by Harlan Coben
Dr James Ayars faced his wife of thirty-three years. His mind flashed back to the first time they met. He had been an intern in Chicago, working a hundred hours a week when it was slow. At the time, he had been dating a bright student from the University of Chicago named Judy Simmons. Pretty little Judy Simmons. Nice girl. Auburn hair. Fine figure. Fun to be with. Young Dr Ayars had been very taken with Judy Simmons.
Until he met her younger sister Mary.
The first time Judy introduced him to Mary he felt a gurgling in the pit of his stomach. He had never seen such a beautiful creature in his life, never imagined such beauty existed. Mary Simmons smiled at him on that day, casting her powerful spell of sensuality upon him. The spell left him writhing and helpless in her presence. His eyes burned with unquenchable desire whenever he saw her. He knew that he would have to make her his wife. No matter what, he had to have her, possess her, cherish her . . .
The obsession had frightened him.
Of course it had not been that easy. There was Judy to consider, but sweet, kind Judy had understood. She stepped out of the way and wished them both the best of luck.
Now, some thirty-four years later, Mary was still ravishing. There were still times when James's stomach gurgled when he beheld her awesome beauty. Their marriage had had its share of problems (what marriage didn't?) but overall, James would say it had been excellent. They had raised two wonderful children. Life had been good . . .
. . . except . . .
'What's going on?' James asked his wife.
'Going on?' Mary repeated.
'You know what I mean. First you didn't approve of David. Now you don't approve of his brother. Why?'
Mary swallowed. 'I . . . I'm not really sure. I just don't trust that family.'
'Why not?'
'I don't really know, James.'
'Mary, you've always been a good mother. I've always been very proud of the way you've handled our daughters. Do you remember when Gloria was having all her problems and I swore I would never let her back in this house again?'
Mary nodded.
'Well, I was wrong,' James said. 'And you knew it. But you knew fighting me on the subject would be worthless. So instead, you showered me with kind words. You made me understand that no matter what Gloria had done, she was still our daughter. Do you remember?'
Again, Mary nodded.
'Now I think it's my turn,' he continued. 'I think you should seriously look at the consequences of what you are doing. Look at what happened when you rejected David -- '
'What?' Mary interrupted loudly. 'You're not blaming me, too?'
'Laura doesn't blame you,' he assured her gently, 'and neither do I. Laura is in pain right now. She lashes out and says things she doesn't mean.'
'It wasn't my fault,' she insisted. 'I was doing what I thought right.'
'What do you mean by that?' he asked. 'What did you have against David?'
'I was just doing what I thought was best.'
'Best for whom?' James asked.
She turned back to him, her eyes blazing defiantly. 'For Laura.'
'And is the same true with Gloria and Stan? Are you doing what's best for Gloria?'
Mary closed her eyes tightly and leaned back. Thoughts flew aimlessly through her mind. She tried hard to concentrate but it was so difficult.
James was so wise sometimes, she thought. He was right, of course. This time, her words had not been said in the hopes of protecting her daughter. This time, she had put herself first. And that was wrong. Her daughters must always come first. Always.
Fear crawled around Mary's shoulders. Calm down, she told herself. After all, what harm could Stan Baskin cause her and her family now?
The answer made her shiver.
A nervous smile danced about Richard Corsel's face as he stood to greet Laura. His thin hair needed combing. His face needed a shave. He was hardly the neat and proper bank vice president Laura had encountered in the past.
'Mrs Baskin,' he said, his smile stretching for a moment before returning to its original state, 'it's a pleasure to see you again.'
'Thank you.'
'Please have a seat,' he continued. 'How are you feeling on this fine day?'
'Fine.'
'Good, good.' He looked around liked a caged animal searching for an opening. 'Can I get you something? Coffee?'
'No, thank you. Mr Corsel, you said on the phone you have something urgent to tell me.'
His smile collapsed as if from exhaustion. 'I do -- or at least I might.'
'I don't understand.'
