Play Dead (16 page)

He shook his head. 'Only T.C. and my doctor know. I haven't even told Clip and Earl. I can usually sense when an attack is starting to come on so I make myself scarce. It helps to sit in a dark room. A lot of times I call T.C.' He swallowed and then looked up. 'T.C. can't help with the pain but sometimes it gets so bad I'm afraid I'll do something I may later regret. I don't mean to scare you. I just want you to understand the severity of these attacks.'

She was crying now, gripping him even tighter. 'I love you, David. I love you so much.'

'I love you too, Laura.' He closed his eyes. 'I need you so much.'

David's final attack came in October of 1988. During the last eight and a half months of his life, the torturous headaches never bothered him. David had been sure that Laura was somehow responsible, that she had somehow chased away whatever demon had been living inside of his brain. Even his doctor was amazed to discover that his cyst or tumor had died. Somehow, they had conquered David's demon.

Or had they?

Had the evil demon really been killed or had he just been waiting for the right time to strike? Had he merely faked his own demise until David was vulnerable in the rough water? Had he then decided this was his opportunity to finish the game once and for all, to destroy David by paralyzing him in the treacherous ocean, to force him to go underwater until his lungs exploded?

T.C. had said no. Laura was not so sure.

She flicked on the light. Her eyes were wet. Even when David was alive, the thought of the agony he was forced to bear always made her tear.

She went into the bedroom half expecting to find him huddled on the bed, but of course, the room was empty. Then she headed into his study and over to the file cabinet she had bought him last year. The neatly labeled manila files gave the illusion at least that David was a somewhat organized individual. The illusion, however, was merely surface. He still lost bills, financial statements, important documents. David had always hated paperwork of any kind. He knew nothing of finance and wanted to know even less. 'You make both of our monetary decisions,' he had finally told her. 'You're the financial genius.'

The second drawer contained the financial statements. She pulled it open. She knew that his bank book and monthly reports from Heritage of Boston were filed behind the Gunther Mutual folder. She thumbed through the manila folders. Catalyst Energy, Davidson Fund, Equities with Recovery Corporation of America, Fredrickson and Associates, Gunther Mutual . . .

There was no Heritage of Boston.

She checked to make sure that it had not been placed out of order. Then she checked the other drawers. There was nothing on the Heritage of Boston.

She stood up. Her whole body was shaking. She needed to find answers and she needed to find them now. It was time to pay a visit to the Heritage of Boston.

T.C. and Laura parked the car and walked toward the entrance of the Heritage of Boston Bank. T.C. always felt odd walking with Laura. Here was one of the world's most beautiful women walking with a pudgy, nondescript shmoe in a wrinkled suit who was a good three inches shorter than she was. It must have made some spectacle.

'So you couldn't find the statements,' T.C. said. 'Big deal. Maybe he moved the account and got rid of them.'

'We're talking about David, remember? You know how bad he was when it came to financial matters.'

They waited for about ten minutes before a secretary ushered them into an office.

'I'm sorry for the delay,' the man behind the desk said. He stood and shook Laura's hand. 'I'm Richard Corsel, one of the bank's vice presidents. Please come in.'

He was young -- no more than thirty -- and something in his manner told Laura that he was not very happy to see them. 'Laura Baskin,' she said.

'I recognized you right away, Mrs Baskin. I'm very sorry to hear about your husband.'

'Thank you. This is Terry Conroy with the Boston Police Department.'

'Police? Is something wrong?'

'Nothing that I'm sure we can't work out,' Laura replied. 'It involves an account my husband held here.'

'Yes?'

'I can't find the statements and I was hoping you could tell me what the current balance is.'

'One moment.' Richard Corsel tapped a few keys on his computer terminal. 'Your husband no longer has an account here, Mrs Baskin.'

'I'm sure he had one before we left for Australia a few weeks ago.'

'That's very possible, Mrs Baskin, but the account is closed.'

'Was the money withdrawn or transferred?'

Richard Corsel coughed into his fist. 'I'm not allowed to say.'

'By whose authority?'

'Your husband's.'

She sat forward. 'What?'

'When your husband cleared out his account, he left very specific stipulations. One of these was not to give out any information involving his funds.'

'But he's dead.'

'That does not alter his request.'

She glanced over at T.C. to make sure she was hearing right. 'When did he close the account?' she asked.

'I can't tell you that either. I'm sorry.'

'Mr Corsel, the money is missing. No one has any idea where it is being held.'

'I'm sorry. There's really nothing I can do.'

She peered into his eyes. They darted away from Laura's glare like scared birds. 'I want to know what happened to that account.'

'I can't tell you.'

T.C. stood. 'Let's go, Laura.'

'What are you talking about?' Laura raged. 'I'm not leaving until I find out what happened to that account.'

'Mr Corsel already said it's confidential.'

Richard Corsel nodded. 'Please, Mrs Baskin, I am only obeying your husband's wishes.'

'His wishes? He told you not to tell his wife what happened to his account?'

'I . . . I can't reveal that.'

'Mr Corsel, you are forcing my hand.'

His voice cracked. 'There is really nothing I can do.'

'Well there is something I can do,' Laura snapped. 'May I borrow your phone?'

'Of course.'

She dialed, waited, had the call transferred, and then she spoke. 'Sam? It's Laura. Thank you, it's nice to hear your voice too. I need you to do something for me. How much is Svengali holding in Heritage of Boston? I know it's a lot but can you give me a good estimation?'

Richard Corsel was turning white.

'Jesus, Laura,' T.C. interrupted, 'what the hell are you doing?'

