Harlan Coben - Play Dead

‘Listen, Laura, I think it might be best if I speak to the sheriff alone.’

‘Why?’

‘Look at this place,’ he said. ‘It looks like something out of Bonanza, for chrissake. I doubt the sheriff here is much of a progressive thinker. Out here, women’s lib is probably a concept for the distant future. He may be more willing to talk if I speak to him alone, cop-to-cop sort of thing.’

‘But – ’

‘I’ll let you know the moment I learn anything.’

She hesitated. ‘If you think it’s best…’

‘I do. Just wait out here, okay?’

She nodded mechanically, her eyes wet and glassy. T.C. got out of the car and walked down the path. His head was down, his eyes finding the weeds popping through the cracks in the worn cement. He raised his line of vision and stared at the building. It was old, the paint chipped, the structure looking as if a good push would topple it over. T.C. wondered if it was age or the climate of the tropics that made the wood look so weathered. Probably both.

The front door was open. T.C. leaned his head through the frame.

‘May I come in?’ he asked.

The Australian accent was the first he had heard since landing. ‘You Inspector Conroy?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Graham Rowe,’ the man said, standing. ‘I’m sheriff of this town.’

While his words were those of a sheriff in a cheap Western, his accent and size were not. Graham Rowe was huge, a mountain of a man who looked like Grizzly Adams or some professional wrestler. A gray-blonde beard captured his entire face, his hazel eyes serious and piercing. His green uniform with shorts made him resemble an overgrown Boy Scout, but T.C. wasn’t suicidal so he kept that thought to himself. A bushwhacker hat with its right side tilted up rested on his head. A rather large gun and an equally large knife adorned his belt. His skin was leathery and lined but not aged. T.C. guessed him to be in his mid-forties.

‘Call me Graham,’ he said, extending a giant hand/ paw. T.C. shook it. It was like shaking hands with a catcher’s mitt.

‘They call me T.C.’

‘You must be tired after that long flight, T.C.’

‘I slept on the plane,’ he said. ‘What can you tell me about your investigation?’

‘Kind of anxious, huh?’

‘He’s my best friend.’

Graham moved back behind his desk and beckoned T.C. to take a seat. The room was bare except for a twirling fan and the many rifles hung on the walls. A small holding cell was in the left-hand corner.

‘Not much really,’ the sheriff began. ‘David Baskin left a note for his wife saying he was going swimming, and he hasn’t been seen since. I questioned the lifeguard at the hotel. He remembers seeing Baskin shooting baskets by himself at around three in the afternoon. Two hours later, he saw Baskin walking up the beach heading north.’

‘Then David didn’t go for a swim?’

Graham shrugged. ‘He might have. There are swimming areas all over the place but there’s no supervision where he was walking and the current is mighty powerful.’

‘David’s a great swimmer.’

‘So his missus tells me, but I’ve lived here all my life and I can tell you when one of those damn currents wants to drag you down, there’s not much a man can do but drown.’

‘Have you begun a search for the body?’

Graham nodded his head. ‘Sure have, but not a trace of the lad so far.’

‘If he had drowned, should the body have shown up by now?’

‘Normally, yes, but mate, this is northern Australia. More things could happen to a man in that ocean than on your subways. He could have washed up on one of the small unmanned islands or gotten snared on jagged coral in the Barrier Reef or been eaten by Lord-knows-what. Any one of a million things could have happened to him.’

‘What’s your theory, Graham?’

The large Aussie stood and crossed the room. ‘Coffee?’ ‘No, thanks.’

‘In this heat, I don’t blame you. How about a Coke?’

‘Sounds good.’

Graham reached into a small refrigerator behind his desk and took out two bottles, handing one to T.C.

‘You say you’re mates with this Baskin, right?’

‘For many years.’

‘Do you think you can be objective?’

‘I think so.’

The sheriff sat back down with a long sigh. ‘T.C., I’m just a sheriff of a small, friendly community. That’s the way I like it. Nice, quiet, peaceful. You know what I mean?’

T.C. nodded.

‘I’m not looking to be a big hero. I don’t want no glory and I don’t like complicated cases like you mates in Boston handle. You know what I’m saying?’

‘Sure.’

‘Now, being a simple man, let me tell you how I see it. I don’t think Baskin drowned.’

‘You don’t?’

Graham shook his head. ‘I may have made a nice speech about all the possibilities for a corpse in the Pacific but the truth is almost always much simpler. If he had drowned, his body should have been here by now. Not one hundred percent of the time, mind you, but almost.’

‘What then?’

The large man took a swig of Coke. ‘Could he have developed a classic case of cold feet? It wouldn’t be the first time a mate has run away on his honeymoon. Almost did it myself once.’

T.C.’ s answer was a grin. ‘Have you taken a good look at his wife?’

Graham whistled his appreciation. ‘Never seen anything like that in my life, mate. My eyes almost popped out of the sockets.’ He took another sip of his Coke, lowered the bottle, wiped his mouth with a forearm the size of an oak tree. ‘I guess we can assume he’s not on the run. But let me ask you something else, T.C. I’ve been doing some research on this Baskin – part of the job, you know – and he seems to be quite the joker. Any chance he’s just out for a last kick or something?’

‘And worry her like this? It wouldn’t be like him, Graham.’

‘Well, I’ve radioed all the nearby towns and the coast guard. None of them wants a lot of press around either so they’ll keep mum. Other than that, I’m not sure there’s much we can do.’

‘I’d like to ask a favor, Graham.’

‘Name it.’

‘I know I’m out of my jurisdiction, but I’d like to help out with the investigation if I can. David Baskin is my best friend and I know him better – ’

‘Whoa, whoa, slow down there,’ Graham interrupted. The sheriff stood. His gaze traveled north to south, from T.C.’ s face to his scuffed-up Thom McCann loafers. He took out a handkerchief and dabbed the sweat on his forehead. ‘I’m undermanned as it is,’ he continued slowly, ‘and I guess it wouldn’t hurt any to deputize you for this case.’ He pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to T.C. ‘Here’s a list of places I want you to call. Report back to me if you hear anything.’

‘Thanks. I really appreciate this.’

‘No worries. But let me ask you one last question: is there anything wrong with Baskin?’

T.C. felt his pulse begin to pound in his throat. Memories flashed across his brain. ‘Wrong?’

‘Yeah, you know, does he have any injuries, a bad heart or something?’

‘Not that I know of,’ T.C. lied.

‘And who would know better?’ Graham grinned. ‘After all, you’re his best mate.’

T.C.’ s eyes met the big sheriff’s for a brief moment. They revealed nothing.

Laura and T.C. remained silent during the short ride back to the hotel. T.C. checked in, left his bags at the front desk, and followed Laura to the honeymoon suite.

‘So what do we do now, T.C.?’

He drew in a deep breath. He scratched his head, his fingertips wading through the thinness of the strands as they made their way to his scalp. No gray hairs yet, he thought, though he hoped his hair would last long enough to develop some. He doubted it. The light brown strands were quickly losing ground, his forehead taking over his scalp like Sherman through Atlanta.