Authors: Harlan Coben
Tags: #Fiction, #Suspense, #Mystery Fiction, #Thrillers, #Boston (Mass.), #Murder, #Missing Persons, #Widows, #Impostors and Imposture, #Basketball Players, #Models (Persons), #Boston Celtics (Basketball Team), #26NEWBIE
Play Dead (3 page)
Laura did not do many location shootings in those days - just the one in Australia and two on the French Riviera - because unlike many of her colleagues, she did not leave school. It was no simple task but she managed to finish high school and graduate from Tufts University four years later. Once Laura received her degree, she was ready to take on the fashion and cosmetics industries. The industries, however, were ill prepared for her onslaught. June 1983 marked her last cover appearance on a women's magazine as Laura retired from modeling at the ripe old age of twenty-three. She invested her substantial earnings to develop her own concept, Svengali, a company for the woman-on-the-move, blending practical, intelligent and sophisticated looks with the feminine and sensual.
The slogan: Be your own Svengali.
To say the concept caught on would be the fashion understatement of the eighties. At first, critics scoffed at the model-playing-business-tycoon's success, claiming it was just another in a series of fads that would disappear in a matter of months. Two years after promoting women's clothes and cosmetics, Laura expanded into casual shoes and fragrances. By the time she was twenty-six, Svengali had gone public with Laura the majority stockholder and Chief Executive Officer of a multi-million-dollar conglomerate.
The taxi made a sharp right turn. 'Peterson's office on the Esplanade, right, missy?'
Laura chuckled. 'Missy?'
'It's just an expression,' the cabbie explained. 'No offense meant.'
'None taken. Yes, they're on the Esplanade.'
Copycat corporations began to crop up like so many weeds beside her thriving flower. They were all vying for a slice of the profitable Svengali business, all searching for the secret of Laura's success. But like so many other bothersome weeds, they were pulled out of the corporate world before they could truly take root. Laura's close administrators knew the secret that competitors sought, the aspect that made Svengali unique: Laura. Her hard work, determination, brains, style and even warmth steered every phase of the organization. Corny, yes, but also true. The woman was the company.
Everything had gone according to plan -- until she met David Baskin.
The taxi slowed to a stop. 'We're here, luv.'
The Pacific International Hotel in Cairns was not far from the Peterson office. It was near the center of town and across the street from the Marlin Jetty where most of the sightseeing and diving boats set sail. The hotel was a popular vacation spot, ideal for those who wanted the tropics of Australia but did not crave absolute seclusion.
But the occupant of room 607 was not here to vacation.
The occupant looked out the window but did not notice or care about the breathtaking beauty. There were more important things to worry about. Awful things. Things that had to be taken care of no matter how tragic the consequence. Things so horrible that even the occupant of room 607 had no idea of their full scope.
And they had to be taken care of now.
The occupant turned away from the breathtaking view that past visitors had gazed upon for countless hours and walked toward the phone. There had been very little time to plan. Now, as the occupant lifted the receiver, there was a moment to wonder if there was another option left open.
No. There was no other option.
The occupant lifted the phone and dialed.
'Reef Resort. Can I help you?'
The occupant swallowed away the terror. 'David Baskin please.'
The meeting droned on steadily. The first two hours had moved smoothly enough and the deal was nearly set. But now they were getting down to details and, as usual, a few snags tangled up the works. Laura eyed her watch and realized she was going to be back later than she originally anticipated. She asked if she could use a phone, excused herself and dialed the hotel. When there was no answer in their room, she asked to be transferred to the front desk. The same receptionist was on duty.
'Your husband went out a few minutes ago,' he informed her. 'He left a note for me to give you.'
'Could you read it to me?'
'Of course. Would you hold on a second?'
She heard the phone being dropped heavily to the wooden desk and then the sounds of somebody stumbling around echoed into the receiver. 'Here it is.' Paper was unfolded. Hesitation. 'It's . . . it's rather personal, Mrs Baskin.'
'That's okay.'
'You still want me to read it?'
'You already have,' Laura replied.
'True enough.' He paused and then, reluctantly, he read David's words. 'Stepped out for moment. Should be right back.' The receptionist cleared his throat before continuing. 'Black garter belt and stockings are on bed. Put them on and wait for me . . . my, uh, my little sex kitten.'
Laura stifled a laugh. 'Thank you very much. Would you mind giving my husband a message when he gets back?'
'I'd rather not, ma'am. He's rather large, you know.'
This time she did laugh. 'No, nothing like that. Just tell him I'll be back a little later than originally planned.'
His voice was relieved. 'I can do that,' he said. 'Yeah, sure, no worries.'
Laura replaced the receiver, took a deep breath, and returned to the negotiating table.
Two hours later, the deal was set. The few minor obstacles had been removed and soon, department stores throughout Australia and New Zealand would be inundated with Svengali products, maybe even before the Christmas season. Laura sat back in the taxi's plush cushion and smiled.
So much for business.
By the time the taxi dropped her in front of the hotel, night was beginning to settle in, snatching the spare rays of the sun that still lighted Palm's Cove. But Laura was not tired. Business rejuvenated her -- business and the thought that David was only a few feet from where she now stood, waiting for her . . .
'Mrs Baskin?'
It was the receptionist. She walked toward the desk with a bright smile.
'Another note from your husband.'
'Would you like to read this one to me too?' she asked. He laughed and handed her an envelope. 'I think you can handle this one all by yourself, thanks anyway.'
'Thank you.' She opened the sealed envelope and read.
LAURA, BE BACK SOON. WENT FOR A SWIM IN THE OCEAN. I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER. ALWAYS REMEMBER THAT.
Puzzled, Laura folded the note and went to the room.
The black stockings were on the bed.