'Wait outside, T.C. I don't want you to get involved in this.'

'But -- '

'Please just do what I say.'

With a shrug T.C. stood and headed out. He slammed the door behind him, leaving Corsel alone to confront Laura.

'What's that, Sam? How many millions? Fine. Transfer it to First Boston. Tell the board of directors at Heritage of Boston that I was annoyed by the service of one of its vice presidents, a Mr Richard Corsel. Tell them I also suspect he's involved in a scheme to rip me off. Right, that's C-O-R-S-E-L. Got that?'

'Wait!' Richard Corsel interrupted. 'Can't we talk about this?'

'Hold on a second, Sam. Excuse me?'

'Please, Mrs Baskin, just hang up and let's discuss this rationally.'

She turned back to the phone. 'Sam, if you don't hear from me in the next ten minutes, go ahead with the transaction.' She hung up. 'I'm listening.'

'Mrs Baskin, you are using blackmail.'

'I want to know what happened to that account, Mr Corsel, and believe me, I'll find out. This is no idle threat. If you still won't tell me after I transfer the Svengali funds, I'll have the press and my lawyers swarming all over the place. The media should love a story about a widow who wants to donate her late husband's earnings to charity and the bank that may have stolen the money.'

'Stolen?'

'The bank's reputation will be somewhat compromised, Mr Corsel, but eventually I will get the information.'

Richard Corsel looked like he had just lost a boxing match.

'By the way,' Laura added, 'Sam is very precise. I only have a few minutes left to stop him.'

Corsel lowered his head. 'I don't know where the account is exactly. You have to believe me.'

'Go on.'

'Your husband had me transfer the money to a bank in Switzerland.'

'When?'

He paused. 'Please, Mrs Baskin, I can't tell you.' 'Which bank in Switzerland?'

'Bank of Geneva. But I know it didn't stay there long so you can't make a claim there. And you may be able to threaten Heritage of Boston, but there's no way to budge a Swiss bank.'

'But why would David do something like that?'

He shrugged. 'I don't know.'

'Did he handle this transaction in person?'

'No, I spoke to him on the phone.'

'Are you sure it was David's voice?'

'Positive. I know your husband's voice very well -- even with the static. Plus he used a code number only he knows.'

'784CF90821BC,' Laura stated.

'And obviously,' Richard Corsel replied, 'he trusted you with it.'

'David always told me everything, Mr Corsel,' she said. 'Now would you please hand me the phone? I have to call Sam.'

Laura recounted the conversation to T.C. as they headed back to the car.

'I can't believe you did that, Laura. I arrest people for doing that sort of thing.'

'Okay, guilty. So what do you think?'

'About Switzerland? I think Corsel is right. I've got a few friends at the FBI's office but I doubt we'll find out what happened to the account after it reached the Bank of Geneva.'

'But why would David do this?'

T.C. shrugged. 'Maybe he wanted to have some money stored away in case the bottom fell out.'

'And not tell me about it?'

'Maybe he was going to and didn't have a chance. You said he had the Heritage account recently. Maybe he made the transaction right before you eloped and decided a honeymoon was not the place to discuss finances.'

'Wait a second,' Laura began. She concentrated hard, trying to remember exactly. 'David came here to get some cash right before we left for Australia.'

'Then that's your answer, Laura. He made the transfer when he picked up the cash and just decided to tell you about it later.'

She shook her head. 'Something is still not right. David could barely balance his checkbook.'

'That's true, but -- '

Laura stopped suddenly. 'Hold on.'

'What?'

'Corsel said that David made the transfer over the phone, not in person. He mentioned that there was static on the line.'

'So?'

'Don't you see?' Laura almost shouted. 'That means that David must have transferred his money while we were in Australia.'

Stan sat up and watched the television. Nothing on. Fat Oprah (or was she skinny this week?) was talking to some group of slobs who sexually assault their plants or something like that. Stan wasn't really listening. He was thinking. He needed to think up a score. A big one. And he needed to think of one in a hurry.

He was also thinking about the B Man.

The solution to his current money problems was obvious: get the money from David's estate. But how? Everything was left to Laura. He could ask her for it but that would arouse her suspicion. She may be a bit naive, but she was far from stupid. Plus Stan was sure that fucking T.C. was filling her head with all kinds of nonsense about the past. No, Stan decided, he could not ask her directly. He would have to make her offer the money to him.

But how?

Knuckles rapped on the door.

Terror ran through Stan. He had used a fake name when he registered. No one knew he was here. He closed his eyes as the knock came again. Maybe it was just the maid. Maybe it was --

'Open up, Stan. I want to talk to you.'

-- B Man.

Stan stood as though hypnotized. He was on the fourteenth floor so a window escape was out. But what the hell, he and B Man went back a long way. B Man had never hurt him before. He knew Stan was good for the money, and once Stan explained that he had a chance of getting his hands on serious money, B Man would give him more time. Stan turned the knob and opened the door.

'B Man!' Stan greeted him with a smile. 'How the hell are you, man? You look great.'

B Man stood in the doorway and smiled coolly. 'Thanks, Stan. It's nice to see you, too.'

Stan was always surprised by B Man's appearance. He hardly looked the part of a rough gangster. He had long, bleached-blond hair, a year-round tan, and teeth that were white enough for a tooth-polish commercial. His height and weight were average, maybe even a little on the small side. Even more unusual, the B Man had an ivy league education and had lived for three years in Korea, where he trained six hours a day in Kung Fu or some shit like that.

That was his specialty: hand-to-hand combat. You could put three bruisers twice his size against him and B Man would slaughter them without breaking a sweat.