Play Dead (2010)

by Harlan Coben

  'Mr Corsel already said it's confidential.'

  Richard Corsel nodded. 'Please, Mrs Baskin, I am only obeying your husband's wishes.'

  'His wishes? He told you not to tell his wife what happened to his account?'

  'I . . . I can't reveal that.'

  'Mr Corsel, you are forcing my hand.'

  His voice cracked. 'There is really nothing I can do.'

  'Well there is something I can do,' Laura snapped. 'May I borrow your phone?'

  'Of course.'

  She dialed, waited, had the call transferred, and then she spoke. 'Sam? It's Laura. Thank you, it's nice to hear your voice too. I need you to do something for me. How much is Svengali holding in Heritage of Boston? I know it's a lot but can you give me a good estimation?'

  Richard Corsel was turning white.

  'Jesus, Laura,' T.C. interrupted, 'what the hell are you doing?'

  'Wait outside, T.C. I don't want you to get involved in this.'

  'But -- '

  'Please just do what I say.'

  With a shrug T.C. stood and headed out. He slammed the door behind him, leaving Corsel alone to confront Laura.

  'What's that, Sam? How many millions? Fine. Transfer it to First Boston. Tell the board of directors at Heritage of Boston that I was annoyed by the service of one of its vice presidents, a Mr Richard Corsel. Tell them I also suspect he's involved in a scheme to rip me off. Right, that's C-O-R-S-E-L. Got that?'

  'Wait!' Richard Corsel interrupted. 'Can't we talk about this?'

  'Hold on a second, Sam. Excuse me?'

  'Please, Mrs Baskin, just hang up and let's discuss this rationally.'

  She turned back to the phone. 'Sam, if you don't hear from me in the next ten minutes, go ahead with the transaction.' She hung up. 'I'm listening.'

  'Mrs Baskin, you are using blackmail.'

  'I want to know what happened to that account, Mr Corsel, and believe me, I'll find out. This is no idle threat. If you still won't tell me after I transfer the Svengali funds, I'll have the press and my lawyers swarming all over the place. The media should love a story about a widow who wants to donate her late husband's earnings to charity and the bank that may have stolen the money.'

  'Stolen?'

  'The bank's reputation will be somewhat compromised, Mr Corsel, but eventually I will get the information.'

  Richard Corsel looked like he had just lost a boxing match.

  'By the way,' Laura added, 'Sam is very precise. I only have a few minutes left to stop him.'

  Corsel lowered his head. 'I don't know where the account is exactly. You have to believe me.'

  'Go on.'

  'Your husband had me transfer the money to a bank in Switzerland.'

  'When?'

  He paused. 'Please, Mrs Baskin, I can't tell you.' 'Which bank in Switzerland?'

  'Bank of Geneva. But I know it didn't stay there long so you can't make a claim there. And you may be able to threaten Heritage of Boston, but there's no way to budge a Swiss bank.'

  'But why would David do something like that?'

  He shrugged. 'I don't know.'

  'Did he handle this transaction in person?'

  'No, I spoke to him on the phone.'

  'Are you sure it was David's voice?'

  'Positive. I know your husband's voice very well -- even with the static. Plus he used a code number only he knows.'

  '784CF90821BC,' Laura stated.

  'And obviously,' Richard Corsel replied, 'he trusted you with it.'

  'David always told me everything, Mr Corsel,' she said. 'Now would you please hand me the phone? I have to call Sam.'

  Laura recounted the conversation to T.C. as they headed back to the car.

  'I can't believe you did that, Laura. I arrest people for doing that sort of thing.'

  'Okay, guilty. So what do you think?'

  'About Switzerland? I think Corsel is right. I've got a few friends at the FBI's office but I doubt we'll find out what happened to the account after it reached the Bank of Geneva.'

  'But why would David do this?'

  T.C. shrugged. 'Maybe he wanted to have some money stored away in case the bottom fell out.'

  'And not tell me about it?'

  'Maybe he was going to and didn't have a chance. You said he had the Heritage account recently. Maybe he made the transaction right before you eloped and decided a honeymoon was not the place to discuss finances.'

