The Opposite of Dark (2 page)

Casey shrugged. “Had to face my fears.”

“You work alone?” Krueger asked.

“Pretty much. We have only one other full-time person, plus Stan. There are three more part-timers who work other jobs.”

“There's that much of a demand?” Lalonde asked.

“On and off. It usually starts with passenger complaints.” She watched Krueger remove a notepad and pen from his pocket. “So, how can I help you guys?”

Lalonde glanced at his partner. “A fifty-five-year-old Caucasian male, whom we believe is Marcus Adam Holland, was killed between 8:00 and 10:00
PM
yesterday evening.” He paused. “Are you his daughter?”

“What?” She frowned. “I don't understand.”

“Are you related to Marcus Adam Holland?”

“I'm his daughter, yes.”

“When did you last see him, Miss Holland?”

“Three years ago, on March eleventh, in a casket. He's buried at Cedar Ridge Cemetery, Detective.”

Lalonde and Krueger exchanged unreadable looks until Krueger scribbled something down.

“How did the man you buried die?” Lalonde asked.

“My
father
died from botulism.”

“This body hasn't been dead three years,” he replied. “His wallet contained a valid driver's license and credit cards, several to jewelry stores.”

Eeriness crept up Casey's spine. Dad had given her a piece of jewelry every birthday.

“I never did get his wallet and passport back. Assumed they were stolen. But I have a death certificate. Maybe someone at Vital Statistics screwed up.”

Casey didn't like the way these guys looked at her. What was it? Pity? Skepticism? Ambivalence? She sauntered behind Stan's old mahogany desk. “Can you give me a clearer description of the victim?”

Lalonde turned to Krueger who flipped through his notepad. “Green eyes, blond hair, graying at the temples, one point eight meters tall.” Krueger looked up. “Five feet eleven inches.”

Casey wasn't aware she'd been gripping Stan's chair until her fingers began to ache. A wallet and similar appearance didn't prove Dad had been alive these past three years.

“Did you see the body?” she asked.

Lalonde nodded.

“Did you notice a small white scar by his left eyebrow?” She didn't like this second exchange of looks between Lalonde and Krueger. Why weren't they answering? “How, exactly, was the man killed?” As Lalonde glanced out the window overlooking the yard, Casey's patience withered. “If it's him, then I'm family, so don't I have a right to know?” Still no response. “Come on, guys, I'm used to working with the police; this conversation doesn't go beyond this room if you don't want it to.”

Lalonde finally said, “The victim was struck repeatedly about the head with a sharp heavy object.”

She pushed the grisly image from her mind. “Where did it happen?”

“In his house on Marine Drive in West Vancouver.”

The eerie sensation wound around her neck and began to squeeze. “Dad didn't own a place there.”

He'd dreamed of it, though; an ocean view house on pricey real estate. But he hadn't had the bucks. So, what was dream and what was reality? Casey slumped into Stan's old Naugahyde chair.

“An anonymous caller tipped us off about the body around midnight,” Lalonde said.

“Male or female?”

“Male. Could you provide a list of your father's relatives, friends, business associates, and other acquaintances?”

“It'd be three years old.” Casey rested her elbows on the desk. “If he was alive, don't you think I'd know?”

“Some people deliberately disappear to start over,” Lalonde replied.

“Do these people stay in the same city and provide a body for burial?” Predictably, all she got was more silence. Was she annoying them as much as they were annoying her? Too bad. She wasn't the one with the identity problem.

“Miss Holland, we'd like you to come to the morgue,” Lalonde said. “The coroner can't start the autopsy until you've identi—”

“I know.” She met Lalonde's gaze. “I want to see the body up close. Not on some monitor or in a snapshot or whatever they do down there. Face-to-face, okay?”

Lalonde watched her. “The wounds to his head are extensive.”

“All right.” She could take it. Had to. Wimping out in front of these guys would be humiliating.

“Mr. Cordaseto told us you could take the afternoon off, so I'd like to do this now.”

“Fine.” It took some effort to get to her feet. “Dad and I were close, Detective. He was a proud and honest man. He wouldn't have deceived me like that.” She couldn't think. “Any idea why the man was killed?”

“There was cash in his wallet, but the hard drive's missing from his
PC
. No storage devices of any kind anywhere, and he might have had a laptop too.” Lalonde slipped his hands in his coat pockets. “There's a photograph of you in the master bedroom.”

No, couldn't be. “As far as I'm concerned, Dad's been gone three years. If you think otherwise, then show me proof.”

“Do you remember the name of his dentist?” Krueger asked, pen poised over his notepad.

“No. I take it fingerprints haven't helped identify him yet?”

Krueger shook his head.

