Harlan Coben

by Play Dead

  T.C. rubbed his eyes. “Stu, thanks a lot.”

  “I’ll just put it on your bill.”

  LAURA and Graham were back at the cocktail lounge. This time, they chose to sit in a quiet corner rather than at the bar. Laura studied the big man in front of her as he stroked his beard, his eyes fixed in concentration. What did she really know about Graham Rowe? How could she be so sure he wasn’t involved in all this? After all, he had been the police officer in charge of the investigation. If Laura could not even trust T.C., how could she rely on this stranger?

  “Well, what have we got so far?” Graham asked, speaking as much to himself as Laura. “Number one: David did not just go swimming like he wrote in his note.”

  Laura remembered that note. I will love you forever. Always remember that. So serious for David. So foreboding. Had he somehow suspected that it would be the last note he would ever write? Had he somehow known that death was awaiting his imminent arrival?

  Graham continued. “Number two: the time of death estimated by the coroner was way off. We have an eyewitness who swore he saw David Baskin several hours after he supposedly drowned.” The sheriff flipped through his notebook, jotted something on a sheet of paper, and then he continued. “Number three: we know David took an elevator ride in this hotel. He was upstairs for approximately one hour. We can assume he visited someone during that time.”

  Laura nodded. “But who?”

  “That’s the question,” Graham agreed. “But there are a few other things we should look into.”

  “Like?”

  “Like why was the coroner so far off with his estimation of David’s death? And did he miss something else, like signs of foul play or … ?”

  “Or?”

  Graham’s piercing eyes locked onto hers. “Sorry, Laura, but we have to look into the possibility of suicide.”

  Laura’s tone remained even. “Like I said before, I want all possibilities explored—no matter where they lead.”

  Graham nodded. “Okay, let’s get started.”

  “What do we do first?”

  The sheriff let a small laugh pass his lips. “We?” he repeated. “There’s no chance I’m going to convince you to let me do this on my own, is there?”

  “None.”

  Graham shrugged. “Well, I always wanted a beautiful partner,” he said. “Okay, the first thing we should do is find Gina Cassler.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “An old friend of mine,” Graham replied, “and the owner and manager of this hotel.”

  GINA Cassler was a stately-looking woman in her early sixties. Her neatly bunned hair was gray, her posture straight, her head held high in the air. She wore a gray business suit and her personal appearance was perfectly groomed and manicured. It made a shocking contrast with the cluttered desk she sat behind. Files and loose sheets of paper formed three-foot alps over what Laura assumed was a nice wood finish. Occasionally, papers floated onto the floor but Mrs. Cassler didn’t seem to mind.

  “Jeez, Gina,” Graham said with a shake of his head, “how can such a beautiful dame be such a slob?”

  Gina waved her hand as if to dismiss him. “Still a charmer, eh, Graham?”

  “Trying.”

  “And who is this lovely lady with you?”

  Graham turned toward Laura. “This is Laura Baskin.”

  “Ah, yes, the founder of Svengali,” Gina said, gently shaking Laura’s hand. “I bought one of your suits last time I was in San Francisco. I understand you’re going to start marketing here in Australia.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’ll be a big hit, I’m sure,” Gina said with a smile. “Now what can I do for you, Graham?”

  “We’re investigating the death of Mrs. Baskin’s husband. Did you hear about it?”

  “Of course,” Gina replied. “It was all over the papers and telly. Such a terrible thing. We haven’t had a drowning in this region in what? Three years, Graham?”

  “Two and a half,” he corrected.

  “Whatever. And I read he was a good swimmer.” She shook her head. “I’m very sorry. Really I am.”

  “Thank you,” Laura said.

  Graham cleared his throat. “Gina, we need to see a list of your clientele for the time period surrounding Mr. Baskin’s death.”

  Gina looked puzzled. “A guest list, you mean?”

  “Right.”

  “From June?”

  “June seventeenth.”

