Play Dead (2010)

by Harlan Coben

  She stepped back. 'More like repulsion,' she replied.

  'Quick, very quick. I like that. I really do. But your sister and I are in love now, Laura. Can someone place a value on that?'

  'I'm sure you can,' Laura said wearily. 'How much?'

  'Excuse me?'

  'How much do you want?'

  'I'm astonished, Laura, truly I am. Are you trying to bribe me?'

  'Last time I ask: how much?'

  'Oh no, Laura, it's not that easy. I want more than money this time.'

  'Oh?'

  'I can get all the money I need now. Your sister has plenty of dough. And now that Gloria and I are so close, I just know I can depend on my sweet sister-in-law to loan me a few bucks when I'm in need.'

  'Why should I?'

  Stan shrugged. 'Because I'm sure you want me to treat your sister kindly. You wouldn't want me to make her feel like a piece of shit. Or beat her. Or get her hooked on drugs again. I can do any of those things, Laura, and you know it. So I'll tell you to pay up and you'll do it.'

  Laura looked at him. 'I don't get it, Stan. What do you want?'

  'I just told you.'

  'But I already offered you money. You can just take it and run. That's always been your style in the past. Why are you taking the chance of hanging around?'

  Stan felt rage course through him. His face reddened. 'Don't tempt me into doing something you may regret, Laura. Suppose I did just take off right now. Have you really thought that through? Have you really considered the consequences? What would it do to Gloria? What do you think it would do to her fragile emotional stability?'

  Laura locked her eyes onto his. Frightening as it sounded, Stan was right. If he did run away, Gloria would suffer severe, maybe irreparable, emotional damage. But why would he care? Since when did Stan Baskin worry about someone else? No, there had to be another angle she wasn't seeing. Perhaps Stan figured that if he stayed around he could get money whenever he wanted. As long as he held Gloria hostage, so to speak, he could extort money. Weeks, months, whatever. But somehow that did not seem to fit. According to T.C., Stan usually liked to get the money up-front and screw what might be down the line.

  'So what do you want, Stan?' Laura demanded. 'What is it going to take to get rid of you?'

  Stan's eyes did not waver under her glare. 'You're so sure getting rid of me is the answer, aren't you, Laura? It must be wonderful to always know what to do, to always know what's right. Christ, suppose I told Gloria about our little conversation? How would you like that?'

  'You wouldn't dare.'

  'I wouldn't?'

  'No, Stan, you wouldn't. You wouldn't risk losing your best money supply.'

  Stan shook his head slowly. 'You're such a ball-buster, Laura. I sometimes wonder if David didn't take his last swim to get away from you for a little while.'

  Laura's eyes blazed in a wrath of fury. 'You son of a bitch!'

  'Temper, Laura, temper.'

  'You listen to me, Stan, and you listen good. I'll go along with your sick little mind games because I happen to love my sister. I'll do what you say to protect her from your demented desires. But you leave David out of this, do you understand?'

  He paused. 'Okay, fair enough. You see, Laura, I'm not unreasonable.'

  She pushed her hair back off her face. 'I see, Stan. I see that you're a pig.'

  Stan smiled. 'I understand how you feel, Laura, but remember: there's a fine line between love and hate. Between loathing and lust. Someday, you're going to have to stop denying yourself. Someday, you're going to have to face up to your true desires. And then I may not be around anymore. How will you feel then?'

  'Blessed.'

  He chuckled. 'Goodbye, Laura. For now. Maybe Gloria and I will have you over for dinner some night soon. Are you free this week?'

  Laura tried to keep her voice even. 'No.'

  Stan opened the door for her. 'What a pity. Where are you going to be?'

  'None of your goddamn business,' she said while her true destination floated across her mind: Australia.

  Richard Corsel closed his files and locked them in the cabinet. He was getting closer to discovering the truth. A friend of his at the Bank of Geneva in Switzerland had learned that David Baskin's money had been split up into at least two accounts and transferred back to the United States. One was in Massachusetts. With a little luck Corsel could discover where the account was in less than a week.

  'Goodnight, Mr Corsel,' his secretary said.

  'Goodnight, Eleanor.'