  'Wait a second,' Laura began. She concentrated hard, trying to remember exactly. 'David came here to get some cash right before we left for Australia.'

  'Then that's your answer, Laura. He made the transfer when he picked up the cash and just decided to tell you about it later.'

  She shook her head. 'Something is still not right. David could barely balance his checkbook.'

  'That's true, but -- '

  Laura stopped suddenly. 'Hold on.'

  'What?'

  'Corsel said that David made the transfer over the phone, not in person. He mentioned that there was static on the line.'

  'So?'

  'Don't you see?' Laura almost shouted. 'That means that David must have transferred his money while we were in Australia.'

  Stan sat up and watched the television. Nothing on. Fat Oprah (or was she skinny this week?) was talking to some group of slobs who sexually assault their plants or something like that. Stan wasn't really listening. He was thinking. He needed to think up a score. A big one. And he needed to think of one in a hurry.

  He was also thinking about the B Man.

  The solution to his current money problems was obvious: get the money from David's estate. But how? Everything was left to Laura. He could ask her for it but that would arouse her suspicion. She may be a bit naive, but she was far from stupid. Plus Stan was sure that fucking T.C. was filling her head with all kinds of nonsense about the past. No, Stan decided, he could not ask her directly. He would have to make her offer the money to him.

  But how?

  Knuckles rapped on the door.

  Terror ran through Stan. He had used a fake name when he registered. No one knew he was here. He closed his eyes as the knock came again. Maybe it was just the maid. Maybe it was --

  'Open up, Stan. I want to talk to you.'

  -- B Man.

  Stan stood as though hypnotized. He was on the fourteenth floor so a window escape was out. But what the hell, he and B Man went back a long way. B Man had never hurt him before. He knew Stan was good for the money, and once Stan explained that he had a chance of getting his hands on serious money, B Man would give him more time. Stan turned the knob and opened the door.

  'B Man!' Stan greeted him with a smile. 'How the hell are you, man? You look great.'

  B Man stood in the doorway and smiled coolly. 'Thanks, Stan. It's nice to see you, too.'

  Stan was always surprised by B Man's appearance. He hardly looked the part of a rough gangster. He had long, bleached-blond hair, a year-round tan, and teeth that were white enough for a tooth-polish commercial. His height and weight were average, maybe even a little on the small side. Even more unusual, the B Man had an ivy league education and had lived for three years in Korea, where he trained six hours a day in Kung Fu or some shit like that.

  That was his specialty: hand-to-hand combat. You could put three bruisers twice his size against him and B Man would slaughter them without breaking a sweat.

  'Come in, B.'

  'Thank you.' He stepped in and closed the door. His voice remained pleasant. 'What are you doing in Boston, Stan?'

  'I told you I was going to go to my brother's funeral.'

  'That was quite a while ago.'

  'I know that, B Man, but I'm very close to scoring big.'

  'I've heard that from you before.'

  'No, really.'

  B Man stood directly in front of Stan, their faces no more than six inches apart. 'You wouldn't be trying to avoid me, would you, Stan?'

  'No way,' Stan argued. 'I would never do that.'
r />   B Man just stared.

  'Wh . . . What brings you to Boston, B?'

  B Man strolled around the room. 'I have a little business here. One of my wrestlers is in town.'

  'Roadhouse Rex?' Stan asked.

  B Man nodded.

  'Roadhouse is great,' Stan continued, trying to keep B Man's attention on the gruesome wrestler and off of himself. 'He can take a dive like nobody's business.'

  'Roadhouse is the best,' B Man agreed with a hint of a smile. 'You should see him backstage. His trunk is filled with blood capsules, phony casts for whatever ailment he plans on faking, you name it.' B Man turned and moved toward Stan. 'But we're getting off the subject, aren't we?'

  'Off the subject?'

  B Man just smiled. 'Stan, have you been trying to hide from me?'

  Stan swallowed. 'You know me better than that, B Man. Like I said before, I told you I was coming to Boston.'

  'True,' B Man agreed, 'but you forgot to mention that you were going to use an alias.'

