by Harlan Coben
No.
Serita knew that Laura would not stop searching until she was satisfied that she knew all the answers. And Laura was not easily satisfied. And, more to the point, this had become an almost welcome distraction for Laura, a way of diverting herself from the pain of reality. But the reality was still there. The reality would come back with a vengeance. When all this was over, David would still be dead . . .
. . . and if the drowning was not an accident, so might Laura.
Serita had visited the Heritage of Boston Bank earlier this morning. Corsel was nowhere to be found. Now she was heading for a four o'clock shoot by Quincy Market for a jeans company. She grabbed her coat off the hook, reached for the knob and opened the door.
'Hi, Serita.'
Serita jumped back, startled. 'T.C., you scared the hell out of me.'
'Sorry,' T.C. said. 'I guess I should have called first.'
'That's okay,' Serita replied. 'Something I can do for you?'
T.C. bit off the end of his cigar. He put the Dutch Masters in his mouth but did not light it right away. 'I was looking for Laura. Do you know where she is?'
Serita shrugged. 'She's not at Svengali?'
He shook his head slowly. 'I spoke to her secretary . . . what's her name again?'
'Estelle.'
'Right, Estelle. I spoke to Estelle. She told me Laura is out of the city for a few days. She said Laura is on some kind of sales trip.'
'And she didn't tell you where?'
'She claims she didn't know. Maybe Canada. She said it was a big fashion secret or something.' T.C. took out his lighter and flicked it on. He placed it on the end of the cigar. The flame rose and fell in rhythm to his puffing for a few moments until the end of the cigar lit. 'I was hoping you could tell me where she went. I'm worried about her, Serita.'
'Worried? Why?'
T.C. took a deep breath. 'You know how you told me she's suspicious about David's death being a simple accident?'
'Yeah.'
'And how she even thought that I suspected the same thing?'
'Right.'
'Well,' T.C. said, 'she was right. I do suspect the same thing.'
Serita's eyes widened. 'You mean -- '
'I mean that there is a very good chance that David's drowning was not accidental.'
Serita felt her body spasm. She moved back into the house and beckoned T.C. to follow. He closed the door and they both sat down. 'He was murdered?'
'May have been murdered,' T.C. corrected, 'or something else. We're talking theory here, remember?'
'What do you think happened?'
He scratched his neck and then looked forward. 'I don't know exactly. It could be that a few bad boys discovered they could get their hands on David's loot by knocking him off.'
'Do you have any idea who?'
'None. But whoever it was is well-connected and powerful. No amateur could pull this off. We're talking about some very nasty people here, people who wouldn't mind killing somebody who snoops around in their business. That's why I want to find Laura.'
'You think she's in danger?'
'Think?' he repeated. 'Serita, this is Laura we're talking about. She's not a trained detective and let's face it, subtlety is not her strong suit. She's going to go busting around like a bull in a china shop. Very nasty people don't like that. Very nasty people have a way of making people like Laura disappear without a trace.'
Serita stood. 'I need a drink. You want something?'
'No.'
She grabbed the bottle of vodka she kept in the freezer and poured herself a shot.
'Serita,' T.C. began, his words coming slowly, 'did Laura say anything to you that might give us a clue to where she went?'
Tears worked their way into Serita's eyes, but she forced them back down. She was scared, but she had made a promise to Laura and, come hell or high water, Serita would stick to it. Besides, T.C. had raised a few interesting points. If David had been murdered, the killer was indeed well connected. He or she had learned David's confidential bank number and where David and Laura were honeymooning. He or she had the capability of pulling off a murder and executing a complicated money transfer through Switzerland. Not too many people fit that description. Not too many people could pull off such a crime. Serita only knew one person who could do it. Right now, that person was sitting in her living room wanting to know where Laura was.
'No,' she replied. 'Not a word.'