He shook his head slowly. 'Neither do I, Mrs Baskin. Neither do I.'
'What do you mean?'
Corsel picked up a pen and then put it back down. 'I mean I looked through your husband's records again. Something might be wrong.'
'Wrong?'
'Might be wrong,' Richard Corsel corrected. He opened his desk drawer and took out a file. 'May I ask you a question, Mrs Baskin?'
Laura nodded.
Corsel leaned back in his chair. His gaze rested on the ceiling and stayed there. 'According to the newspapers, your husband went swimming on June 14 and drowned sometime that day between the hours of four and seven o'clock in the evening Australian time. Is that correct?'
'Yes.'
He nodded, his eyes still on the ceiling. 'There is a fifteen-hour time difference between here and Australia -- we're fifteen hours behind them. That would mean Mr Baskin died sometime on June 14 between one a.m. and four a.m. Boston time.'
'Right.'
Corsel sat forward, but he still could not look at her. 'His call to me came on June 14 at eight thirty in the morning. That's nearly midnight in Australia, and at least five hours after he drowned.'
Cold fear seeped into Laura.
'Here,' Corsel continued, tossing the file at Laura. 'Read it. According to this, Mr Baskin called me several hours after his drowning.'
'Are you sure about the time? Could you have made a mistake?'
He shook his head. 'Not possible. Even though I recognized your husband's voice and he said the access code number, I insisted on verification due to the magnitude of the transaction.'
'What do you mean, verification?'
He swallowed. 'I asked him to give me the phone number of where he was so that I could call him back. A woman with an Aussie accent answered and transferred my call. The number is written there. There is also a copy of the phone bill which reconfirms the time.'
Laura skimmed through the file until she saw a phone number: 011-61-70-517-999. Then she saw the time of the call. Her heart fell deep into her stomach. How . . . ? The call had been placed at 8:47 a.m. on June 14. Thirteen minutes before midnight in Australia. Several hours after David had drowned.
'The 011 is for a long-distance call,' Richard Corsel explained. 'Sixty-one is the country code for Australia. Seventy is the city code of Cairns.'
Cairns, Laura thought. That was where she had met with the Peterson Group, the meeting that had taken place while David drowned in nearby waters . . .
'I don't understand, Mr Corsel. How could David have placed a call to you five hours after he drowned?'
Corsel shrugged. 'I'm not a detective, Mrs Baskin. I only know the facts you see in front of you. As much as it pains me to say, I think you were right. Somehow, someone was able to get David's access code and imitate his voice well enough to fool me. I can't imagine what else it could be . . . unless, of course, the coroner was wrong about the time of death.'
Laura slumped back. If the coroner had been wrong, where had David been for all those hours? And why would David move around his money hours before taking a midnight swim?
'Can I keep this file, Mr Corsel?'
'I'd prefer if you just wrote down what you want to know for now. Of course, I'll keep trying to track down the missing money. Your husband . . . I mean, whoever made that call had this access code and insisted on absolute secrecy, so please, Mrs Baskin, I never showed this to you. This time I'm worrie
d about something a lot more valuable than my job.'
Laura nodded. She understood what he meant.
When Laura and Serita arrived at Laura's place, Laura picked up the phone and dialed 011-61-70-517-999. She pictured her call traveling through thousands of miles of wires and satellite transmissions that led from Boston to a small city on the other side of the world in Australia. After a few seconds, a loud static came over the line. Then she heard the ringing of a telephone.
Laura gripped the phone impossibly tight and listened. The receiver on the other end was picked up after the third ring. A piercing feedback traveled halfway across the globe, followed by a young woman's voice: 'Pacific International Hotel. Can I help you?'
Chapter 15
Laura hung up the phone without speaking.
'What is it, Laura?' Serita asked. 'Whose number is it?'
Laura remembered the hotel so well. The window from the Peterson office had given her a perfect view of the Martin Jetty's only high-rise structure. 'The Pacific International Hotel.'
Serita shrugged. 'So what does that mean?'