  'I just needed a little time. You see, my brother -- '

  'I know all about your brother.'

  'Well, he was loaded. I'm going to get some of his money.'

  B Man laughed. 'Who do you think you're talking to? I know what you did to him. I was there, remember? Your brother would never leave you a cent.'

  'I know that, B Man. I'm going to get the money from his widow.'

  'That model?'

  'Yeah, B Man. She'll give me the money.'

  'Fifty thousand dollars?'

  'Right. No problem.'

  B Man calmly walked toward the bed. 'But Stan, you're already very late.'

  'Just tack on interest.'

  'Oh I will. But you're past that now.'

  'Come on, B Man. You know I'm good for it.'

  B Man shook his head slowly. 'No, that's where you're wrong. I think you're good for it. But I don't know for sure. Perhaps a little incentive would help.'

  'Incentive?'

  There was no time for Stan to react. With frightening speed, B Man's hand shot out. The blow landed in the center of Stan's belly. The breath whooshed out of him. Stan fell to the ground, struggling to put oxygen back in his lungs.

  B Man watched Stan writhe in pain. He calmly reached down and grabbed Stan's right hand. For a minute or two, he held the hand and waited for Stan to begin catching his breath.

  'I'm sorry about all this, Stan.'

  'Please . . .'

  B Man clamped his hand over Stan's mouth. Then he pulled Stan's middle finger back until it nearly touched his wrist. The finger snapped like a twig. Stan felt the jagged edges of the bone rip into his skin. His head swam.

  'One week, Stan,' the B Man said quietly. He held Stan's finger for another second and then gently placed the hand on the floor. The finger was already swelling, the bone nearly puncturing the skin.

  'Do you hear me?'

  Stan managed a nod. The pain was staggering.

  'And you're not going to hide from me again, are you, Stan?'

  He shook his head.

  B Man smiled down at Stan. Then he raised his heel and slammed it with expert accuracy onto the broken finger. Again, B Man had to cover Stan's mouth to muffle the scream.

  'I guess we understand each other now,' B Man said matter-of-factly. He turned toward the mirror, fixed his hair and then walked toward the door. 'Always a pleasure to see you, Stan. You have one week to come up with the money. And now it's sixty thousand dollars.'

  Later that night, Laura sat in Serita's spare bedroom and looked out the window. What had happened? One moment the world was perfect and then she was suddenly thrust into Hell. What had she done? She hated the whole world right now. She hated everything about it. Sometimes, she even hated David for leaving her here alone when he knew that she could not survive without him.

  Time limped by but it did not heal any wounds. Every time she felt like she was getting stronger, she would drive past a playground with kids playing basketball, or see lovers holding hands by the Charles River, or see a family taking a Sunday drive in their station wagon, and then the wounds would reopen and gush fresh blood.

  And nothing made sense anymore. Their new house had been broken into but nothing was stolen. David's account had been mysteriously transferred to the Twilight Zone. Her father was acting peculiarly. And what was going on with T.C.? Since when had he been against using pressure tactics to get information?

  Serita stepped in the room and turned on the light. 'What are you doing, Laura?' she asked.

  'The usual,' Laura answered. 'I guess I just want to be alone.'

  'You've been doing a lot of that the last couple of months. It's starting to get on my nerves.'

  'I'm going to move out tomorrow, Serita. I think it's time I took care of myself.'

  'Brave words, girl. So what are you going to do at your own place?'

  Laura shrugged.

  'If you're just going to mope around you might as well just stay here.' Serita tossed a newspaper onto Laura's lap. 'Read this.'

  Laura glanced at the top of the page. 'The financial section? I didn't think business was your bit.'

  'It's not,' Serita agreed. 'But I think you should read it.'

  She did not have the strength. 'Why don't you just give me a quick rehash?'

  'Okay, it's like this. Svengali slipped two points yesterday. That means it has dropped over ten points in the last two weeks. The reason it keeps sliding is because there is speculation that you don't have it anymore, that you're not going back.'

  'I really don't care, Serita.'

  'You listen to me. If you no longer give a shit about yourself, fine. But you have stockholders to protect, people who believed and invested in you. You can't just abandon them.'

