Play Dead
Page 62
His eyes lit up. “You don’t mean . . . ?”
“That’s right,” she said. “Right over the Pacific.”
“God, I love this woman.”
“Qantas flight 182 now asks all economy class passengers to begin boarding.”
Laura stood and made her way to a pay phone, the happy memory melting down to a dull ache. She dialed the operator and charged the call to her credit-card number. The operator put the call through.
“Heritage of Boston,” a voice answered.
“Richard Corsel, please,” she said.
“Hold on, please.” She heard a ringing. Then another voice came on. “Mr. Corsel’s office.”
“This is Laura Baskin. I would like to speak with Mr. Corsel, please.”
There was a moment of hesitation. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Baskin. Mr. Corsel is not in at the moment.”
“I called earlier. I was assured he would be in by now.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Baskin. Would you like to leave a message?”
“Yes. Please tell him it’s urgent that I speak with him. I’ll call him tomorrow at ten in the morning.”
“Fine. I’ll give him the message.”
Eleanor Tansmore put the receiver down and turned toward Richard Corsel. His face was white.
LAURA slowly hung up the phone. Something strange was going on again. Richard Corsel was ducking her. But why? She looked toward the long line of passengers boarding the Boeing 747. There were still a few minutes left before takeoff. She quickly placed another call.
“Hello?”
“Serita?”
“Laura, honey, where are you?”
“Los Angeles airport. I have to board in a minute. I need you to do me a favor.”
“Name it.”
“Corsel is avoiding me. Could you go over there and see what he’s up to?”
“What makes you think he’s avoiding you?”
“I’m getting the runaround when I call. They claim he’s not in.”
“So? Maybe he’s not.”
“Not likely. I had him checked out by my office. He hasn’t missed a day in three years and he never works outside of the office.”
“Laura, you’re sounding a bit paranoid. He contacted you, remember? Why would he be trying to avoid you?”
“I don’t know,” Laura admitted, “unless somebody . . . Serita, did you tell anybody about our visit to the bank?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe someone found out we were there and scared him off.”
Serita remained silent.
“Did you tell someone, Serita?”
“Laura . . .”
“Tell me.”
“I only told T.C.,” Serita said. “And I did that for your own good. You’re scaring me with all this murder talk. I’m afraid you might be getting into something over your head.”
“Final call for Qantas flight 182 . . .”
“Is he the only person you told?”
“The only one. I swear. But call him, Laura. Please.”
“Does he know I’m going to Australia?”
“No.”
“Don’t tell him. Whatever you do, don’t tell him.”
“You don’t think T.C. has something to do with all of this? He loved David.”
“Just don’t tell him where I am,” Laura repeated. “I have to go now. I’ll call you soon.”
Before Serita could protest, Laura hung up and boarded the plane.
MARK Seidman stared at T.C. wild-eyed. “You did what?”
“I had no choice,” T.C. replied.
“Had no choice? I thought you said no one else would get hurt.”
“I didn’t hurt him. I just scared him.”
“You threatened his children, for chrissake.”
“Look, Mark, Corsel was your responsibility. You said he’d back us.”
“I misjudged him.”
“And in doing so, you risked everything. First he caved in and told Laura the money had been moved to Switzerland. Now he’s told her that the transfer was made after Baskin’s death.”
“But that’s all he knows,” Mark countered. “He can’t tell her anything else.”
T.C. shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong. Corsel is a bright guy. He’s moved up the company ladder rather swiftly. He promised Laura he’d check into it. He feels responsible.”
Mark Seidman began to pace, his fingers toying with his blond locks. “There had to be another way. Christ, you threatened him at knifepoint.”
“I don’t like it any better than you do,” T.C. snapped, “but I had to stop him. Suppose he kept digging, Mark? Suppose he found out what happened to Baskin’s money? The whole plan could be jeopardized.”
“But to threaten his kids . . .”
“Time was short. It was all I could think of. And even threatening his family wasn’t enough.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Corsel already told Laura that Baskin called the bank hours after the drowning supposedly took place. Now there is no way Laura will quit searching until she finds a satisfactory way to explain that.”
Mark turned away from T.C. and looked out a window. “There’s something else I don’t understand, T.C.”
“What?”
“How come Laura hasn’t come to you for help in all this?”
T.C. shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s another part of our plan that has gone astray. I’m not sure she completely trusts me anymore.”
“But she can’t suspect you have anything to do with the drown—”
“Maybe she does,” T.C. interrupted. “Maybe she does.”
RICHARD Corsel sat in his office. He stared at the two pens jutting up from the marble holder on his desk. He had been doing that for most of the day. Try as he might, concentration would not come to him for even the briefest of moments.
Lack of sleep, he thought. The previous night had seemed endless. He had wandered through his house, gone downstairs, finished off the Shop-Rite All Natural Vanilla Ice Cream, and reread the newspaper. He had walked back up the stairs and quietly opened the twins’ door. Roger and Peter were both asleep, their breathing steady and deep. Richard tiptoed over to Peter’s bed. Peter still had his Red Sox cap on his head. Richard had bought the twins Red Sox caps when they went to Fenway Park the previous month to watch the Sox play the Detroit Tigers. What a day that had been. Peter almost caught a fly ball; Roger had eaten so many hot dogs he came home with a stomachache. Corsel smiled at his sleeping children. He gently took the hat off of Peter’s sleeping head and laid it on the night table, next to the Garfield the Cat lamp.
