word. Five hundred thousand dollars was missing, disappearing within a few days of David’s death. Coincidence or … ?

  Murder.

  And maybe T.C. and the others suspected the same thing. That would explain their strange behavior toward her. Were they trying to protect her from the truth? Was that the reason T.C. didn’t approve of her strong-arm approach to handling Corsel at the bank? Had the devastation of David’s death blinded her to the truth?

  “The final ensemble is an innovative evening gown… .”

  Laura sat down. The Nikko Hotel and the fashion show evaporated from her mind, dissolving into the sounds of a distant background. Was she going crazy, or for the first time, were events starting to make sense? Almost four months had painfully crawled by since David’s death and Laura still could not accept it. People like David just don’t up and die, her mind told her. It just doesn’t happen. Not to David …

  David, what happened to you? What did they do to you? The fashion show finally came to an end. Serita moved toward Laura and sat down. “I think it went well.”

  Laura nodded.

  Serita recognized the familiar blank expression on Laura’s face, but now there was something more in her friend’s glazed look. “Uh-oh, what now?”

  Laura turned to her. “Something’s not right, Serita.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Before she could answer, one of Benito Spencer’s helpers tapped Laura on the shoulder. “Telephone call for you.”

  “Take a message,” Laura said.

  “It’s a Mr. Richard Corsel from some bank in Boston. He says it’s urgent.”

  GLORIA gently dried off her face with a gray towel she grabbed from the rack. Interesting how Gloria’s bathroom had been done all in gray. Her parents’ was red. Laura’s blue. The downstairs one yellow. Yet Gloria’s was gray. She wondered if it had been an omen.

  Well, not anymore.

  She finished drying herself and draped the towel over the rack. She turned back toward the mirror, using her hands as a sort of comb in her thick blond hair. She studied her reflection for a moment and decided she had never looked or felt better. In fact, Gloria felt so well that despite Dr. Harris’s protest, she had canceled the rest of her sessions. She no longer needed psychiatric help. Love was her cure from now on.

  Gloria moved back into her bedroom, stepped over her two suitcases, and headed down the stairs. When she reached the entrance to the den, she hesitated for a moment before going in.

  Gloria turned the corner. Her parents were both reading on the couch. James Ayars’s head tilted up when she came in. He glanced at her from behind his half-glasses. In his hands he held the New England Journal of Medicine. Beautiful Mary Ayars sat with her feet on a stool, her hair tied back away from her face. She was skimming through the most recent issue of the New Yorker.

  “Hi,” Gloria began.

  “Hello, dear,” her mother said, putting down her magazine. “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine,” she responded. “I just wanted to talk to you about something.”

  Her father sat up. “What is it?”

  Gloria was not sure how to begin. “You know how I’ve been spending the last few weeks with a friend?”

  “Yes?” Mary said.

  Gloria’s words came quickly. “Well, my friend is a man—and he’s more than just a friend. We went up to the Deerfield Inn a couple of weekends ago and I’ve been with him every night since.”

  Gloria watched her parents. As usual, her father’s expression gave away nothing. Her mother’s face, on the other hand, seemed to brighten.

  “You’ve found a nice man?” Mary asked hopefully.

  Gloria nodded. “He’s very special. We’ve decided to move in together.”

  “I see,” Dr. Ayars said.

  “We’re in love.”

  “I see,” her father said again with a small nod.

  “What’s the young man’s name, dear?” Mary asked, smiling.

  Gloria pushed back her blond mane. “Stan Baskin.”

  The smile vanished from her mother’s face as if she had been slapped. “What?”

  “David’s brother, Mom. Oh, that’s right. You didn’t meet him. He came to Boston for David’s funeral… . Dad, you met him, right?”

  “Actually, I didn’t,” James said matter-of-factly. “There was so much confusion and all at the funeral I didn’t get the chance. But Laura had told me what a comfort he has been to her.”

  “He has,” Gloria agreed. She glanced toward her mother, whose lovely features were frozen in a look of terror.

  James removed his reading glasses. “So how did this all happen?”

  “It just did.” Gloria shrugged. “We’re very much in love.”

  Mary finally found her vocal cords. “Honey, are you really sure about this? I mean, moving in with a man is a big step.”

  “I know that, Mom, but I’m thirty-one years old. I’m not a child anymore. I love Stan.”