  Richard clutched his briefcase tightly and headed out toward the parking lot. It was already dark now. A gentle fall breeze blew through Boston, pushing Richard's hair in the opposite direction from where it had been combed. Never mind. The work day was over. He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and sorted through his key ring in search of his car keys. Naomi had asked him to pick up her stuff at the cleaners. She had also reminded him to buy some white socks for the kids. Richard shook his head. He couldn't understand how his six-year-old twins could go through socks so fast. What the hell were they doing with them? Wearing them over their shoes?

  With a tired sigh, he unlocked his car door and slid into the front seat. He tossed his briefcase into the passenger seat next to him. There would be traffic on the highways now. Maybe he should use the local roads. He put the key into the ignition . . .

  . . . and a gloved hand grabbed the back of his neck.

  'Hello, Richie,' a voice whispered in his ear.

  Corsel's eyes bulged. 'Who the hell -- ?'

  He was silenced by the sight of a large butcher's knife near his throat. 'Shhhh, Richie, not so loud. You wouldn't want to make me nervous, would you? My hand has a tendency to shake.'

  As if for emphasis, the hand shook. The blade coarsely caressed the skin on Richard's neck.

  'Who -- ?'

  'Shhh, Richie, I'm doing the talking right now, okay? Don't turn around and don't try to get a glance of me in the rearview mirror. If you do, I'll kill you. Do you understand?'

  The knife now rested quietly against Corsel's throat. He could feel the coldness of the metal. 'Y . . . Yes,' Richard managed. 'My wallet is in my jacket pocket.'

  'I know that, Richie, but I'm really not interested in petty cash. I've got plenty of money of my own, you know what I mean?'

  Richard swallowed, the knife moving along with his throat. 'Wh . . . What do you want?'

  'You see, Richie, that's your problem. You ask a lot of questions, you know? You don't see me asking a lot of questions. I don't ask how Naomi's new job at the boutique is, do I? I don't ask how the twins Roger and Peter are doing at their new school, right? So why are you so interested in other people's business?'

  The intruder's warm spittle pricked in Richard's right ear.

  'Now the way I look at it, Richie, you can do one of two things. One, you can go about your usual business and keep snooping around into Baskin's money. That's up to you, Richie. I wouldn't want to pressure you. You do what you think is best for your family, but I should warn you: it would make me very unhappy if you continued to snoop, Richie. It's not nice. Do you know what I mean?'

  Corsel felt his whole body quiver.

  'Now let me give you choice number two. See how you like this one, Richie, and then make up your mind about what you want to do, okay? Choice two: you forget all about Baskin's little transaction with your bank. You can go back to business as usual and not speak to his wife about it anymore. In return, you and your family will live happily ever after. You will never see me again. Sound nice?'

  Richard managed a nod.

  'But don't decide now, Richie. Think over your two choices for a while before you make up your mind. I'll be able to figure out which option you chose and act accordingly. Any questions?'

  Richard shook his head.

  'That's it, Richie. You're learning already. I'm going to slip out the back door and disappear now. If you turn and see my face or if you decide to chat with the authorities, well, let
's just say it would be an unwise move on your part. It may force me to get to know little Roger and Peter better. Do you understand, Richie?'

  Corsel nodded again, tears streaming down his cheeks. He tried to stay calm. He pictured himself sitting at the breakfast table on a typical morning having a nice bowl of Cap'n Crunch with Naomi and Roger and Peter and . . .

  . . . and the psycho in the backseat, his knife slashing across their throats. The screams, the sound of the blade ripping skin, blood spraying all over the place, his wife's blood, his children's blood.

  Oh God, what do I do now? What do I . . .

  Suddenly, the car door opened and the blade was off his throat. Richard was afraid to breathe. He listened to the car door slam closed. He shut his eyes and waited five minutes before opening them again.

  When he reached home, Naomi lectured him for forgetting to pick up the laundry at the cleaners and for not buying the kids some white socks. Richard's response was to give all three of them a hug.

  Earl's penthouse was something out of Architectural Digest. Literally. So much so that the magazine had devoted a cover story to what they called The High-Rise in the Sky. And it was gorgeous. Everything in the penthouse had been done in white. The walls, the chairs, the sofas, the tables, the carpet. The only smatterings of color were the large and varied assortment of paintings that adorned the walls. But somehow the white scheme worked and, more interesting to Architectural Digest, Earl had designed the penthouse totally by himself.

