Play Dead
Page 30
Dr. James Ayars slammed the phone down. Gloria continued to hold her breath, her back pushed up against the wall. There must be a million people named David, she reminded herself. Her father must have plenty of patients with that name.
THE details of death.
Laura held her sister’s hand tightly. Her eyes moved about the wood-paneled law office. The chairs were large and plush. Paintings of fox hunting adorned the walls. The large desk in front of her was beautifully polished oak, the bookshelf behind it neatly arranged with law journals.
Clip was there. So were T.C. and Earl and Timmy and her father. Her mother, of course, had not been invited. Laura had, however, asked Stan to come. She was puzzled that he had not shown up.
Mr. Averall Thompson, the Celtics’ lawyer and longtime friend of Clip Arnstein, leaned forward. “Let me make this as quick and simple as possible. Will that be okay, Mrs. Baskin?”
Laura nodded to him.
“First, please accept my most sincere belated condolences on your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“And second, let me apologize for the delay in settling these matters. Whenever the deceased does not execute a will, there is always some degree of confusion.”
“I understand, Mr. Thompson. No apology is necessary.”
“Fine.” The senior law partner put on his reading glasses. “In cases such as this, the widow is left all of the deceased’s property. According to our study, you two already have most of your assets in joint accounts, so that should expedite matters. You both bought the house in Brookline. You have three joint accounts, two at banks and one at a financial institution. On top of that, David left a few mutual funds and stocks, his condominium in Boston, and that’s about it.”
“And his account at Heritage of Boston Bank,” Laura added.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Baskin.”
“David had an account at Heritage of Boston. There’s about half a million dollars in it.”
The older man looked puzzled. “Are you sure that wasn’t liquidated?”
“Quite sure.”
Mr. Thompson looked over the file in front of him. Laura glanced around the room. T.C. was looking straight down at his shoes. Most of the faces were mildly puzzled, more curious than concerned. The exception was her father. James Ayars’s face drained of color, his eyes frightened and confused.
“I don’t see anything about that in the file. Do you have the account number?”
“The statements are in David’s condominium.”
Thompson leaned forward and buzzed his secretary. “Beatrice?”
“Yes, Mr. Thompson.”
“Call our contact at Heritage of Boston. See if they have an account there for a Mr. David Baskin.”
“Right away, Mr. Thompson.”
He leaned back. “I’m very sorry about this, Mrs. Baskin. I don’t understand how we could have made a mistake like that. I am really very embarrassed.”
“I’m sure we’ll straighten it all out.”
“I’m sure, too.”
A moment later, the phone on the desk buzzed. “Mr. Thompson?”
“Yes, Beatrice.”
“I called the Heritage of Boston. There is no record of any account for a Mr. David Baskin.”
Laura sat up. “That’s not possible.”
Averall Thompson smiled understandingly. “Perhaps if you could come back with the bank account number . . .”
Maybe it was just her father’s expression or the way T.C. kept staring at the ground, but Laura suddenly felt very uneasy. The money meant nothing to her. She already had more than she knew what to do with. But this was all very odd. Something was very wrong.
“Thank you, Mr. Thompson.”
LAURA managed to find the key with a shaking hand. T.C. had volunteered to accompany her but she had thought it would be best if she went alone. Now, standing in front of the door to David’s apartment, she wondered if she had done the right thing.
She placed the key in the lock and turned. The door opened into the darkened apartment. Laura hesitated. She was afraid to turn on the lights, afraid to face the painful memories readying to leap out at her.
She and David had spent many happy moments here—moments of pure joy that she knew she would never again experience. It wasn’t fair. Blasphemous to say, but God had cheated her. Cheated her and hurt her in the worst way possible. He had made her happy, brought her up to the highest high. Then He tore her wings off and let her plummet back down to the hard surface below. One minute her David was alive and strong. The next minute he was gone. How could someone like David just be snatched away like that? How could everything suddenly be worth nothing?
It was all a cruel, sadistic trick.
She stepped in but still did not turn on the lights. She suddenly remembered the last time she had entered his apartment alone. She and David had been going out for about three months and were already hopelessly in love.
She had stopped by to visit him on her way home from work, knocked on the door, and waited. No one came to the door.
Strange.
She had spoken to David only a few minutes earlier. Why would he have gone out? She tried the door, and to her surprise, it was unlocked. She smiled. He would never leave the door unlocked if he had gone out. David was too compulsive when it came to that kind of stuff. He must have been in the shower.
She opened the door. The apartment was dark, just like it would be two and a half years later when she opened it to search for his bank statements from the Heritage of Boston. Her eyes surveyed the darkened room. No one was there. She listened for the sound of the shower, but the apartment was silent.
That was when she heard the muffled scream.
The sound ripped into her stomach. She sprinted toward the bedroom, where the anguished cry had originated.
“David?”
The next scream, though still muffled, was louder, more hideous than any sound Laura had ever heard.
She reached the bedroom. Her eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness. David was huddled in a corner of the bed, his head clasped hard between his hands, his body writhing in agony. He released another scream into the pillow.
She ran to him, her heart pounding like a sledgehammer in her chest. “David, what is it?”
His face was contorted into a frightening picture of absolute agony. Laura had never seen pain like this, had never known it could exist. David’s teeth were gritted, his color terrifyingly red as though his head were about to explode. He struggled, but he could not hold back. He dug his face into the pillow. The smothered shriek punctured Laura’s heart. Panic filled her.
