Play Dead by Harlan Coben Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    T.C. looked out the window of the suite and felt in his pocket for a cigar. None were there.
    'Call around. Search the area.'
    Laura's voice was surprisingly steady and matter-of-fact. 'By calling around, you mean the morgues.'
    'Morgues, hospitals -- that kind of thing.'
    'And by searching the area, you mean the ocean and beaches to see if David's body has washed up.'
    He nodded.
    Laura walked over to the telephone. 'Do you want to change or rest up before we get started? You look like hell.'
    He turned and smiled. 'I just got off a long flight. What's your excuse?'
    'I'm not exactly ready for a cover shot, huh?'
    'You'd still put the competition to shame.'
    'Thanks. Now do me a favor.'
    'Name it.'
    'Go down to the lobby and buy a couple of boxes of their finest cheap cigars.'
    'Huh?'
    She lifted the receiver. 'Stack up your supplies. We might be here a while.'
    First, she called the morgues.
    Laura had purposely wanted to call them first, to get them out of the way as fast as possible. Better to dash madly through the valley of the shadow of death than to take a casual stroll. Her head sat on a guillotine from the moment the coroner said, 'Hold on a moment, luv,' until a hellish decade later -- or so it seemed -- when he came back on to say, 'No one fitting that description here.' Then relief would flood her veins for a few seconds before T.C. gave her the next number to dial.
    The room reeked of cigar stench like a poker table on the boy's night to play, but Laura did not notice. She felt trapped, suffocated -- not by the smoke but by each ring of the phone, her body constantly crossing between hope and dread as she now began to call the hospitals. She wanted so much to know -- needed to know -- while at the same time, she was afraid to find out. It was like living in a nightmare, one where you are terrified to wake up because then the nightmare might become reality.
    An hour later, the calls were completed.
    'Now what?'
    T.C. flicked an ash onto the table-top. He had smoked many cigars in his day but this Australian stogy was like smoking duck manure. One puff from this baby would have done to Fidel what Kennedy and the Bay of Pigs could not. He decided this would be his last one.
    'I'm going to run downstairs and get you a few more numbers to call from the phone book,' he said. 'Then I'm going to start questioning the staff. No reason for both of us to sit by a phone.'
    He stood, walked to the door, sighed, turned slowly back around. He reached back and grabbed his Australian cigars. What the hell. His taste buds were dead already.
    A little while later, as Laura sat alone in her room waiting for T.C. (or better yet, David) to return, she decided to call home. Glancing at the clock, she realized that it was around eleven p.m. in Boston.
    Her father, Dr James Ayars, would be sitting