by Harlan Coben
'My question is about his estate. He didn't have a will so who gets his dough?'
'It depends. Is it true that your brother eloped with that Laura Ayars a few days before he drowned?'
'Yup.'
'Man, is she gorgeous or what? I used to have one of her calendars in my kitchen.'
'Super, Charlie. Now what about my brother's money?'
'Right. I got off track a little there. So they were officially married before he died?'
'Yes.'
'Then the news isn't too good for you, Stan.'
'What do you mean? I'm his only living blood relative.'
'Courts don't care much about blood. It's what we call the intestacy statute.'
'In layman's terms, Charlie.'
'In your case, it's simply this: no will and the widow gets everything.'
'Everything?'
'Everything.'
'Even if she's already loaded?'
'Even if she's the Aga Khan.'
'Shit!'
'Sorry, pal. How deep you in the hole to B Man this time?'
'Six feet under,' Stan muttered.
'You better think up a good scam in a hurry or learn how to become invisible. B Man doesn't like those who owe to hide from him.'
'I know, Charlie.'
'You held up well?'
'Well enough I suppose. All I need is a few more days. Listen, Charlie, there's a sure thing today at Aqueduct -- '
'I've heard that before.'
'No, really. Just place this bet for me and -- '
'No way, Stan. B Man has spread the word. No one is going to cover you.'
'But, Charlie -- '
'Look, Stan, just keep me out of this. You're on your own. I gotta go now.'
Charlie hung up the phone. Stan thought for a moment. Then he smiled. He took out another quarter and made a second call.
Gloria Ayars felt light-headed as she walked down the stairs. She couldn't help it. For the first time since David's death, there was a reason to smile. True, she and her family were still in mourning. She still wanted to cry constantly for their loss. But something nice had finally happened and there wasn't anything wrong with being happy about it.
Stan had just called her and asked her out for tomorrow night. It was not really a date, she kept reminding herself. It was just a friendly dinner. Nothing more. There was absolutely no reason to build it into something that it wasn't.
So why did she feel warm inside?
Gloria had not been with a man for so long. She had not even had a date, had not wanted to be near a man in a year. Not since . . . She closed her eyes. Why must she be reminded of that now? Why must she be reminded that she was not fit to be with someone like Stan? Why must she be reminded that she was only fit to be abused by filth and scum?
No! I'm not scum! That was in the past. That Gloria Ayars no longer exists. She's dead and buried, thank God . . .
'Just tell me what happened!'
Her father's authoritative shout jarred her back into reality. He was on the phone, angrily lecturing someone -- probably one of the new interns at the hospital. Gloria began to move down the hall and away from his study so that she could not listen in.
'Did she kill David or didn't she?'
Gloria froze.
Her father's voice grew angry. 'Couldn't you stop her?'
He was silent now, allowing the whoever was on the other end to answer his question. When James spoke again, his voice was calmer, more in control.
'I know. I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled like that.' Pause. 'I agree. It was probably suicide.'
Gloria felt her heart slam into her throat. She stopped breathing.
'No, that wouldn't do any good now,' he continued. 'Do you think she was telling the truth? Uh-huh. Right. I guess there is nothing we can do.' Pause. 'Don't talk that way.' His voice was angry again. 'Do you hear me? I said don't say that. It's not true. Not a word of it.' Pause. 'Never!'
Dr James Ayars slammed the phone down. Gloria continued to hold her breath, her back pushed up against the wall. There must be a million people named David, she reminded herself. Her father must have plenty of patients with that name.
The details of death.
Laura held her sister's hand tightly. Her eyes moved about the wood-paneled law office. The chairs were large and plush. Paintings of fox-hunting adorned the walls. The large desk in front of her was beautifully polished oak, the bookshelf behind it neatly arranged with law journals.
Clip was there. So was T.C. and Earl and Timmy and her father. Her mother, of course, had not been invited. Laura had however asked Stan to come. She was puzzled that he had not shown up.
Mr Averall Thompson, the Celtics' lawyer and long-time friend of Clip Arnstein, leaned forward. 'Let me make this as quick and simple as possible. Will that be okay, Mrs Baskin?'
Laura nodded to him.
'First, please accept my most sincere belated condolences on your loss.'
'Thank you.'
'And second, let me apologize for the delay in settling these matters. Whenever the deceased does not execute a will there is always some degree of confusion.'
'I understand, Mr Thompson. No apology is necessary. '
'Fine.' The senior law partner put on his reading glasses. 'In cases such as this, the widow is left all of the deceased's property. According to our study, you two already have most of your assets in joint accounts, so that should expedite matters. You both bought the house in Brookline. You have three joint accounts, two at banks and one at a financial institution. On top of that, David left a few mutual funds and stocks, his condominium in Boston, and that's about it.'
'And his account at Heritage of Boston Bank,' Laura added.
'Excuse me, Mrs Baskin?'
'David had an account at Heritage of Boston. There's about half a million dollars in it.'
The older man looked puzzled. 'Are you sure that wasn't liquidated?'
'Quite sure.'