THE details of death.
Laura held her sister’s hand tightly. Her eyes moved about the wood-paneled law office. The chairs were large and plush. Paintings of fox hunting adorned the walls. The large desk in front of her was beautifully polished oak, the bookshelf behind it neatly arranged with law journals.
Clip was there. So were T.C. and Earl and Timmy and her father. Her mother, of course, had not been invited. Laura had, however, asked Stan to come. She was puzzled that he had not shown up.
Mr. Averall Thompson, the Celtics’ lawyer and longtime friend of Clip Arnstein, leaned forward. “Let me make this as quick and simple as possible. Will that be okay, Mrs. Baskin?”
Laura nodded to him.
“First, please accept my most sincere belated condolences on your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“And second, let me apologize for the delay in settling these matters. Whenever the deceased does not execute a will, there is always some degree of confusion.”
“I understand, Mr. Thompson. No apology is necessary.”
“Fine.” The senior law partner put on his reading glasses. “In cases such as this, the widow is left all of the deceased’s property. According to our study, you two already have most of your assets in joint accounts, so that should expedite matters. You both bought the house in Brookline. You have three joint accounts, two at banks and one at a financial institution. On top of that, David left a few mutual funds and stocks, his condominium in Boston, and that’s about it.”
“And his account at Heritage of Boston Bank,” Laura added.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Baskin.”
“David had an account at Heritage of Boston. There’s about half a million dollars in it.”
The older man looked puzzled. “Are you sure that wasn’t liquidated?”
“Quite sure.”
Mr. Thompson looked over the file in front of him. Laura glanced around the room. T.C. was looking straight down at his shoes. Most of the faces were mildly puzzled, more curious than concerned. The exception was her father. James Ayars’s face drained of color, his eyes frightened and confused.
“I don’t see anything about that in the file. Do you have the account number?”
“The statements are in David’s condominium.”
Thompson leaned forward and buzzed his secretary. “Beatrice?”
“Yes, Mr. Thompson.”
“Call our contact at Heritage of Boston. See if they have an account there for a Mr. David Baskin.”
“Right away, Mr. Thompson.”
He leaned back. “I’m very sorry about this, Mrs. Baskin. I don’t understand how we could have made a mistake like that. I am really very embarrassed.”
“I’m sure we’ll straighten it all out.”
“I’m sure, too.”
A moment later, the phone on the desk buzzed. “Mr. Thompson?”
“Yes, Beatrice.”
“I called the Heritage of Boston. There is no record of any account for a Mr. David Baskin.”
Laura sat up. “That’s not possible.”
Averall Thompson smiled understandingly. “Perhaps if you could come back with the bank account number . . .”
Maybe it was just her father’s expression or the way T.C. kept staring at the ground, but Laura suddenly felt very uneasy. The money meant nothing to her. She already had more than she knew what to do with. But this was all very odd. Something was very wrong.
“Thank you, Mr. Thompson.”
LAURA managed to find the key with a shaking hand. T.C. had volunteered to accompany her but she had thought it would be best if she went alone. Now, standing in front of the door to David’s apartment, she wondered if she had done the right thing.
She placed the key in the lock and turned. The door opened into the darkened apartment. Laura hesitated. She was afraid to turn on the lights, afraid to face the painful memories readying to leap out at her.
She and David had spent many happy moments here—moments of pure joy that she knew she would never again experience. It wasn’t fair. Blasphemous to say, but God had cheated her. Cheated her and hurt her in the worst way possible. He had made her happy, brought her up to the highest high. Then He tore her wings off and let her plummet back down to the hard surface below. One minute her David was alive and strong. The next minute he was gone. How could someone like David just be snatched away like that? How could everything suddenly be worth nothing?
It was all a cruel, sadistic trick.
She stepped in but still did not turn on the lights. She suddenly remembered the last time she had entered his apartment alone. She and David had been going out for about three months and were already hopelessly in love.
She had stopped by to visit him on her way home from work, knocked on the door, and waited. No one came to the door.
Strange.
She had spoken to David only a few minutes earlier. Why would he have gone out? She tried the door, and to her surprise, it was unlocked. She smiled. He would never leave the door unlocked if he had gone out. David was too compulsive when it came to that kind of stuff. He must have been in the shower.
She opened the door. The apartment was dark, just like it would be two and a half years later when she opened it to search for his bank statements from the Heritage of Boston. Her eyes surveyed the darkened room. No one was there. She listened for the sound of the shower, but the apartment was silent.
That was when she heard the muffled scream.
The sound ripped into her stomach. She sprinted toward the bedroom, where the anguished cry had originated.
“David?”
The next scream, though still muffled, was louder, more hideous than any sound Laura had ever heard.
She reached the bedroom. Her eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness. David was huddled in a corner of the bed, his head clasped hard between his hands, his body writhing in agony. He released another scream into the pillow.
She ran to him, her heart pounding like a sledgehammer in her chest. “David, what is it?”
His face was contorted into a frightening picture of absolute agony. Laura had never seen pain like this, had never known it could exist. David’s teeth were gritted, his color terrifyingly red as though his head were about to explode. He struggled, but he could not hold back. He dug his face into the pillow. The smothered shriek punctured Laura’s heart. Panic filled her.