'The Pacific International Hotel is on the same street as the Peterson Group building,' Laura explained, her voice flat. 'The call to the bank was placed from a hotel less than a block from where I had my meeting.'
Serita leaned back in the chair. She kicked her shoes off her feet and across the room. 'This whole thing is getting kind of eerie, huh?'
Laura did not respond.
'I keep waiting for Twilight Zone music,' Serita said. 'So what's our next step? You gonna call T.C.?'
'Not yet,' Laura said.
'Why not?'
'Because I think he already suspects something.'
'What? How can that be?'
Laura shrugged. 'He's the professional, right? If I could figure it out, so could he.'
'So why not work together?' Serita suggested.
She shook her head. 'I don't think T.C. wants to find out what really happened . . . or else he already has and doesn't want me to know.'
'That doesn't make any sense, girl.'
'I know. It's just a feeling I can't shake.'
'Well, I think you better shake it and talk to him.'
'Maybe later,' Laura said. 'Right now, I think I'm going to take a shower and change.'
'Go ahead. I'll change when you're finished. Can I borrow that new white outfit of yours?'
'Sure. It'll probably look better on you anyway.'
'It's my ebony complexion.'
Laura smiled dully and headed into the bathroom. Serita waited for her friend to turn on the shower before picking up the phone and dialing.
'T.C.,' Serita said quietly, 'I need to talk to you.'
Stan Baskin looked out the window at the Charles River. In many ways, the new apartment was nothing special. It consisted of one bedroom, a living room, a bathroom, a kitchen, and a terrace. As far as Stan was concerned, you could get rid of the bedroom, the living room, the bathroom. Just leave him the terrace. The view soothed him like a gentle touch. Though he and Gloria had only moved in a couple of days ago, Stan had already spent what seemed like countless, blissful hours gazing at the Charles River. He watched the college couples stroll along her banks; he watched the crew boats from Harvard slice through her still waters. And at night, the Charles became a sparkling jewel of lights reflecting off of nearby buildings and onto her shiny, wet coat.
Usually, Gloria sat beside him and watched too. But she never disturbed him when he was lost in his own thoughts. Gloria had an uncanny knack for knowing when he wanted to talk and when he just wanted to be left alone. Right now, she was at Svengali's headquarters putting together a new marketing scheme for the teenage set. She would not be home for several hours yet.
Stan moved away from the window. He knew that he needed to find a job (or a good con) soon. The ten grand he had made from his part in the Deerfield Inn scam was running low. Shit, B Man had made a nice little profit on that one. He got the fifty grand Stan owed him, plus ten grand interest and another twenty grand net profit minus whatever minuscule amount he paid that Neanderthal Bart.
Stan picked up the newspaper from the couch. He had a tip about a horse in the seventh race named Breeze's Girl. The horse, his contact had assured him, could not lose. But somehow it did not feel right. Stan rarely, if ever, bet on a filly. Be they human or animal, females could not be depended upon to come through for you.
The clock read three o'clock. Gloria usually came home between six and seven. At least three more hours until she was back. Stan shook his head, wondering why he would be counting the hours until she returned. If he did not know himself better, he could swear that he sort of missed her. But of course that was impossible. Stan Baskin did not miss women. They missed him.
He moved back into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of orange juice. When he was a little kid, his mother squeezed him fresh orange juice every morning because she knew how much he loved it. His poor old lady. She had ended up dying of cancer. What an awful fuckin' disease, he thought. You're either lucky enough to be in remission or you get to stay in bed and wait for the cancer to claim your life, wait as the disease eats away at you from within. Or worse, the doctors make you go through that chemotherapy shit. No way would I go put up with that, Stan thought. If I'm ever in her shoes, I'd go out and buy myself the biggest gun I could find and press it against my temple and pull the trigger.
Bam.
Dead. Quick and painless. Just like what had happened to his dad -- or so they all thought. Only Stan knew better.