  There were also plenty of windows, all of them offering a fantastic view of Boston. From the gleaming living room, Laura stared out at the lights of the Prudential Building. She moved her glance toward the harbor where occasional lights from boats broke up the blanket of darkness covering the sea. From way up atop this sky-scraper you would never guess how dirty that harbor actually was. But God, she loved Boston. True, she had never really lived anywhere else. Her family had left Chicago and the Midwest when she was just an infant so she really could not make a comparison. But Boston was her city. And David's.

  Earl came out of the kitchen, a Celtics apron tied around his waist. 'Dinner is served.'

  'Good,' Serita answered, moving toward Laura and putting her arm around her friend's shoulder. 'I'm starved.'

  'Well, then sit down and prepare yourself,' Earl said. 'The master chef has created a new masterpiece.'

  Laura smiled and sat down. Earl was truly a renaissance man, she thought. Locked into his lanky, seven-foot frame was a man who played pro basketball, who decorated his own penthouse like a master designer, who cooked exotic dishes like a gourmet chef. He was even writing a book on his basketball experiences called Slam Dunk. 'Smells good. What is it?' Laura asked.

  'A treat from the Orient. Thailand, to be more exact.' He lifted the silver cover. 'I call it Shrimp Chow Earl.'

  'Mmmmm,' Serita hummed. 'Let me at it.'

  The three friends began to devour the dish. It was, Laura thought, a delicious meal. Light yet spicy. Perfectly seasoned.

  'This is really good,' she said.

  Earl beamed. 'Thanks, Laura. It's been a while since you've let me cook for you.'

  Laura nodded, not trusting her voice right away. She and David used to eat over Earl's at least once a week. 'I know.'

  Earl smiled at her. 'But David never liked my cooking.' 'That's not true,' Laura argued. 'You're a fantastic cook.'

  'True,' Earl replied, 'but David had the culinary instincts of a cashier at Burger King.'

  Laura chuckled. 'Can't argue with that.'

  'I think it was living with T.C. and his grubby cigars and greasy hamburgers that did his tastebuds in,' Earl continued. 'I used to always tell David that your body is your temple. Now take this dish for example. Fresh shrimp, mushrooms, broccoli and natural spices -- none of that chemical shit. The crap some people put in their body -- unbelievable.'

  'What's for dessert?' Serita asked.

  'Soybean pudding.'

  'Yuck. I mean, I'm all in favor of health, honey, but let's not be extremists.'

  Earl poured his two beautiful guests some Chinese beer and sat back to watch them chow down. He shook his head and smiled. 'It's like watching Dobermanns in front of raw meat. How do you two stay so skinny?'

  'I work it off,' Serita answered.

  'Nautilus machines?' he asked.

  She winked. 'Wrong answer. Try again.'

  'Let me think about it. Meanwhile, I better get some more food before Laura starts scratching the plate.'

  'No really, Earl, this is enough,' Laura said.

  'You sure? Chez Earl has an all-you-can-eat menu.'

  'Positive. I'm stuffed.'

  'Okay.'

  Laura stared at the table that a lifetime ago had seen the four of them laugh themselves silly. Now the conversation rang hollow, the words stilted and uncomfortable in the bright room. 'How's the team look?' she asked.

  Earl shrugged. 'Okay, I guess. We really miss David out there.'

  'Any of the draft picks looking good?'

  'None.'

  'Free agents?'

  'Just one.'

  'Oh, I've read about him in the Globe,' Serita interjected. 'You must have seen it, Laura.'

  'Sorry. I don't read the Sports too much anymore.'

  'It was all over the place,' Serita continued. 'This guy just walked into the gym one day, put up ten grand to challenge Timmy to a shooting contest and won. This complete unknown even broke -- ' She cut herself off.

  'Broke what?'

  'Let's change the subject,' Earl tried.

  'Broke what?' Laura repeated.

  Earl glanced at Serita and then he released a long breath. 'He broke David's three-point shooting record.'

  'What?' Laura asked. 'I remember when David set the mark. The press said it would never be broken.'

