Free Play Dead by Harlan Coben Page A

chuckled again. 'Just thought of something funny.' He looked at her again, wondering if he was doing the right thing. Maybe he was being unfair. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he should reconsider. After all, she did have big tits . . .
    Nah.
    It would be more fun to stand her up. Besides, he had big plans for tonight. It was time to introduce Stan Baskin to the city of Boston, to the press . . .
    . . . and to Laura Ayars.
    It made international headlines.
    David's death was truly a story no newsman could resist. More than any other athlete, David Baskin had gained international fame through not only his pro basketball excellence, but for his Olympic heroics, his domination of European basketball during his stint as a Rhodes Scholar and, most of all, his tireless work with handicapped children. Add to this the fact that he was married to gorgeous supermodel Laura Ayars, the founder of the Svengali line, and just watch the reporters salivate.
    What could make the story even more stimulating? Tragedy striking the happy couple. While eloping and secretly honeymooning in Australia, the great White Lightning drowns in a freak accident, leaving behind his beautiful widow to mourn the cruelty of it all.
    Newspapers from Warsaw to New York, from Bangkok to Leningrad, gave the story prominence. Every spectrum of the journalism world, from supermarket tabloids to government-run newsletters, covered the sad event.
    There were all kinds of clever headlines about how White Lightning would strike no more, how nature was finally able to stop David when no man in a basketball uniform could, but more than any of the others, Laura thought that the Boston Globe, the Celtics' hometown newspaper, struck closest to the bone. In simple, huge, sad block letters, the front page screamed in pain:

Play Dead

WHITE LIGHTNING DEAD
    Laura laid the newspaper in the bed, leaned back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. Her eyes blinked spasmodically. Serita had tried to keep the newspapers away from her, but Laura had been insistent and Serita was hardly the type to tell her what she could and could not do. Now, as she lay in the spare bedroom in Serita's apartment for the third straight day, she recalled one particular paragraph she had read claiming that David's body was found 'bloated' and 'mutilated beyond recognition.'
    The tears started to come again and yet they did not seem to come from her. She was too numb, too anguished merely to cry. Crying served her no purpose. The pain went far beyond anything tears could help to drown out. She knew the media were searching for her, but very few people knew where she was hiding, and Serita watched over Laura like an Israeli airport security guard.
    She also knew that today she would have to rise from this bed, that today she would have to leave the protection of Serita's apartment and face the world for the first time since her David had . . .
    He can't be dead. He just can't be. Please tell me it's not true. Please tell me that this is just a stupid joke and when I get a hold of him I'm going to beat the shit out of him for scaring me like this. Please tell him enough is enough, that I know he's okay, that I know his body was not shredded on coral and rocks.
    'Laura?'
    Laura looked up at her long-time friend. Serita was a devastating beauty, one of the few women in the world who could compete with Laura in the looks category. She was nearly six feet tall, her body thin and very muscular with the most beautiful ebony skin. Serita (she never used a last name) had been the world's top black model since she and Laura had first met six years ago on the modeling circuit. Serita had also become good friends with David over the last two years. In fact, David had liked her so much he had set her up with his closest friend on the Celtics, Earl Roberts, the seven-foot center.
    'Yes?'
    'Honey, you got to get out of bed now. Gloria called. She and your father are going to pick you up in an hour.'
    Laura did not