Laura told Graham Rowe the whole story. She started with the house being broken into, the open calendar on the desk, the missing photograph, the missing money, Richard Corsel, the money transfer to Switzerland -- everything. By the time she finished, they were settled into the plush chairs in the sitting room of her suite at the Pacific International Hotel.
Graham began to pace back and forth, his head nodding as he listened to her words. He petted his beard with his hand. 'That's certainly a strange story, Laura.'
'I know.'
'Very strange,' he repeated, as though clarifying the notion in his own mind. 'You say that nobody knew David's bank number except the two of you?'
'Right.'
Graham peered at her. 'That would make you a pretty good suspect, wouldn't it?'
'No,' Laura said matter-of-factly. 'I'm the wife. I would have inherited everything anyway. There would have been no reason for me to go through the whole money-transfer scheme.'
He nodded at her. 'I didn't mean -- '
'Please don't apologize,' she interrupted him. 'We have to explore every possible avenue. We might as well get rid of that one first.'
'True enough,' he replied. 'Now let me make another observation which you may find a tad more insightful than my first: you suspect your husband's mate T.C. may have something to do with this.'
Laura stood. 'What makes you say that?'
'Simple,' Graham said. 'If you still trusted him completely, he'd be here with you. He was the first one you called when David disappeared. By your own definition, he's a good cop who was David's best mate. So why isn't he here investigating all of this?'
Laura glanced out the window. Down the block stood the Peterson building. Why had she gone to that damn meeting with the Petersons anyway? Why hadn't she just stayed with David? 'I don't know,' she said. 'I've always trusted T.C. and so did David. They were very close. I can't believe he would do anything to hurt David. He loved him. And yet . . .'
'Yet?'
'He's been acting so weird lately.'
'In what way?'
'There's been a lot of things. He keeps disappearing all the time. He tried to stop me from putting pressure on Corsel at the bank. He shoves away all the strange happenings as coincidence. And that's not like the T.C. I know. The T.C. I know would go through hell to trace down any clue, especially if it involved David.'
'So then he doesn't know you're here?' he asked.
She shook her head.
Graham sat back down. 'Well then, what do you say we get this investigation started?'
'What should we do first?'
'Do you have a photograph of David?'
She reached into her handbag and pulled out a photo of him she took last February. David's cheeks were red from the wind, his breath visible in the bitter winter morning. But his smile flashed brightly through the harsh weather. 'Here,' she said, handing it to him. 'What are you going to do with it?'
'The call to the bank came from this hotel, right?' he said.
'So?'
'So,' Graham answered, 'we're in the hotel already. Let's see if any of the staff remember seeing David.'
They spent the next several hours interviewing the staff. Most were not even on duty on that fateful day in June; others did not recognize the man in the photograph.
'Now what?' Laura asked.
Graham thought a moment. 'Let's go to the bar on the second floor.'
'You think the bartender might have seen him?'
'Very doubtful,' the sheriff replied. 'I was thinking more along the lines of h
aving a drink. Man is not a camel, you know.'
She followed him up the stairs. They sat on stools and waited for the barmaid to serve them. Laura looked at the woman behind the bar. She was young, not more than twenty-three or twenty-four. Very attractive in an Ivory Soap girl sort of way. Outdoorsy-looking. Well-toned body and long, auburn hair. The color of her hair reminded Laura of her aunt Judy.
'What can I get ya?' she asked Graham.
'A couple of Four Xs.'
'Coming right up.'
Laura nudged Graham. 'Four X?'
'It's a local beer. You like beer, don't you?'
She nodded. 'What do we do next, Graham?'
'Not sure yet. If no one recognizes him then it could be your banker Corsel was right. Someone disguised David's voice and called from here. The question is, who?'
The pretty bartender came back with two huge mugs filled with Four X beer, the foam spilling over the sides. 'Here you go.'
'Thanks, luv.' Graham took a sip. 'Mind if I ask you a question?'
'Not at all,' the bartender said. 'What can I do for you?'