Laura slid them over her ankles and then slowly rolled them up her slender legs. She unbuttoned her blouse and removed it. Her hands reached behind her back and unclasped her lace brassiere. It fell forward and slipped down her arms.
She strapped on the garter belt and attached the stockings. She stood and looked in the mirror. Then she did what few people who beheld such a magnificent sight would do.
She laughed.
That man has made me completely loony, she thought with a shake of her head, remembering what a different person she had been before David entered her life two years ago. Thinking back, Laura recalled that she and David did not hit it off right away -- to be more precise, their first meeting had been about as romantic as a two-car accident.
They had met on a humid Boston night in July of 1986 at a gala black-tie party for the Boston Pops. The place was packed. Everyone who was anyone in Boston society was there.
Laura hated such events. She especially hated the reason she attended them (she felt she had to) and she hated the phony smiles and the phony lines everyone handed out. Even worse were the men who showed up for such functions -- cocky, persistent and overbearing neo-playboys with egos that were nearly as vast as their insecurities. She had been hit on so many times at these things she felt like a stubborn nail jutting out of a piece of plywood. Over the years, her manner of dealing with such approaches began to border on the rude. But at times, only a cutting phrase could slow down a charging bull.
Laura had built a wall around herself -- more like a fortress with a shark-infested moat. She also knew that she was developing a reputation of being a 'cold bitch,' a woman who 'knew she was hot and thought her shit didn't stink.' This reputation was well-known and also, in her mind, untrue. But Laura did little to discourage it since it helped keep some of the animals at bay.
At this particular party, she had been standing a few yards away from the buffet table, watching with disbelief as the well-dressed patrons attacked the food like the poor in Bangladesh. That was when she turned away and bumped into David.
'Excuse me,' she said without looking at the man.
'Grim sight,' David replied, motioning toward the ravenous savages at the buffet table. 'Welcome to Day of the Locust.'
She nodded and began to walk away.
'Wait a minute,' David called after. 'I don't mean to sound like a groupie but aren't you Laura Ayars?'
'Yes, I am.'
'Allow me to introduce myself. My name is David Baskin.'
'The basketball player?'
'The same. Are you a basketball fan, Miss Ayars?'
'Not in the least bit, but it would be impossible to live in Boston and not hear your name mentioned.'
'I blush in modesty.'
'I'm sure you do. If you'll excuse me . . .'
'The brush-off already? Before you go, Miss Ayars, may I just say that you look enchanting this evening.'
Her voice was tainted with sarcasm. 'Original line, Mr Baskin.'
'David,' he replied calmly. 'And for the record, I'm not handing out lines.' He paused. 'May I ask why you don't like basketball?'
Typical jock, Laura thought. He thinks that the planet Earth could not possibly spin without grown men grunting and sweating while running back and forth in a meaningless wave. This guy shouldn't take long to get rid of. He's probably not used to carrying on a conversation that involves complete sentences.
'It's inconceivable, isn't it?' she began. 'I mean, it must be impossible for you to imagine a thinking person who doesn't enjoy watching illiterate men whose brain capacity is in adverse proportion to their height try to jam a spherical object through a metallic circle.'
His expression did not change. 'Aren't we a little cranky today?' he replied. 'And all those big words. Very impressive. Have you ever been to the Boston Garden to watch the Celtics?'
Laura shook her head in mock self-pity. 'I guess I haven't really lived yet.' She looked at her watch but did not even see the time. 'My, my, time does fly. I have enjoyed this little chat, but I really must be go -- '
'We don't have to talk about basketball, you know.'
The sarcasm was still there. 'We don't?'
His smile remained unfazed. 'No, we don't. Believe it or not, I'm capable of discussing matters of greater substance: economics, politics, peace in the Middle East -- you name it.' He snapped his fingers and his smile grew. 'I have an idea. Why don't we talk about something really intellectual -- like modeling! But no. I mean, it would be impossible for you to imagine a thinking person who doesn't enjoy watching people whose brain size is in direct proportion to their body-fat level try to look as much like a mannequin as humanly possible.'
For a moment their eyes met, and then Laura lowered her head. When she looked up again, David was smiling in such a way as to soften his words.
'Lighten up, Laura,' he said gently, an expression she would hear so many times in the future. 'I wasn't trying to do anything but talk to you. I've read a lot about you and Svengali -- yes, some basketball players can indeed read -- and I thought you would be an interesting person to meet. I wasn't looking for anything else but with your looks, I'm sure you think this is just another line. And I don't blame you. Maybe it is.'
He bowed slightly and began to turn. 'I won't bother you anymore. Enjoy the party.'
Laura watched him walk away, hating herself for being so defensive, for not trusting the motives of even one man. He had spoken her mind as though her forehead was a window in which he could see her thoughts. But even so, this man would be all wrong for her. A jock? Forget it. She decided simply to push David Baskin from her mind. Strangely, she couldn't do it.
Back in Australia, a near-naked Laura leaned over and reached for the clock.
10:15 p.m.
The sound of the bush penetrated through the darkness that had blanketed her window. If it were anybody else but David, she would be seriously worried. But David was a superb swimmer, a near-Olympic participant, and more to the point, he was masterfully unpredictable, always throwing a surprise at those who knew him, always tossing an unexpected curve into life. And this was one of the reasons the sports media loved him so. He was the player whose locker the reporters rushed to after a game, the man with the perfect quote for the morning edition. He was the polite-yet-cocky superstar who always managed to live up to his off-color predictions.
Laura threw a blanket over her body. The night air was cool, tingling her nerves as it gently caressed her skin. Hours came and left, taking with them the excuses that had staved off Laura's panic and dread.
She got dressed at half past midnight and headed down to the lobby. The same receptionist was still on duty and Laura wondered if he ever slept.