“That’s right,” she said. “Right over the Pacific.”
“God, I love this woman.”
“Qantas flight 182 now asks all economy class passengers to begin boarding.”
Laura stood and made her way to a pay phone, the happy memory melting down to a dull ache. She dialed the operator and charged the call to her credit-card number. The operator put the call through.
“Heritage of Boston,” a voice answered.
“Richard Corsel, please,” she said.
“Hold on, please.” She heard a ringing. Then another voice came on. “Mr. Corsel’s office.”
“This is Laura Baskin. I would like to speak with Mr. Corsel, please.”
There was a moment of hesitation. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Baskin. Mr. Corsel is not in at the moment.”
“I called earlier. I was assured he would be in by now.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Baskin. Would you like to leave a message?”
“Yes. Please tell him it’s urgent that I speak with him. I’ll call him tomorrow at ten in the morning.”
“Fine. I’ll give him the message.”
Eleanor Tansmore put the receiver down and turned toward Richard Corsel. His face was white.
LAURA slowly hung up the phone. Something strange was going on again. Richard Corsel was ducking her. But why? She looked toward the long line of passengers boarding the Boeing 747. There were still a few minutes left before takeoff. She quickly placed another call.
“Hello?”
“Serita?”
“Laura, honey, where are you?”
“Los Angeles airport. I have to board in a minute. I need you to do me a favor.”
“Name it.”
“Corsel is avoiding me. Could you go over there and see what he’s up to?”
“What makes you think he’s avoiding you?”
“I’m getting the runaround when I call. They claim he’s not in.”
“So? Maybe he’s not.”
“Not likely. I had him checked out by my office. He hasn’t missed a day in three years and he never works outside of the office.”
“Laura, you’re sounding a bit paranoid. He contacted you, remember? Why would he be trying to avoid you?”
“I don’t know,” Laura admitted, “unless somebody . . . Serita, did you tell anybody about our visit to the bank?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe someone found out we were there and scared him off.”
Serita remained silent.
“Did you tell someone, Serita?”
“Laura . . .”
“Tell me.”
“I only told T.C.,” Serita said. “And I did that for your own good. You’re scaring me with all this murder talk. I’m afraid you might be getting into something over your head.”
“Final call for Qantas flight 182 . . .”
“Is he the only person you told?”
“The only one. I swear. But call him, Laura. Please.”
“Does he know I’m going to Australia?”
“No.”
“Don’t tell him. Whatever you do, don’t tell him.”
“You don’t think T.C. has something to do with all of this? He loved David.”
“Just don’t tell him where I am,” Laura repeated. “I have to go now. I’ll call you soon.”
Before Serita could protest, Laura hung up and boarded the plane.
MARK Seidman stared at T.C. wild-eyed. “You did what?”
“I had no choice,” T.C. replied.
“Had no choice? I thought you said no one else would get hurt.”
“I didn’t hurt him. I just scared him.”
“You threatened his children, for chrissake.”
“Look, Mark, Corsel was your responsibility. You said he’d back us.”
“I misjudged him.”
“And in doing so, you risked everything. First he caved in and told Laura the money had been moved to Switzerland. Now he’s told her that the transfer was made after Baskin’s death.”
“But that’s all he knows,” Mark countered. “He can’t tell her anything else.”
T.C. shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong. Corsel is a bright guy. He’s moved up the company ladder rather swiftly. He promised Laura he’d check into it. He feels responsible.”
Mark Seidman began to pace, his fingers toying with his blond locks. “There had to be another way. Christ, you threatened him at knifepoint.”
“I don’t like it any better than you do,” T.C. snapped, “but I had to stop him. Suppose he kept digging, Mark? Suppose he found out what happened to Baskin’s money? The whole plan could be jeopardized.”
“But to threaten his kids . . .”
“Time was short. It was all I could think of. And even threatening his family wasn’t enough.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Corsel already told Laura that Baskin called the bank hours after the drowning supposedly took place. Now there is no way Laura will quit searching until she finds a satisfactory way to explain that.”
Mark turned away from T.C. and looked out a window. “There’s something else I don’t understand, T.C.”
“What?”
“How come Laura hasn’t come to you for help in all this?”
T.C. shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s another part of our plan that has gone astray. I’m not sure she completely trusts me anymore.”
“But she can’t suspect you have anything to do with the drown—”
“Maybe she does,” T.C. interrupted. “Maybe she does.”
RICHARD Corsel sat in his office. He stared at the two pens jutting up from the marble holder on his desk. He had been doing that for most of the day. Try as he might, concentration would not come to him for even the briefest of moments.
Lack of sleep, he thought. The previous night had seemed endless. He had wandered through his house, gone downstairs, finished off the Shop-Rite All Natural Vanilla Ice Cream, and reread the newspaper. He had walked back up the stairs and quietly opened the twins’ door. Roger and Peter were both asleep, their breathing steady and deep. Richard tiptoed over to Peter’s bed. Peter still had his Red Sox cap on his head. Richard had bought the twins Red Sox caps when they went to Fenway Park the previous month to watch the Sox play the Detroit Tigers. What a day that had been. Peter almost caught a fly ball; Roger had eaten so many hot dogs he came home with a stomachache. Corsel smiled at his sleeping children. He gently took the hat off of Peter’s sleeping head and laid it on the night table, next to the Garfield the Cat lamp.
