Play Dead (2010)

by Harlan Coben

  'Maybe you can help us clear up a couple of loose ends,' Graham said.

  'I'll certainly try.'

  'Let me begin by asking you this, Doctor. Could there have been foul play in the death of Mr David Baskin?'

  Dr Bivelli sat back in his chair. 'That's a tough question, Sheriff. I mean, I guess it's a possibility but I doubt it heavily. First of all, Mr Baskin's lungs were filled with water when we found him. That means the cause of death was drowning. He was not killed first and then dumped into the ocean. How did he drown? Well, that's anyone's guess. He was bopped around a lot out there.'

  'Bopped around a lot?' Laura asked.

  'Yes, Mrs Baskin,' Dr Bivelli replied, turning his attention toward her. 'Your husband's body was brutally thrashed around by the rough waters. It was hurled against rocks and crunched against the surf. It was splattered against jagged coral and sliced up very badly. Fish probably gnawed on it.'

  Laura's face blanched.

  'I'm sorry, Mrs Baskin,' he added quickly. 'I'm a pathologist. I never had much use for proper bedside manner.'

  Laura swallowed. 'That's okay. Please continue.'

  'What I'm trying to say is that the body was in horrible shape when we found it. Could someone have knocked him on the head and dumped his body out to sea? Very doubtful but yes.'

  'Why do you say very doubtful?' Laura asked.

  'Because most of the time that's not how it works. Sometimes a man is murdered and his body is dumped in the water to make it look like an accidental drowning. Sometimes a man is killed and a large weight is tied to his body so that it won't be found for a while. But like I said before, David Baskin drowned and rarely is a man knocked out and then left in the water in the hopes he will end up dead. It's too risky. He may survive the ordeal by being rescued by a boat or by waking up or whatever.'

  Graham nodded. 'You say Mr Baskin's body was in bad shape?'

  'Yes.'

  'Beyond recognition?'

  Dr Bivelli eyed Laura. 'Pretty close.'

  'How did you get a positive identification then?'

  Dr Bivelli coughed into a fist. 'Two ways. First, that American policeman who was a friend of his' -- he slipped on a pair of reading glasses and opened the file -- 'an Officer Terry Conroy, was able to recognize certain features. More important, his medical records were sent to me via a fax machine. The dental x-rays arrived the next day and confirmed what we already knew.' Bivelli looked down at the file again. 'According to Officer Conroy, Mr Baskin should have been wearing a 1989 NBA championship ring, but we couldn't use that to i.d. him because his right hand . . . he wore the ring on his right hand, right, Mrs Baskin?'

  She nodded. The ring. She had forgotten all about the last championship ring that had adorned David's hand. And that was the only piece of jewelry that he liked to wear -- that and the wedding band they intended to buy when they returned from their honeymoon.

  Bivelli cleared his throat again. 'Yes, well, his right hand was gone.'

  'Gone?' Laura repeated.

  Bivelli lowered his head. 'As I said, many parts of the deceased were badly damaged.'

  'I see,' Graham replied. 'Let me ask you this, Doctor. How exact was the estimated time of death?'

  'For a drowning like this, it's never more than guess-work, ' Dr Bivelli continued. 'I could have been off by as much as twelve to fifteen hours.'

  'You estimated the time of death to have been around seven p.m.,' Graham reminded him. 'Would it shock you to hear that we have an eyewitness who saw Mr Baskin at midnight?'

  'Not at all, Sheriff,' Bivelli replied casually. 'Like I said earlier, dissecting a drowning victim with a battered body is not going to produce exact, scientific results. I wish it did. My time estimate was influenced in large part by statements made by Mrs Baskin. She said her husband went for a swim at around four or five in the afternoon. It would certainly be more logical to assume that he died within a few hours of that time than after midnight.'

  Graham scratched at his beard. 'One last question and then we'll be out of your way. Why were you called in on this case? Why wasn't the local coroner used?'

  Bivelli shrugged. 'I can't say for sure, but I can make a guess.'

  'Please do.'