  Laura did not say anything. Her eyes never left the window.

  'What the hell is the matter with you, Laura?'

  Laura turned her gaze toward her friend. 'What's the matter with me?' she repeated. 'Don't you read the papers? My husband is dead, Serita. Can't you understand that? David is dead.'

  'Of course I understand. But you're not dead, are you?' Serita crossed the room and sat on the chair next to her friend. 'Let me tell you something,' she continued. 'I remember everything there is to remember about you. I remember how you told me all about those snotty little kids who picked on you because you were ugly, but you survived and showed them what you were all about. And I remember how those assholes from all the big companies laughed when you first started Svengali. They kept trying to knock you down, remember? But you stood up to them, Laura, and again you survived when everyone else counted you out. And me? I just sat back and cheered you on. You fought to make that company what it is today. You fought hard. It's your baby, Laura. Svengali is yours. Don't just give it up. David wouldn't want that. And he wouldn't want you to give up on yourself like this.'

  David. Just hearing his name again pricked her eyes with tears.

  'Honey, I know it's hard, but it's time to live again before everything you have -- everything you worked so hard for -- falls apart.' Serita stood and looked down at her friend. 'Besides, I happen to be your highest paid model. If Svengali goes under, I'm going to lose an important customer. You wouldn't want that.'

  'Heaven forbid,' Laura replied with a hint of a smile. 'You know something?'

  'What?'

  'You're a good friend.'

  'The best.'

  Laura wrung her hands in her lap. 'Serita?'

  'I'm right here.'

  'I don't know what to do. I . . . I'm scared to go back.'

  'I know, honey. I don't want to push you. Take one step at a time.'

  Laura nodded but the doubts and fears remained burrowed in her mind. With a long and painful sigh, she sat up and reached for the phone. She dialed the number of Svengali's Director of Public Rlations.

  'Hello?'

  'This is Laura,' she said, her voice quaking. 'Make an announcement that I will be back in the office tomorrow morning.'
<
br />   'Line five, Dr Ayars.'

  'Thank you.'

  James Ayars picked up the receiver and pushed line five. 'Where the hell have you been?'

  'Out.'

  'I've been trying to reach you all day.'

  'I'm not at your beck and call.'

  'I didn't say you were.'

  'What do you want?' the voice asked.

  'I was at the settling of David's estate today,' James said.

  'And?'

  'Something rather odd came up about David's finances. '

  'So?'

  Dr James Ayars leaned forward. 'I'm no longer convinced that David committed suicide.'

  Chapter 8

  'Estelle!'

  'Yes, Laura?'

  'Where the hell are the designs on winter shoes? I asked for them ten minutes ago.'

  'Right away.'

  'And I want to see Marty Tribble now. This marketing scheme is for old ladies, for chrissake. I'm not trying to market the Bible Belt.'

  'Will do.'

  'And tell Hillary it's going to be a long night. These skirt patterns are all wrong, and we're going to be here until we get them right.'

  'Got it.'

  'And send Sandy up in about an hour. I have an idea for a new product line.'

  'Sandy. One hour.'

  'And tell accounting I want to see a tabulation of all transactions that took place during my absence. Something is wrong with my figures.'

  'Right. Anything else, Laura?'

  'I'd kill for a cup of coffee.'

  'A cup of coffee it is.' Estelle turned to leave and then stopped. 'Laura?'

  'Yes?'

  'It's nice to have you back.'

  'Thanks, Estelle.'

  Estelle left. Laura looked at her desk and shook her head. What a mess. She scanned the piles, wondering what she should tackle next. Distribution was screwed up. The winter fashions were in disarray, and they had to be finished up in the next couple of days.

  Laura sat back. Had coming back to work been a good idea? She was not sure. Yes, it was a welcome distraction. It kept her mind occupied. But everything felt a little out of place to her as though she were returning to her hometown after a long absence -- familiar and yet foreign. If work was therapeutic, it would be a long, slow healing. Her hands still shook. Her heart still felt like it was being squeezed in a vise. But like Serita had told her, take one step at a time.