  “That’s almost six months ago.”

  “Five and a half,” Graham corrected.

  “We don’t have them.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t have them?”

  “We don’t save daily rooming lists,” she explained. “Sure, we have a customer list in the basement but it’s not done by the dates they stayed here.”

  “There’s no way we can find out who stayed in the hotel on June seventeenth?”

  “None. Unless … Wait a sec.” Gina looked up, her face scrunched in concentration. A few moments later, her eyes widened and she snapped her fingers. “Are you looking for a foreigner?”

  “What does that have to do—”

  “Just answer my question, Graham,” she interrupted impatiently. “Are you looking for a foreigner?”

  “Probably. Why?”

  “The passport cards.”

  “The what?”

  “Each foreigner has to leave his passport at the front desk so we can fill out a passport card for them. Immigration collects them and keeps them at town hall.”

  “Can you get the ones filled out on June seventeenth?”

  “It would probably be faster if you made the request, Graham.”

  The big sheriff shook his head. He did not want the government involved in this case yet. “I’d appreciate it if you took care of it. Just say you need it for tax purposes or something.”

  Gina shrugged. “No worries. It’ll probably take a couple of days. Red tape and all that, you know.”

  “It’s important,” Graham stressed. “I also need to see your long-distance phone bills for that month.”

  Gina released a long whistle. “Look around you, Graham. Do I look like the type who saves old phone bills?”

  Laura’s eyes scanned the disheveled room and cluttered garbage cans. The answer was obvious.

  “I need those phone bills.”

  “My nephew works for the phone company in Cairns,” Gina said. “He’ll be in the office tomorrow. I’ll give him a call.”

  They thanked her and left.

  “What next?” Laura asked. “Do we go see the coroner?”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The big sheriff opened the door for her. “The coroner who handled your husband’s case was not from around here.”

  “He wasn’t?”

  Graham shook his head. “He was flown in from a place called Townsville.”

  STAN heard Gloria’s key in the lock. He quickly rose and moved toward the door. When she opened it, Stan grabbed her and kissed her passionately.

  “Welcome home.”

  Gloria beamed. “You certainly know how to greet somebody.”

  He took her briefcase from her hand and put his arm around her shoulders. “I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too,” Gloria enthused. “Mmmmm, what smells so good?”

  Stan put the briefcase down and took her in his arms. “I did a little grocery shopping and decided to cook us dinner.”

  “You made dinner,” she asked, “for me?”

  He nodded. “So how was work?”

  “Good, but busy. Laura was away.”

  “Where did she go?”

  Gloria shrugged. “I’m not sure. Estelle said she had some business to take care of somewhere and just decided to take off. What are you cooking in there? I’m starving.”

  “Pasta primavera.”

  “Mmmm. I love pasta,” she enthused.

  “It’ll be ready in about fifteen m
inutes.”

  Silently, Gloria took his hand in hers and led him onto the terrace. They sat on the love seat together, their fingers still intertwined. Gloria closed her eyes for a moment and rested her head on his chest. “I love this,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Everything about us. I’ve never been so happy.”

  Stan gripped her hand. “I feel the same.”

  They sat back and just watched the Charles River. More than anything else about his relationship with Gloria, this part amazed Stan the most. They could just sit together without speaking, just enjoying each other’s company. It didn’t make any sense to him. Gloria was different from any woman he had ever known. She did not ramble on incessantly, trying to say something “meaningful” or “deep.” She did not pester him about not finding a job yet. She never even mentioned the one hundred thousand dollars he owed her. Gloria was content just to be with him. She demanded nothing of him, and as a result, he gave her more than he had ever given to a woman.

  A few minutes later, Stan rose to get dinner ready. Gloria followed him into the kitchen. “Laura left us a message,” she began.

  I bet, Stan thought. “Oh?”

  “The Celtics are retiring David’s number at the Boston Garden Saturday night. It’s the opening game of the new season. She said she’d appreciate it if we were both there.”