  'First off, Mr Baskin was a foreigner and a rather famous personality,' Bivelli began. 'When a death of that magnitude occurs, the Aussie government usually gets involved and I have done quite a bit of work for them in the past. They feel comfortable with me. Townsville is only about an hour flight from Cairns, so they probably thought I would be the better man for this particular situation.'

  'Then Officer Terry Conroy of Boston didn't contact you?'

  'No, he did not.'

  Graham rose. Laura did the same. 'Thank you, Doctor Bivelli. You've been very helpful.'

  'Anytime, Sheriff,' he replied with a firm handshake. 'And again, Mrs Baskin, please accept my most sincere condolences.'

  They headed down the hall and into the elevator. When the door slid closed and the lift started to move upward, Laura turned to Graham. 'He's lying.'

  Graham nodded. 'Like a rug.'

  Judy stared at the photograph.

  Tears welled in her eyes as she stared at the all-too-familiar images. How many years would this go on? How long would this black-and-white photograph be able to jab painfully into her heart? God, how she had loved him. She had loved him like no other man before or since. Had he ever felt the same? Judy thought the answer was yes. She remembered a time when they were both deliriously happy, a time when they were so in love that nothing else mattered . . .

  . . . until something took him away. Until something blinded him like a great flash of light.

  I killed him. My jealousy pushed that gun against his head and pulled the trigger.

  She had been so foolish, so impatient, so damn young. Why couldn't she just sit back and wait. Eventually, he would have realized his mistake and come back to her.

  Why did I do it? Why couldn't I have just let it be?

  But these were questions that had haunted her for thirty years, and still she had no answers. If only she could have it to do all over again. If only she hadn't acted so stupidly. She folded the photograph and put it back in her purse.

  'Miss Simmons?'

  She looked up. Her safety deposit box rested on the bank clerk's forearm. 'Would you like to follow me, please?' The bank clerk led Judy into a private room. 'When you're finished, just let me know.'

  'Thank you.'

  The bank clerk smiled and left. Judy turned toward her box. Her hand reached down and pulled back the top. The first thing she saw were some old treasury bonds her parents had left her. Her father had died suddenly years ago when he was only fifty-seven; her mother had passed away just last year. She missed them both terribly. So few people in this world love you unconditionally.

  She thumbed past her birth certificate, the old warranties, the useless financial statements. Then she spotted it. Her fingers reached down, gripped the leather cover and pulled. The small booklet came out. With shaking hands, Judy placed it on the table in front of her. She read the fading cover: Diary 1960.

  Since 1955, Judy had kept yearly diaries. All the events of her seemingly average life were kept safely tucked away on these blue-lined pages. And for the most part, average the words were -- gibberish about the loss of her virginity, her first time experimenting with marijuana, her secret fantasies. In a phrase, her yearly journals contained nothing beyond the standard diary drivel.

  But not 1960.

  Judy kept all her diaries stacked neatly in a closet at home; all, that is, except for the one she now held in her hand. 1960 -- the one year she wished she could pull out of her life as she had pulled its diary away from the others. She had never mentioned anything about 1960 in her subsequent diaries. As far as her other writings were concerned, 1960 never existed. She had tried to keep the whole horrible incident locked in this one journal in some bizarre attempt to keep the rest of her life uncontaminated by that ye
ar.

  It had not worked.

  1960 had spread. It had poisoned them all. It occasionally disappeared from view for as much as a decade or two, but it was still there, always there, always waiting to rear its ugly head when they least expected it to.

  Judy slowly flipped open the diary. She skimmed through the writings of January and February. Her teary eyes gazed upon the handwriting of the college-age Judy -- so blithe and carefree with large, elaborate lettering that flowed smoothly from one end of the page to the other. Hard to believe the same person who was reading this diary had also written it: March 18, 1960

  I've never been so happy, never knew such happiness existed. Losing James has ended up being a blessing in disguise. Mary and James are happy and now I'm ecstatic! Could life be better? I doubt it. I am so filled with feelings of love ...