  'I know,' Earl said softly.

  'So who is he?'

  'His name is Mark Seidman,' Earl said.

  'And is he good?'

  Earl nodded. 'Sure, he's a great player and all but . . .'

  'But?'

  'I don't know. The whole thing is weird.'

  'Where did he play in college?' Laura asked.

  'That's just it. He didn't. No one ever heard of this guy before.'

  'No one? Are you trying to tell me the press hasn't dug up something on him yet?'

  Earl shook his head. 'Not a thing. He claims he lived in Europe, that his family traveled around a lot or something.'

  'And you don't believe it?'

  He shrugged. 'I don't know. You mentioned the press before. Well, none of them have been able to substantiate his story. And Seidman refuses to talk to reporters -- and you know how Clip feels about good relations with the press. But hell, Seidman doesn't talk to anyone. He just comes in, plays, and leaves. He's moody and quiet and then every once in a while, he'll say something off-hand -- you know, impromptu -- like he's one of us. He gets this really pitiful look in his eyes. Like he wants to belong. Then he goes back into his shell.'

  'Could be nothing,' Laura said. 'Or it could be he's hiding something.'

  'Could be,' Earl ventured. 'I guess I make him sound like some kind of fugitive from the law. Maybe he is. But I don't think so. It's just -- I don't know -- so weird. I don't like him, that's all.'

  'How good is he?' Laura asked.

  'Hard to say. It's pre-season. I've seen a lot of guys who were All-Stars in pre-season and then turned into bums.'

  'But what do you think?'

  Earl hesitated. He lifted his glass and took a tiny swig of beer. 'Aside from David, he could be the best player I've ever seen.'

  Laura spotted the hurt look on his face. It was not easy for Earl to admit that someone could be in the same league with the friend he so admired. 'An unknown walk-on?' she said, shaking her head. 'It doesn't make sense.'

  'He's incredible,' Earl went on. 'Velvet shooting touch, great passer . . . Hey, enough about Seidman. I have to talk to you about something important.'

 
; 'Ah, so this was not just a social invitation,' Laura said. 'And I thought you loved my company.'

  Earl chuckled. 'It's only the hundredth time I've asked you to dinner in the past couple of months.'

  'And I'm not too happy about that,' Serita joked. 'You trying to make me jealous?'

  'I wish,' he replied. 'Laura, Clip asked me to speak to you.'

  'About what?'

  Earl lowered his head and played with his food. 'It's kind of difficult to talk about.'

  'Go on, Earl.'

  Tears filled the giant man's eyes. 'The Celtics and the city want to pay tribute to David. Opening game at the Garden is in a week. We play the Washington Bullets. At halftime, they're going to retire David's number and hang it with the others on the rafters.' Earl stopped and turned away. Laura put her hand on his arm.

  'It's okay, Earl.'

  Earl sniffled and faced her again. His eyes were red now. Laura glanced at Serita. She too was crying. 'The Mayor will declare it David Baskin Day. After the game, there's going to be a small gathering at the Blades and Boards for the players, families, press -- the usual stuff. Clip wanted to make sure you and your whole family -- David's brother too -- will be there.'

  Laura remained stone-faced. 'We'll be there. All of us.'

  'Good,' Earl managed, his eyes darting around the room. He stood, shaking. 'I'll be right back.' He nearly sprinted out of sight.

  'Big chicken,' Serita managed between her own sobs. 'He's afraid to cry in front of you. He still does it almost every night, you know.'

  'I know,' Laura said. But she did not cry along with her friends. Laura had learned that occasionally, when the pain became too great, her mental block came up automatically. Sure, she heard the sad words, saw the tears, but somewhere along the way to her heart, the pain veered away.

  'I need to talk to you about something else, Serita. But you have to promise not to tell anyone -- including Earl. Okay?'

  'Okay,' she said, wiping her eyes with the corner of a napkin.

  'I'm leaving for Australia tomorrow morning.'

  'What?'

  'I'll be flying out of Logan around noon.'

  'Whoa, Laura, let's talk about this a second.'

  'Nothing to talk about. You know what Corsel said. The threads are going to disappear if I don't get over there and figure out what happened. I have to go. You know that.'