  Panic colored Mary’s eyes. “But, Gloria, I don’t think you should—”

  “We wish you the best of luck,” her father interrupted, silencing his wife with a hard glare. “If you’re happy, we’re happy.”

  Oblivious to her mother’s reservations, Gloria ran over and threw her arms around her father’s neck and kissed him. Then she did the same to her mother. “I love you both.”

  “And we love you,” James said, smiling warmly. “We’d love to meet this young man as soon as it’s convenient for you. Bring him over for dinner one night.”

  “No—!” Mary stopped, composed herself. “I mean, only if you want to, Gloria. We don’t want to pressure you into anything.”

  “You’re not pressuring me. I think that would be nice.”

  “Good,” her father added.

  “Dad, can you help me put my bags in the car?”

  “Sure, honey. I’ll be there in a second.”

  Gloria left the room. James saved his page with a marker and gently placed the periodical on the coffee table. He sighed, slowly stood, and then turned toward his wife. “I think it’s time we talked.”

  “I’M telling you there is something weird about that guy,” Earl Roberts said to Timmy Daniels.

  “No kidding,” Timmy answered. “I don’t think I’ve heard him say five words since he beat me in that three- point contest two weeks ago.”

  The two players took sips of water from the fountain and headed back toward the court. Sweat drenched them both. For that matter, sweat drenched all fifteen of the players still in the Celtics camp. It was break time. All the players were scattered around the gym floor, catching their breath during the five-minute rest.

  All save one.

  Timmy collapsed onto the floor next to Earl. “The guy doesn’t say anything. Just plays and leaves.”

  “That’s fine with me,” Earl said.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I don’t like him. Something about him just ain’t right.”

  “Like?”

  Earl shrugged. “Let’s face it. Mark Seidman is a great player. He can shoot and pass like nobody’s business.”

  “So?”

  “So where the hell has he been? How can someone be that good and never have played college ball?”

  Timmy positioned himself to watch Mark shoot. “Got me. I think he told Clip that he went to school overseas. His family traveled around a lot or something.”

  “Still,” Earl replied, “nobody’s ever heard of this guy. And he won’t say a word to the press. They’ve been trying to get him to talk, but he just blows them off. What rookie does that? I mean, it’s gonna be his first year in the NBA and he already acts like a prima donna with the media? I don’t get it.”

  Timmy nodded his agreement. “It’s every kid’s dream to play in the NBA and he looks so goddamn sad all the time.”

  The two teammates followed the ball as Mark swished jump shot after jump shot.

  Earl wiped
his sweaty face with a towel. “There’s something else that bothers me.”

  “I know what you mean,” Timmy said.

  “It’s like he’s trying to play like him on purpose. It’s pissing me off.”

  Timmy turned toward Earl. “I don’t think that’s it,” he said. “There’s other players with that jump shot.”

  “Yeah,” Earl replied, as another of Mark’s shots fell through the metallic hoop, “but how many of them have that kind of accuracy?”

  WHEN Laura and Serita entered the Heritage of Boston Bank together, everyone stopped. Typewriters halted their clacking. Heads turned. Eyes stared. Mouths dropped. Men gawked. Walking alone, Laura and Serita could make a man’s eyes water; looking at them both at the same time could cause a cerebral accident.

  “They’re staring at us,” Serita whispered to her.

  “You love it.”

  “Always have.”

  They moved passed the bank clerks toward the executive-office area. Heads, eyes, mouths, men followed them. When the women were out of sight, Laura could hear the typewriters start up again.

  An elderly secretary with gray-green eyes looked up from her desk. She slipped on her glasses and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. A sign on her desk read ELEANOR TANSMORE. “May I help you?”

  “We’d like to see Mr. Richard Corsel,” Laura said.

  “I see,” Eleanor Tansmore replied. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Not exactly,” Laura said, “but he knows we’re coming.”

  “Well, Mr. Corsel is very busy today. Perhaps you can call later and set up an appointment.”

  “I have a better idea,” Serita interrupted. “Why don’t you buzz Mr. Corsel and tell him we’re here?”

  “And whom shall I say is calling?”

  Serita smiled devilishly. “We’re the two women Mr. Corsel purchased from our, uh, agent. A Mr. Tyrone Landreaux.”

  “Excuse me?” the secretary said.

  “One black, one white. Just like he ordered.”