  Judy shook her head and turned the page. She barely recognized the author anymore -- just a faint feeling of deja vu for a friend now long dead. Who was this love-struck girl who had written such corny, cliched nonsense? If one of Judy's students had ever handed in trash like this, Judy would have written a giant 'See Me' on the top of the first page. But, alas, love was like that. By its definition, love called for corny cliches.

  April 3, 1960

  We're going to visit my family today. I don't expect them to be thrilled for me. I doubt they'll understand. But how can they deny the glow in my face? How can they be upset when they see how happy we are? They will have to accept us ...

  She smiled slightly. Reading the words, Judy once again felt the hope that had coursed through her young body so many years ago. How terrific life had been on that April morning. How beautiful the whole world had seemed. Even now, Judy could still feel that tingle of excitement in her stomach. Everything was going to work out. Everything was going to be perfect, just like it was supposed to be.

  Her smile vanished. How naive she had been. How fragile and elusive the few moments of joy had proved to be. But on that wonderful April day, who could have blamed such a happy, trusting girl for being blind to the cruelty that awaited her?

  May 29, 1960

  Help me. God, what have I done? The whole situation has become too much for me to handle. It's completely out of control now. It's taking on a life all of its own, and I don't know where it will lead. I fear the worst, but what else could possibly happen ...

  What else, indeed. Judy turned away from the diary. She did not read anymore. May 30th was next. Her body felt cold. She could not bear to look at the words she had written on that day, could not bear to even think about that day.

  May 30, 1960.

  Her eyes closed in pain. Enough, already. Why was she tormenting herself like this? Why, when her relationship with Colin was bringing her true happiness for the first time in thirty years, had she come here in the first place? She should just let the past be; but, of course, that was not what the past wanted. It cried out, demanding that its secrets be set free. And one day, the past would have its way. One day, Judy would be dead and this safety deposit box would at last be opened. Its secrets would be let loose into the sunshine of truth where, hopefully, they will wither and die. One day, this small booklet written by a hopeful, guileless young woman will let Laura know why her precious David had to leave her forever. And one day, Laura will learn what happened on May 29 and . . .

  May 30, 1960.

  Judy put the book back in the bottom of the box, closed it, and called for the clerk to take it back. She stood there and watched the clerk walk away with her most secret possession, not knowing that she would never see it again.

  Chapter 19

  Twenty-four hours had passed since Laura had kissed Graham's cheek, made him promise to call her as soon as he learned something, bade him goodbye, and boarded the Qantas Airways flight in Cairns. Now the Pan Am jet that had originated at LAX landed with a thud. Laura stared out the window, watching the blurry mass focus into Boston's Logan airport as the 747 coasted to a slower speed. She was exhausted, but Laura had not slept. Whenever she closed her eyes and tried, the same question kept nudging her awake.

  What happened to David?

  Laura still did not know. Her visit to Australia had given rise to more questions than it answered. Maybe some of these uncertainties would be resolved when they finally located the guest list or the phone bills from the Pacific International, but then what would she do? What was she searching for anyway? David was dead. What was the point in going through all of this?

  She went through customs, found a taxi, and settled into the backseat. Her mind was still in Australia, still trying to figure out what David's last few hours had been like. Nothing made sense anymore. If someone had been after David's money, why had the bastards killed him? Why didn't they just hold him for ransom? Laura would have given them all the money they wanted and not said a word to anyone. But no, they chose to go through this elaborate scheme and kill David when the alternatives would have been much more profitable.

  Why go to all that trouble? Unless . . .

  Unless David wasn't killed for the money.

  Laura sat up. Could that be? But why else would someone want to get rid of David? If his money was not the motive, what was? Laura's mind clawed around for the answer, but nothing came to her. Sure, there were people whom David had alienated. But enough to kill him? Not likely. How about someone who wanted him out of basketball? How about some big-time bookie who had bet against the Celtics once too often and thought David had double-crossed him? Highly unlikely. Besides, this was hardly the mob's style. If the mob had wanted David dead, they just would have sent some guy with a bent nose and a stiletto to do the job. There would have been no need for all this fancy cover-up.