  “Both of us?”

  Gloria nodded. “You were his brother. I know you and Laura don’t see eye to eye yet, but she’ll come around.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  “I’d like to go, Stan. I think it’s important that we’re both there.”

  Stan sprinkled a little Parmesan cheese over the pasta. “Okay,” he said. “Tell your sister we would be honored to attend.”

  “My parents will be there, too. So will my aunt. It’ll be a nice opportunity for you to meet them all.”

  “I’d like that,” he said.

  Gloria lit the candles and dimmed the lights. Stan watched her move about the room. Though he would never admit it to himself, he loved to watch her move, loved to watch everything she did. She was so goddamn kind and gentle that sometimes he wondered what she was truly up to. What was her angle on all this? What was she after? What did she want from him? Was her tenderness nothing but an unfamiliar ploy to lull him into an unprepared state—a state in which she could get her hooks into him and take control?

  Maybe.

  But more important, what the hell was he doing? What was his angle? What did he want from Gloria? Laura had hit a raw nerve when she’d asked him about that. The truth was, he was no longer sure what he was doing. He could score big bucks—major, major bucks—and hightail his ass out of here. He could score like he had never scored before and disappear into the sunset. But for some strange reason, he stayed. He was out of money with the perfect opportunity to get his hands on plenty, but he chose not to.

  Why?

  What the hell was wrong with him? He should have dumped her already. He should have squeezed out every last dollar and been on his way, crushing Gloria’s fragile spirit, leaving her crying or worse. But no, he had decided to stay around a while.

  The phone interrupted their dinner. “I’ll get it,” Gloria said.

  “No, it’s probably for me,” Stan said. “I’ll just take it in the bedroom.”

  Stan stood and moved into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. He knew who was on the other end of the connection. Dread filled him. He swallowed and lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Stan, my man, how are you?”

  Stan recognized the voice instantly. His face sunk. “Hello, B Man.”

  “Is that how you greet a good friend?” B Man asked. “I’m insulted, Stan. Really I am.”

  “We’re in the middle of dinner.”

  “Oh, how sweet,” he said. “How perfectly domestic of you. I’m really impressed, Stan. What are you going to do after you eat, go out back and mow the lawn?”

  Stan closed his eyes. “What’s up?”

  “Not much,” B Man said. “That’s why I was calling you. Your contact tells me you haven’t placed a bet in three days.”

  “So?”

  “So you’re only two thousand down,” B Man continued. “I usually don’t cut you off until you reach the forty-thousand mark.”

  “I just haven’t seen anything I’ve liked lately.”

  “Save it, Stan,” the blond bookie snarled. “This is the B Man you’re talking to. You haven’t missed a day of betting in ten years.”

  “So I’ve decided to take some time off. What’s wrong with that?”

  B Man laughed. “You don’t get it, do you, Stan? You just can’t up and quit.”

  “Who said anything about quitting?”

  “Come on, Stan. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. Guys like you don’t take time off. You’re trying to quit.”

  “And what if I am?”

  “Why waste your time, Stan? You know you can’t do it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  The B Man sighed. “Stan, I’ve known plenty of guys like you. You’re an addict. You can’t quit. I understand what you’re trying to do. You met this chick. You kind of like her, right?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stan said. “She’s just another bimbo.”

  “Sure, right. Whatever you say, Stan. Anyway, you’re starting to like the simple life. You want to move out of the fast, dangerous lane for a while. But, Stan, you’re not the type. Eventually, you’ll move back into the dangerous lane and pow! You’ll smash your car. You’re a screwup, Stan. You can’t change.”

  “Leave me alone, B.”

  “I will, Stan, because I know you’ll be back. You’ll look in tomorrow’s paper and see a horse in the third that’s a sure thing. Or you’ll find a football game with a point spread that’s just too juicy to pass up. Then the itch will come back, and it will be so bad that you’ll have to scratch. And once you scratch, you’ll scratch again and again—”

  “Shut up!”