Graham tossed the photograph toward her. 'Have you ever seen this man? He may have been in the hotel sometime in June.'
'June, you say? No, can't say I recognize him. Has he done something wrong? He's awful handsome for a criminal.'
Graham took back the picture. 'No, nothing wrong. We just need to know if he was in the hotel.'
'Handsome man,' she repeated. 'What's his name?'
'David Baskin.'
'The basketball player who drowned up the coast?'
Graham nodded. 'This is his widow, Laura.'
'I'm so sorry, ma'am. Really I am.'
'Thank you,' Laura said.
'But if you have any questions about him being here you oughta ask my Billy.'
'Who is Billy?' Graham asked.
'My beau. He's a big fan of American basketball. He watches it on the telly every week and once he starts watching, a crocodile gnawing at his leg can't get his attention.'
'And he saw Mr Baskin?'
'That's what he said,' the bartender continued. 'I didn't believe him at first. I mean, what would a basketball star be doing here? I said, "Billy, you're just making it up." So he says, "Oh, yeah," and hands me an autograph he got. Then I believed him.'
'Where is Billy now?'
The bartender checked the clock behind her. 'Should be arriving any minute now. He's a bellboy. You should be able to find him in the front lobby. Tall, skinny guy.'
Laura had already tossed money on the bar and was walking out of the bar when Graham thanked the girl and joined her.
'Billy?'
The tall, gangly youngster spun toward Graham's voice. He was as skinny as a poster child and Laura wondered where he found the strength to lug suitcases. He was an average-looking boy, red-faced from the sun and covered with the last remnants of what must have been bad acne. 'Yes?'
'Billy, my name is Sheriff Rowe. I'd like to ask you a few questions.'
The boy's eyes darted about the lobby. 'Have I done something wrong, Sheriff?'
'No, son. I just need to ask you a few questions about David Baskin.'
'David Baskin? What can I . . . ? Wait a minute. You're Laura Ayars, aren't you?'
'Yes, I am.'
'You're even prettier in person than on the telly. I know all about you. I was your husband's biggest fan -- well, his biggest fan in Australia anyway.'
'Billy,' Graham said, 'did you see Mr Baskin in this hotel?'
'Sure did.'
'When?'
'On the day he died. He came right through these doors.'
'You're sure?'
Billy nodded. 'I got his autograph to prove it. He was a very nice fellow. I saw him come in and head straight for the elevator. I couldn't believe it. I mean, the David Baskin right here in this hotel. I play a little basketball myself but there was no one like White Lightning. Nobody. He was the greatest. So I sprinted over to the reception desk and grabbed a pen and piece of paper and asked him for his autograph. He said, "Sure, kid. What's your name?" I told him and then he signed it for me. He even scribbled the date.'
Laura's heart sank deep into her stomach. Whenever David had the time, he liked to put the date with his autograph because he read somewhere that it made it worth more to true collectors.
'Then what happened?' Graham asked.
'Like I said, he got in the elevator and went up. Didn't say a word to anybody else. He was nice and everything, but I could tell he was distracted.'
'What makes you say that?'
'I don't know. He just looked like he was in a trance or something.'
'Did you see him leave?'
'Not exactly.'
'What do you mean?'
Behind Billy, a group of tourists charged in noisily after a full day boat trip to Green Island. 'While Mr Baskin was upstairs, I was working up the courage to talk to him when he came back down. I wanted to tell him that I thought he was the greatest basketball player in the world and that I loved watching him play. When he came down about an hour later, I was all psyched up to talk to him -- until I saw his face.'
'What was wrong with his face?' Graham asked.
Billy shrugged. 'Can't say exactly. He was awful pale. That distracted face I was telling you about now looked pained -- like somebody had danced on his guts with spiked heels. Or like he had just been told he has two months to live or something. I never seen such a change. He could barely walk when he got out of the elevator. I have to tell you, Sheriff, it was kind of scary.'