  The taxi reached the heart of the city, passing all the familiar landmarks Laura thought of as old friends. Had David really been murdered? When Laura mentally stepped back and viewed the evidence unbiased, she could see that most of it was circumstantial at best. So David visited someone in a hotel and made a few phone calls back home -- big deal. It was a long stretch from those flimsy facts to concrete proof of a murder.

  Laura glanced out the window. Reaching deeper into her mind, Laura wondered what she was really trying to find in all of this. Suppose David had been murdered. What would she do then? Would she hunt down the killers, demanding their blood like some character in a Charles Bronson film? Was she seeking vengeance, or was she just using this 'investigation' as an excuse to keep reality at bay for a little while?

  Revenge had never been her game in the past. Laura's mind traveled back to Gloria's terrifying phone call from California last year. The two sisters spoke about nothing in particular, just catching up on what was going on in one another's lives. When Gloria finally said goodbye, Laura felt baseless panic. It was nothing her sister had said, nothing in the words they exchanged and yet the conversation kept gnawing at Laura. Something was wrong -- not just the routine problems of life but seriously wrong. Deadly wrong. She decided to charter a plane and fly out to see her sister.

  'Charter a plane?' David had said. 'Why the rush?'

  'I can't explain it, David. You should have heard her voice. So lifeless. Like I was talking to someone who knew they were reaching the end.'

  T.C. met them in the airport. They flew out to San Francisco and stormed in on a group of men gang-raping Gloria. After chasing the Colombians out of the house, David wanted to beat the shit out of Gloria's scuzzy boyfriend Tony and leave him for near-dead. T.C. concurred. But even though Tony had inflicted unimaginable horror onto her sister, Laura felt no need to strike back. She only wanted to save her sister. Revenge did not interest her.

  So why the change now? Why was she all of sudden demanding her pound of flesh? She had no answer to that query. Maybe it was because David would have done the same if Laura had been the one killed. He had always fought those who harmed his loved ones with an intensity that sometimes frightened Laura. But maybe her motives were much simpler. Maybe she hoped this created conspiracy wo
uld distract her from the base issue: David's death. Be it murder or accident, David was dead. Nothing could change that simple fact. David was dead. Laura could say those three words easily enough, could think them, but they never truly sank in.

  'Here we are, ma'am.'

  Laura grabbed her suitcase from the trunk and paid the driver. A gust of cold wind ripped through her skin until it struck bone. By the time she reached the apartment door, the key was already in her hand. She put down her suitcase, opened the door, felt around for the light switch, found it, and flicked it up.

  Nothing happened.

  Laura moved the switch up and down a few times, but the light still did not come on. Strange. Maybe it was just a burned-out bulb. She shook her head. No way. This particular switch turned on the overhead light and two lamps. Slim chance all those bulbs blew out at the same time. It was more likely a blown fuse or a loose wire. With a sigh, she dragged her suitcase into the dark apartment. There was no light at all except for the light from the hallway and --

  -- and the glow of light peeking out from under the bedroom door.

  Laura's body went rigid. Sounds. Sounds were coming from behind the bedroom door.

  Get out, Laura. Call the police.

  But she did not do that. Instead, she felt her foot step forward. A strange thought propelled her toward the bedroom: whoever was behind the door had something to do with David's death. Behind that door could lurk what she had been seeking in Australia. If she ran away and called the police, the clue may have time to elude her and slip away forever. Now it was trapped in the bedroom. There was no way for it to escape without being seen.

  She moved silently now, creeping slowly toward the door. The sounds became louder. Voices. Voices and a sound she couldn't quite place. The crack of light under the bedroom door flickered a few times but remained on. She slunk against the wall, sliding one foot forward at a time until she reached the door.

  Laura held her breath. She could feel her heart beat wildly in her chest. She leaned her ear against the door. Voices. Unmistakable now. But what were they saying? And what the hell was she going to do now? Rush in like some kind of a superhero? Who did she think she was? Wonder Woman? What would she do -The voices. Two of them. She looked down and saw the light sneaking under the door reflect against her foot. And then she heard that other noise again. Softly now. So like --