Harlan Coben - Play Dead

‘But to threaten his kids…’

‘Time was short. It was all I could think of. And even threatening his family wasn’t enough.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Corsel already told Laura that Baskin called the bank hours after the drowning supposedly took place. Now there is no way Laura will quit searching until she finds a satisfactory way to explain that.’

Mark turned away from T.C. and looked out a window. ‘There’s something else I don’t understand, T.C.’

‘What?’

‘How come Laura hasn’t come to you for help in all this?’

T.C. shrugged. ‘I don’t know. That’s another part of our plan that has gone astray. I’m not sure she completely trusts me anymore.’

‘But she can’t suspect you have anything to do with the drown – ’

‘Maybe she does,’ T.C. interrupted. ‘Maybe she does.’

Richard Corsel sat in his office. He stared at the two pens jutting up from the marble holder on his desk. He had been doing that for most of the day. Try as he might, concentration would not come to him for even the briefest of moments.

Lack of sleep, he thought. The previous night had seemed endless. He wandered through his house, went downstairs and finished off the Shop-Rite All Natural Vanilla Ice Cream, reread the newspaper. He walked back up the stairs and quietly opened the twins’ door. Roger and Peter were both asleep, their breathing steady and deep. Richard tiptoed over to Peter’s bed. Peter still had his Red Sox cap on his head. Richard had bought the twins Red Sox caps when they went to Fenway Park last month to watch the Sox play the Detroit Tigers. What a day that had been. Peter almost caught a fly ball; Roger had eaten so many hot dogs he came home with a stomach ache. Corsel smiled at his sleeping children. He gently took the hat off of Peter’s sleeping head and laid it on the night table, next to the Garfield the Cat lamp.

He took a Sominex, counted sheep, even read boring bank newsletters. Nothing worked.

‘Mr Corsel?’ his intercom shrieked.

‘Yes, Eleanor.’

‘There’s a call for you on line four.’

‘I’m not taking any calls.’

‘It’s a Mr Phillipe Gaillaird from the Bank of Geneva. He said it’s urgent.’

‘Tell him I’m not here.’

‘But – ’

‘Just tell him I’ll call him back,’ he said firmly.

There was a moment of silence. ‘Yes, Mr Corsel.’

Richard leaned forward and lowered his face into his hands. He stood and crossed the room. He moved down the hallway and into the executive lavatory. The door swung onto an empty and silent bathroom. He walked over to the mirror and splashed cold water onto his face.

Richard realized that he would have to call Phillipe back. If not, Phillipe would keep calling the bank and that was no good. The psycho with the knife would not like that. No, Richard would have to reach Phillipe and tell him to forget the whole thing, to forget about tracing the Baskin account. The question was how. The psycho with the knife was clearly a pro with powerful connections. If he had learned all those things about Richard’s family and his conversation with Laura Baskin, he might also have placed a bug on Richard’s phone. The psycho might even have someone tailing him. And if the psycho gets the wrong idea and thinks that Richard is still trying to trace David Baskin’s account…

He let the thought hang in the air.

Richard had considered the possibility of calling the police or going to his superiors, but what could he say? His superiors would want to know why he had passed confidential information on to Laura in the first place; the police would be powerless in protecting his family from the well-connected psychopath who knew all about Naomi’s new job and about Roger and Peter’s school. But Richard also knew that as long as that guy was out there, the danger to his family would continue to exist. And what about Laura Baskin? Could he just turn his back on her without even giving her a hint about what kind of people she was up against? True, he had only met her twice, but he was convinced she would not give up easily on all this. Laura Baskin would push and push until…

He decided to let that thought hang in the air too.

What the hell should he do?

He went back to his office, grabbed his briefcase and went up to one of the bank clerks. He handed the young girl a twenty-dollar bill.

‘I need change. All quarters.’

‘All quarters?’ the clerk repeated. ‘Why?’

‘I’m taking a long drive on a toll-infested road,’ he said wearily. ‘Just let me have them, please.’

With a shrug, the clerk counted out the quarters. ‘There you go. Eighty quarters.’

He put them in his briefcase and headed outside. He grabbed a taxi, took a subway, changed trains and lines three times, and ended up near the Bunker Hill Monument. He found a telephone booth. No way he could have been followed and no way the call could be traced – not when you used quarters from a telephone booth.

He placed the first group of quarters in the slot. Then he dialed Phillipe Gaillaird’s private line at the Bank of Geneva in Switzerland.

‘Gaillaird,’ Phillipe answered.

‘Phillipe? It’s Richard.’

‘How are you, my friend?’ the accented voice asked. Gaillaird had been born in Paris but had lived in Geneva since he was seven. Two years ago, Phillipe Gaillaird had made a mistake transferring funds to the wrong bank in the United States. A big, multi-million-dollar mistake. The kind of mistake that could ruin a Swiss bank. Richard had traced the money down and gotten it back for him. Phillipe Gaillaird owed Richard Corsel for that favor and he was anxious to repay. Gaillaird did not fancy being in someone’s debt. ‘I tried to reach you earlier.’

‘I got the message.’

‘Where are you calling from, Richard? The connection is very poor.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘Usually your bank lines are so clear.’

‘I’m not calling from the bank.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, I have some information for you.’

Richard closed his eyes. ‘Just forget it, Phillipe.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Forget I ever asked you about that account. I don’t need to know anymore.’

‘Are you sure, Richard?’ Gaillaird asked. ‘I have the name right here.’

‘Positive.’

Phillipe paused. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing. Just leave it alone.’

The Swiss banker’s voice grew serious. ‘You’re calling from a pay phone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Listen, Richard, I’ve been working for Swiss banks all my life. I don’t know what’s going on over there, but I have my suspicions. Someone has got to you. That’s okay. Don’t confirm or deny it. It’s none of my business and I don’t want to know. But let me give you a piece of advice. You’re at a phone booth. No one is going to know what is being said. You might as well find out who has the money from the Baskin account. If you never use the information, no one will be the wiser. If the tables turn, knowing the truth may save your hide.’

Richard’s hand gripped the receiver tightly. His eyes darted madly. What Phillipe said made sense. ‘Okay. Give me the name. But after this call, I don’t think we should talk again.’

‘I understand,’ Phillipe said.

Laura handed the Australian official her quarantine form, located her luggage, and made her way through customs. She started to drag her suitcase toward the taxi stand when a large hand reached out and picked it up.

‘Sheriff Rowe,’ Laura exclaimed, ‘this is a pleasant surprise.’

Graham smiled through his beard. He lifted the suitcase as if it were a candy bar. ‘You called me, didn’t ya?’

‘Yes of course, but I didn’t expect you to pick me up.’