Harlan Coben - Play Dead

Her mother.

‘Mary,’ Diana said suddenly. ‘Her name was Mary.’ Laura felt drained, helpless, like a shaken prize fighter who was not sure where the next punch was coming from.

‘And one other thing,’ Diana added.

‘Yes?’ Laura managed.

‘That woman was the last person to leave Sinclair’s office before his suicide.’

Graham knew he would have to make the call. There was no real reason to put it off. Besides, he had no idea what had happened in room 607 when David went up there. Baskin may have just been on the receiving end of a chewing-out from his mother-in-law. Wouldn’t be the first time a mother-in-law butted in to where she didn’t belong. Graham’s, for example, was a full-time nag. She probably wouldn’t fly across the Pacific just to nag him, but Graham wouldn’t put it past her either.

He picked up the phone and dialed Laura’s number. Graham was a pure procrastinator, been that way since he was a kid. He liked to put things off, especially delivering bad news. He wasn’t lazy, mind you, and yes he knew he would have to do it eventually, but if he put it off, maybe it would just disappear altogether or the world would blow up or reality would change. That was why Graham felt relieved when he heard the answering machine pick up.

He left a message asking Laura to call him and then took another swig of whiskey.

Richard Corsel loved to watch ice hockey. Players would gently glide across a floor of glacial grandeur, lost in the bliss of free-skating, only to be on the receiving end of a bone-crunching wallop from some gargoyle with more facial scars than Michael Jackson in bright sunlight.

What a game.

Naomi was not so crazy about the sport, nor was she particularly happy about the way the twins had taken to their father’s passion. ‘You might as well have gotten them into professional wrestling,’ she had scolded him.

‘Come on, honey, it’s not that bad.’

‘I don’t want my boys playing hockey, do you hear me?’

But Richard was not worried. After all, he had never played ice hockey. In fact he didn’t even know how to ice-skate. But the game was the perfect spectator sport. Richard became so involved in the banging and hitting and, yes, the artistry of the battle that thoughts of the bank and the bills and his own mortgage disappeared.

TV 38 was his station. They carried the Boston Bruins games, though that expensive cable station was starting to eat up a lot of the hockey schedule. He would probably have to break down and order SportsChannel soon, but he hated the idea of paying to watch hockey on television. There was something blasphemous about it.

So Richard turned on the television and settled back in his old recliner. Roger and Peter were on the carpet in front of him, alternating between watching the game and imitating the action. The Bruins were leading the Oilers by a score of 7-5. It should have been a moment of pure diversion for Richard, a moment when his mind was completely at ease. Instead he was plagued by a small blurb he had read in the newspaper. He tried to clear his mind, tried to think of his wife and children.

His thoughts came drifting back to Laura – Laura and that fire at Colgate College.

Of course there was no evidence in the newspaper that the fire had anything to do with the missing money. There was nothing in the article to suggest that the psychopath who placed a knife against Richard’s throat had decided to torch Laura and her aunt. None whatsoever. The article merely stated that the fire was being ‘investigated’. That was hardly reason to start jumping to conclusions and pointing fingers.

‘Goal!’ the announcer yelled.

‘Goal!’ Peter and Roger mimicked in unison.

The Bruins had increased their lead to 8-5. Pete and Rog stood up and celebrated. ‘Wasn’t that an incredible shot, Dad?’

‘Great shot, Pete.’

‘Are you going to take us to a game again this year? How about when they play the Rangers?’

‘I’ll try my best.’

The children went back to their hooting and howling while Richard’s mind remained anchored to Laura Baskin. Suppose for a second that the fire was not an accident. Suppose it was connected with David Baskin’s missing money. The voice of Laura’s father, who had visited him yesterday, floated across his mind:

‘I suspect that there might be something more to this money transfer than meets the eye. There could be something else at stake here, something very dangerous, something that could hurt my daughter.’

He wished he could just turn his back on the whole thing, but that was no longer an option his conscience would allow. Why had he let Phillipe Gaillaird at the Bank of Geneva tell him who had the money? And why had he listened to him?

Curiosity not only killed the cat, Richie, it kept him awake nights.

If Richard had never heard the damn name, then he would be free to sleep, eat and even watch the Bruins with a clear conscience. Now a decision had to be made. Should he keep his mouth quiet? Or should he tell Laura the name? When Phillipe first told Richard who had the money, the name meant nothing to him. A few weeks later, that changed. Boy, did that change. Now he knew the name too well. It had become a household word in Boston. And frankly, the whole situation had become more than just dangerous. It had become downright eerie.

Richard felt a frosty breeze slide through the room, as if it were he who was standing on the ice rather than the hockey players. What to do? What the hell to do? Should he keep his mouth shut, or should he tell Laura the shocking truth, a truth even Richard had trouble believing? Should he just mind his own business, or should he tell her that the man who had stolen David’s money had also stolen his position, his scoring average and his nickname, that the man who had stolen David’s money was none other than the Celtics’ newest scoring sensation?

Mark Seidman.

Serita steered Laura into the elevator. Neither spoke. For that matter, Laura had barely opened her mouth since Serita picked her up at the airport. Serita had seen Laura in every kind of mood – joyous, sad, wacky, conservative, serious, goofy, love-struck, angry – but never had she seen her friend like this. Laura’s pupils were dilated, her eyes glassy and dull. She stared out dumbstruck at a world that had suddenly decided to ravage her mind, only asking one question the whole ride home:

‘Has Estelle called you?’

‘Your secretary?’ Serita had replied. ‘Why would she call me?’

‘Before Judy died,’ Laura explained with no emotion in her voice, ‘she handed me that photograph I showed you and four keys. I know what three of them open. Estelle is up at Colgate right now trying to learn something about the fourth. I told her to call you if she hears anything.’

‘Sorry. She didn’t call.’

For the remainder of the ride, the only sound came from the car radio.

The elevator stopped at the eighteenth floor, depositing its two beautiful passengers in the corridor. Serita took Laura’s key and guided her into the darkened apartment. The only illumination came from a small flashing red light indicating that a message had been left on Laura’s answering machine. Serita flicked on a light switch while Laura collapsed onto the couch.

‘Are you feeling okay?’ Serita asked. ‘You sure you don’t want to go to a hospital?’

‘I feel fine.’

‘Yeah, I can see that. You grimaced the whole ride home. Every time I hit a bump I thought you were going to scream.’

‘Never felt better.’

‘Uh, huh. So do you want to stop bullshitting me and tell me what happened in Chicago?’

‘It’s too fantastic. You won’t believe it.’

‘I’m all ears. What did you learn? Did your aunt and David’s father have the hots for one another?’