Mr Thompson looked over the file in front of him. Laura glanced around the room. T.C. was looking straight down at his shoes. Most of the faces were mildly puzzled, more curious than concerned. The exception was her father. James Ayars's face drained of color, his eyes frightened and confused.
'I don't see anything about that in the file. Do you have the account number?'
'The statements are in David's condominium.' Thompson leaned forward and buzzed his secretary. 'Beatrice?'
'Yes, Mr Thompson.'
'Call our contact at Heritage of Boston. See if they have an account there for a Mr David Baskin.'
'Right away, Mr Thompson.'
He leaned back. 'I'm very sorry about this, Mrs Baskin. I don't understand how we could have made a mistake like that. I am really very embarrassed.'
'I'm sure we'll straighten it all out.'
'I'm sure too.'
A moment later, the phone on the desk buzzed. 'Mr Thompson?'
'Yes, Beatrice.'
'I called the Heritage of Boston. There is no record of any account for a Mr David Baskin.'
Laura sat up. 'That's not possible.'
Averall Thompson smiled understandingly. 'Perhaps if you could come back with the bank account number . . .'
Maybe it was just her father's expression or the way T.C. kept staring at the ground, but Laura suddenly felt very uneasy. The money meant nothing to her. She already had more than she knew what to do with. But this was all very odd. Something was very wrong.
'Thank you, Mr Thompson.'
Laura managed to find the key with a shaking hand. T.C. had volunteered to accompany her but she had thought it would be best if she went alone. Now, standing in front of the door to David's apartment, she wondered if she had done the right thing.
She placed the key in the lock and turned. The door opened into the darkened apartment. Laura hesitated. She was afraid to turn on the lights, afraid to face the painful memories readying to leap out at her.
She and David had spent many ha
ppy moments here, moments of pure joy that she knew she would never again experience. It wasn't fair. Blasphemous to say, but God had cheated her. Cheated her and hurt her in the worst way possible. He had made her happy, brought her up to the highest high. Then He tore her wings off and let her plummet back down to the hard surface below. One minute her David was alive and strong. The next minute he was gone. How could someone like David just be snatched away like that? How can everything suddenly be worth nothing?
It was all a cruel, sadistic trick.
She stepped in but still did not turn on the lights. She suddenly remembered the last time she had entered his apartment alone.
She and David had been going out for about three months and were already hopelessly in love: She had stopped by to visit him on her way home from work, knocked on the door, and waited. No one came to the door.
Strange.
She had spoken to David only a few minutes earlier. Why would he have gone out? She tried the door and to her surprise it was unlocked. She smiled. He would never leave the door unlocked if he had gone out. David was too compulsive when it came to that kind of stuff. He must be in the shower.
She opened the door. The apartment was dark, just like it would be two and a half years later when she opened it to search for his bank statements from the Heritage of Boston. Her eyes surveyed the darkened room. No one was there. She listened for the sound of the shower, but the apartment was silent.
That was when she heard the muffled scream.
The sound ripped into her stomach. She sprinted toward the bedroom where the anguished cry had originated.
'David?'
The next scream, though still muffled, was louder, more hideous than any sound Laura had ever heard.
She reached the bedroom. Her eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness. David was huddled in a corner of the bed, his head clasped hard between his hands, his body writhing in agony. He released another scream into the pillow.
She ran to him, her heart pounding like a sledgehammer in her chest. 'David, what is it?'
His face was contorted into a frightening picture of absolute agony. Laura had never seen pain like this, had never known it could exist. David's teeth were gritted, his color terrifyingly red as though his head were about to explode. He struggled, but he could not hold back. He dug his face into the pillow. The smothered shriek punctured Laura's heart. Panic filled her.
'I'm going to call the hospital.'
She tried to reach for the phone, but David's grip on her arm locked her into place.
'No!' David managed and then, once again, he turned his mouth into the pillow.
He released her as he once again screamed, his hands going back to the sides of his head. The effort of uttering that one word had cost him. He looked up, his tortured eyes finding hers. He worked up enough strength to say two more words: 'Hold me.'
She did. She held him, hugged him, soothed him, stroked him. She cried with him, and he hung on to her like a life-preserver. It took almost two hours before the pain began to loosen its strangle-hold on him. But Laura would not let go of David, would not risk allowing whatever had attacked him to come back and hurt him again.
'It's all right now, Laura.'
She still held on.
'I guess I should explain,' he said.
'Only if you want to,' she whispered, shaking.
'I do.'
She cradled his head. 'Do they come often?'
He shrugged. 'Once is often enough with these things. My doctor describes them as a combination of very bad cluster headaches and some sort of inoperable brain dysfunction.'
Dread washed through her. 'Brain dysfunction?'
'Like a cyst . . . or a tumor. But it's not that serious. I mean, it's not lethal. It can never do more than cause tremendous pain. My doctor said I was born with it, even though it never bothered me until my first year of college.'
'Can't medication control it?'
'Not really.'
'David, how bad do they get?'
He forced a smile on his worn face. 'I was never very good at feigning bravery. To be honest with you, that was probably the mildest attack I've ever had.'
Laura felt her heart sink at the thought.