  “—and I’ll be right there to help you tear away at your skin, Stan. Your old buddy the B Man will be waiting with open arms and sharp claws.”

  Stan’s upper lip quivered. “Just shut up!”

  “I don’t like being yelled at,” B Man warned, his voice low. “I don’t like it at all. Maybe I’ll have to teach you a little lesson, Stan.”

  “No, B—”

  “Maybe I should pull your broken finger right out of its socket,” B Man continued. “Or maybe I’ll just grab your little blond girlfriend, tie her down to a bed, and let Bart and a few of his buddies take turns on her. How does that sound?”

  Stan’s eyes flew open. “I-I’m sorry, B Man. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

  B Man’s laugh chilled him. “I know, Stan. I know. Give me a call when you feel the urge. In the meantime, enjoy your brief moments of joy. People like you don’t get to experience this very often. When you’re ready to go back to your home in the gutter, we’ll be waiting to assist you.”

  The phone went dead. Stan turned. Gloria was standing in the doorway. “Is everything okay?” she asked.

  He went to her and held her closely. “Everything is fine,” he said.

  She looked up at him. “You’ve really given up gambling, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” Stan said, and though it was the truth, he knew that the B Man was right: eventually it would be a lie.

  18

  IT had been the Garden of Eden. Then it became Hell. The transformation had been sudden. One moment, the Reef Resort Hotel was an idyllic honeymoon hideaway; the next, it was death. As she stared at it, the Reef Resort Hotel became hazy and unreal to Laura, as though she was seeing it in a dream. The building and grounds were all so familiar. She saw the bush, the gardens, the lobby—even the sunburned receptionist behind the desk. Laura remembered him well. He had handed her the last note David had ever written.

  “Mrs. Baskin!” the sunburned man cri
ed out when he saw her. “How nice to see you again!”

  Laura smiled through her daze and shook the man’s hand. “Nice to see you.”

  “Will you be staying long?”

  Graham stepped between them. “Only a few minutes.”

  “How you doin’, Sheriff?”

  “Very well, Monty. You?”

  “Can’t complain,” he replied. “Something I can do for you?”

  Graham must have been a foot taller than Monty. He stared down at the smaller man. “Do you remember the day David Baskin disappeared?”

  “Yeah, sure,” the receptionist answered. “What about it?”

  “He handed you a note before he left, right?”

  “Sure did,” Monty confirmed. “Christ, that note was a regular riot. You remember it, Mrs. Baskin? I read it to you over the phone when you called in. I was never so embarrassed in my life.”

  “Then what happened?” Graham asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did David return to the hotel?”

  Monty nodded. “Yeah, like I told Mrs. Baskin. He came back for a little.”

  “And then he left again?”

  “Right,” Monty said.

  “How long was he back?” Graham asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. About an hour.”

  “What time did Mr. Baskin leave the hotel the second time?”

  Monty thought a moment. “Can’t say for sure. Mr. Baskin took off right after he got a phone call.”

  Graham and Laura exchanged glances. “What phone call?” Graham asked.

  Monty shrugged. “Don’t rightly know really. I was doing the switchboard when a call came in for him. I just transferred the call to his room. Mr. Baskin came down and rushed out of here a few minutes later.”

  Graham wetted his lips. “Can you tell me about the voice of the caller?”

  “About the voice?”

  “Sex, accent, anything.”

  Monty thought a minute. “Well, I don’t remember the voice all that well. It was a long time ago. The only reason I remember it at all is because Mr. Baskin was a celebrity, and after I let the call go through, I kicked myself for not screening it for him. I mean, it could have been some reporter or obnoxious fan. But anyway, all the person said was ‘Mr. Baskin’s room, please.’ But I kinda remember the voice was hushed. Was it a man or a woman? Can’t say for sure. But it was a Yankee accent all right. You can’t hide that, no matter how hard you try.”