Laura felt her pulse quicken. What had happened to David when he went upstairs? Had the bastards drugged him or beaten him or threatened him or . . . or what? What could they have done to make her David react like this?
'Then what happened?'
'Well, I walked up to him and I said, "Are you okay, Mr Baskin?" but he didn't answer me. He just kept walking in a daze like a two-by-four had connected with the side of his head or something. I figured it was none of my business and I didn't want to get in trouble for bothering him so I just left him alone.'
'Did he leave the hotel?'
Billy scratched his head. 'That's the odd part. He wandered out and stumbled around the block a few times. He walked that way down the Esplanade. I watched him until he disappeared past that office building.'
Laura swallowed. 'What office building?'
'The one on the next block.'
'The Peterson building?'
'Yeah, that's the one,' Billy confirmed. 'Anyway, a while later -- I don't know, maybe a half-hour -- he came staggering back into the hotel.'
'Did he go back up the elevator?' Graham asked.
Billy shook his head. 'He just wandered around some more. Then he asked me where the nearest phone was. I showed him.'
'A pay phone?'
'No. He said he needed to call the States. I brought him to one of the hotel operators to place the call.'
'Who was the operator?'
'Old Maggie. She died last month. She must have been two hundred years old.'
'What time was it by now?'
'Let's see. It must have been close to ten at night, I guess.'
'Then what?'
Billy took a deep breath. 'He finished his calls -- '
'Calls?' Laura interrupted.
'Yeah, well, I wasn't listening in but I know he made at least two calls. I don't know if both connected or not. Anyway, he finished his calls and then he started doing his zombie bit in the lobby again. I was beginning to think this was all a little strange by now, but like I said, it was none of my business. He took off around ten thirty.'
Graham remembered that the call to the bank had been placed at midnight. 'Did he come back?'
'Can't say for sure, but maybe. When I got off at eleven thirty, I spotted him standing all by himself on the Marlin Jetty. He just stood there and stared out at the water. No one else was around. I know the newspapers said he drowned accidentally and I don't want
to ruin a man's good name, but he wasn't looking at that water like a man who wanted to take a casual swim, if you get my meaning.'
Graham and Laura exchanged glances. They got his meaning.
Judy Simmons entered her apartment, dumped her luggage on the floor and collapsed into a nearby chair. A silly smile remained frozen on her face. All right, maybe goofy smile was a better description. No, Judy told herself, let's be honest about this. It's been so long since you've had this particular smile (or any smile for that matter) that you're forgetting what kind of smile this really is.
Judy thought about it a moment before remembering the correct terminology. It was hardly the vernacular an English professor should use to describe a facial expression but then again, it was succinct and appropriate for the occasion. Yes, the students of Colgate College would call it a 'Just F- - -ed' smile, the sort of look that comes over one's face after a particularly arousing session of sexual contact. To be more precise, a weekend's worth. Three times a day. Who would have thought that Professor Bealy would have such stamina?
She had started dating Colin Bealy, professor of geology, about a month ago. He was around fifty, divorced seven years with three grown children. He was short with a heavy beard, dark brown eyes and slight paunch. Though Colin Bealy was one of the nation's most highly respected geology experts, Judy had been worried at first about their intellectual compatibility. How, she wondered, could a woman who taught the art of the written word of Shakespeare and Tolstoy date a man who was fascinated by a bunch of rocks? It didn't exactly have the romantic intrigue of a gothic novel -- more like a manual on how to install a garage door opener.
But she was wrong about both Colin and geology. He was well read and closer to brilliant than very intelligent. As for geology, it was a far cry from a bunch of bearded men breaking rocks in search of an imprint from a sea shell. Geology was truly the study of the planet earth in all her natural glory, her history and her future.
Judy rewound her answering machine. The tape shrieked as it ran backward. She and Colin had been in New Hampshire for the past four days so there were quite a few messages on the machine. It had been a glorious little getaway. Finally, after all these years, had she finally found a wonderful guy to call her own?