Every morning Stan's mother squeezed him fresh orange juice. 'It's good for you,' she would say. But Stan needed no encouragement to drink the pulpy liquid with the little pits. He loved Grace Baskin's fresh-squeezed orange juice. But then his father died (was murdered) and all that changed. Stan had been only ten years old at the time -- David not yet two.
The funeral had been jammed with thousands of people from the university: professors, deans, secretaries, students. All the neighbors were there too. Stan stood quietly next to his mother. She wore black and cried into a white handkerchief.
'We have to think of David now, Stan,' she said to him as they lowered the casket into the ground. 'We have to make up for the fact that he is going to grow up without a father. Do you understand?'
Stan nodded to his mother. But in truth, he did not understand. Why should David be the one to worry about? He had never even known their father. David had never played catch with their dad. He had never gone fishing or to museums or to ball parks or to movies or even to the dentist with him. Fact is, David wouldn't even remember Sinclair Baskin.
Grace Baskin did not see it that way. Never did. She decided to put all her energies into raising her precious David. She chose to be two parents for her youngest child, even if it left none for her oldest.
But Stan didn't care. Who needed her anyway? For that matter, who needed women? As he eventually learned, women are basically worthless and cruel. They could all be lumped into two basic groups; parasites who wanted to suck you dry, or ball-breaking bitches who used words like love and togetherness when all they wanted to do was possess and control and destroy.
Therein lies the beauty of Stan's livelihood (or scams, as those who did not understand liked to call it). He simply turned the tables on the female sex. He used women the same way they used men. And for that people wanted him to go to jail? How goddamn ridiculous! You talk about being equal and fair -- why not arrest every gold-digging bitch who pretended she cared about a guy just to get his dough? Shit, there would be scarce few broads around then.
Yes, Stan had seen first hand the damage that a woman could do. He had learned from them. When he was just sixteen, he was seduced by a thirty-year-old divorcee named Concetta Caletti. Stan was convinced that Concetta was the smartest, most beautiful and sophisticated woman in the whole world. Young Stan Baskin was even foolish enough to think he was in love. He even went so far as to quit school and tell Concetta Ca
letti that he wanted to marry her. But Concetta laughed at his offer.
'You are only a boy,' the dark-skinned beauty said.
'I love you,' the sixteen-year-old Stan insisted.
'Love?' she said, her eyes scalding his heart. 'Who taught you that word? You don't even know what love is.'
'Then show me,' he pleaded.
'There is no such thing,' she flared. 'Love is a word people toss around to fool themselves into believing that they are not alone in the world. It's a lie.'
'But I love you, Concetta. I know I do.'
'Get out of here, Stan. You're just a kid. When you start making some real money, then we'll talk about love.' The sound of the doorbell jarred away the image of Concetta's angry face and left Stan standing alone in the present. He glanced at the clock. Still only three o'clock. Maybe Gloria had come home early from work.
Stan crossed the room and opened the door. His eyes widened when he saw who was standing in his doorway. 'Well, well, isn't this a nice surprise?'
Laura said nothing.
'Your sister isn't here, Laura. She's at the office.'
'I know that. I came to talk to you.'
'How nice.' Stan stepped back. 'Do come in.'
'I feel safer out in the hallway.'
'No trust?'
'None.'
'Well then, Laura, you can stand out there with the door closed in your pretty face. If you want to speak with me, you'll have to come in.'
Laura glared at him and then, hesitantly, she entered. Stan closed the door behind her. 'Would you like to sit down?' he asked.
'No.'
'Something to drink perhaps?'
'No, Stan,' she said impatiently.
'Fine. Then why don't we just get to the point? What can I do for you?'
'I want you to leave my sister alone.'
'I'm shocked,' Stan said sarcastically. 'Why on earth would you want to break up such a happy couple?'
'Stop playing games, Stan,' Laura snapped. 'Gloria is vulnerable. If you have a problem with me, fine, let's settle it. But leave my sister out of it.'
Stan smiled and moved closer to her. 'Do I detect a note of jealousy on your part, Laura?'