'I guess that has something to do with you comforting me,' David continued. 'The attacks usually start out like someone is using a trip-hammer on the sensitive nerves in my head. Then the pain grows until it feels like a thousand volts of electricity are being hurtled through my brain. Sometimes, I wish I could reach into my skull to stop it, but it's like trying to scratch an itch in a cast. And then sometimes the pain hits certain nerves that paralyze my body.'
'Isn't there anything we can do?'
'Just what you did. Hold me when it happens.'
'Do your teammates know?'
He shook his head. 'Only T.C. and my doctor know. I haven't even told Clip and Earl. I can usually sense when an attack is starting to come on so I make myself scarce. It helps to sit in a dark room. A lot of times I call T.C.' He swallowed and then looked up. 'T.C. can't help with the pain but sometimes it gets so bad I'm afraid I'll do something I may later regret. I don't mean to scare you. I just want you to understand the severity of these attacks.'
She was crying now, gripping him even tighter. 'I love you, David. I love you so much.'
'I love you too, Laura.' He closed his eyes. 'I need you so much.'
David's final attack came in October of 1988. During the last eight and a half months of his life, the torturous headaches never bothered him. David had been sure that Laura was somehow responsible, that she had somehow chased away whatever demon had been living inside of his brain. Even his doctor was amazed to discover that his cyst or tumor had died. Somehow, they had conquered David's demon.
Or had they?
Had the evil demon really been killed or had he just been waiting for the right time to strike? Had he merely faked his own demise until David was vulnerable in the rough water? Had he then decided this was his opportunity to finish the game once and for all, to destroy David by paralyzing him in the treacherous ocean, to force him to go underwater until his lungs exploded?
T.C. had said no. Laura was not so sure.
She flicked on the light. Her eyes were wet. Even when David was alive, the thought of the agony he was forced to bear always made her tear.
She went into the bedroom half expecting to find him huddled on the bed, but of course, the room was empty. Then she headed into his study and over to the file cabinet she had bought him last year. The neatly labeled manila files gave the illusion at least that David was a somewhat organized individual. The illusion, however, was merely surface. He still lost bills, financial statements, important documents. David had always hated paperwork of any kind. He knew nothing of finance and wanted to know even less. 'You make both of our monetary decisions,' he had finally told her. 'You're the financial genius.'
The second drawer contained the financial statements. She pulled it open. She knew that his bank book and monthly reports from Heritage of Boston were filed behind the Gunther Mutual folder. She thumbed through the manila folders. Catalyst Energy, Davidson Fund, Equities with Recovery Corporation of America, Fredrickson and Associates, Gunther Mutual . . .
There was no Heritage of Boston.
She checked to make sure that it had not been placed out of order. Then she checked the other drawers. There was nothing on the Heritage of Boston.
She stood up. Her whole body was shaking. She needed to find answers and she needed to find them now. It was time to pay a visit to the Heritage of Boston.
T.C. and Laura parked the car and walked toward the entrance of the Heritage of Boston Bank. T.C. always felt odd walking with Laura. Here was one of the world's most beautiful women walking with a pudgy, nondescript shmoe in a wrinkled suit who was a good three inches shorter than she was. It must have made some spectacle.
'So you couldn't find the statements,' T.C. said. 'Big deal. Maybe he moved the account and got ri
d of them.'
'We're talking about David, remember? You know how bad he was when it came to financial matters.'
They waited for about ten minutes before a secretary ushered them into an office.
'I'm sorry for the delay,' the man behind the desk said. He stood and shook Laura's hand. 'I'm Richard Corsel, one of the bank's vice presidents. Please come in.'
He was young -- no more than thirty -- and something in his manner told Laura that he was not very happy to see them. 'Laura Baskin,' she said.
'I recognized you right away, Mrs Baskin. I'm very sorry to hear about your husband.'
'Thank you. This is Terry Conroy with the Boston Police Department.'
'Police? Is something wrong?'
'Nothing that I'm sure we can't work out,' Laura replied. 'It involves an account my husband held here.'
'Yes?'
'I can't find the statements and I was hoping you could tell me what the current balance is.'
'One moment.' Richard Corsel tapped a few keys on his computer terminal. 'Your husband no longer has an account here, Mrs Baskin.'
'I'm sure he had one before we left for Australia a few weeks ago.'
'That's very possible, Mrs Baskin, but the account is closed.'
'Was the money withdrawn or transferred?'
Richard Corsel coughed into his fist. 'I'm not allowed to say.'
'By whose authority?'
'Your husband's.'
She sat forward. 'What?'
'When your husband cleared out his account, he left very specific stipulations. One of these was not to give out any information involving his funds.'
'But he's dead.'
'That does not alter his request.'
She glanced over at T.C. to make sure she was hearing right. 'When did he close the account?' she asked.
'I can't tell you that either. I'm sorry.'
'Mr Corsel, the money is missing. No one has any idea where it is being held.'
'I'm sorry. There's really nothing I can do.'
She peered into his eyes. They darted away from Laura's glare like scared birds. 'I want to know what happened to that account.'
'I can't tell you.'
T.C. stood. 'Let's go, Laura.'
'What are you talking about?' Laura raged. 'I'm not leaving until I find out what happened to that account.'