Casey headed for the door. “Let me change first and wash the grunge off my face.”

“That's unnecessary,” Lalonde replied. “The sooner we go to the morgue, the quicker we'll have answers.”

“This is a costume to attract trash, Detective.” She turned to Krueger. “Go figure, huh?”

Casey tried to move fast to the women's locker room downstairs but Lalonde's news had a paralyzing effect. The same thing had happened three years ago when that doctor called from Paris. She was at work then, too, eating a cheeseburger. In a heavy French accent, the man explained how botulism had killed Dad. Her first response had been anger. No one had even bothered to let her know he'd been sick. After the call, she threw up. Greg was driving the M9 at the time, so Lou had taken her home.

Casey reappeared twenty minutes later to find the detectives looking curiously at her, trying not to seem surprised. Casey attempted a smile. She'd replaced the gelled spikes with her usual light brown curls, the heavy makeup for a trace of lipstick, and the skimpy clothes with plum trousers and a silk blouse.

“Did you need to perform an entire makeover?”

“Why do a half-assed job?”

“For expediency?”

Following him to the exit, Casey rolled her eyes and waved at a worried-looking Amy. Lalonde chose the back seat of the Sebring, while Casey sat in front with Krueger.

“Tell me about the food poisoning in Paris,” Lalonde said.

“Dad died nine days after eating at a burger joint called Alvin's All-Canadian Café. The bacterium was in a mayonnaise-based salad dressing.”

“How many others were ill?”

“No one, according to my lawyers.”

“Lawyers?”

“I'd heard that adults stood a fairly good chance of surviving the toxin. I wanted to know if the hospital had been negligent. The lawyers didn't think so. Apparently, botulism's not easy to diagnose when only one person's been infected, and it took too long to find the source. By the time the doctors knew what was wrong, Dad was too far gone.”

“Bit odd that only one person was infected, isn't it?”

“I thought so. It turned out that some fool used the remains of a jar of mayonnaise that hadn't been refrigerated. The restaurant was busy at the time and no one would take responsibility for it.”

The drive to the airport to collect his body had been surreal and, in some ways, offensive. She'd had to pick up Dad from the cargo area, not that she would have wanted him swooping down the chute at the luggage carousel. But still . . . cargo.

Losing someone she loved and trusted had depressed her for a long time. Her adult relationships had never been as strong or trusting.

“I guess a blood analysis hasn't been done yet,” Casey said. No one answered. “You guys really don't want to tell me much, do you?”

Lalonde kept his gaze on the window.

•  •  •

Casey rubbed her arms and shivered. The morgue was colder than she thought it would be, or was she shivering because of the possibility that all her grief had been wasted on a lie? An attendant accompanied Lalonde to a labeled, oversized drawer and Casey's heartbeat quickened. Lalonde produced a key and unlocked the compartment. The attendant slid a shrouded body toward them.

Someone touched Casey's arm and she jumped. Krueger. Sympathy flashed across his face as he guided her nearer the body. She'd tried to mentally prepare for the sight of mutilated flesh and a close resemblance to Dad. One of last year's criminology classes had discussed body decomposition. Nasty stuff. She vowed to stay cool and calm.

Lalonde turned to her. “Ready?”

Feet apart, arms crossed, and standing strong, she said, “Go ahead.”

One glimpse of the victim's face and her stomach somersaulted. Gashes crisscrossed his scalp and descended to what remained of the left side of his face. Dried blood and bits of gray stuff matted his hair. Dozens of cuts mangled the upper half of his left arm and shoulder.

“Is this man Marcus Holland?” Lalonde asked.

Memories of Dad raced through her mind, images so vivid it was as if no time had passed and grief was just beginning.

“Is he your father, Miss Holland?”

“Just a sec.” Her legs grew shaky. Casey looked at the attendant. “Is there an appendectomy scar?”

She'd only glimpsed the scar once, by accident, after Dad's operation twenty years ago.

Lalonde nodded to the attendant who lifted the sheet. Casey looked at the floor.

“There is,” the attendant said.

“Well, Miss Holland?” Lalonde asked.

Casey swayed toward the body, then recoiled, terrified of touching it. She tilted to one side. Hands gripped her arm and shoulder. Perspiration dampened her upper lip.

Lalonde said, “Get her some water.”

How could this man be Dad? It didn't make sense. “No bloody way!”

“Are you saying this man isn't your father?”

Pulling free of Krueger's grasp, she charged out of the room.

NORMALLY, CASEY LIKED
Mondays. If the day went well, it set the tone for the week. If today's events had set the tone, she'd stay in bed tomorrow. Sitting here beside a grave marked “Marcus Adam Holland,” she wondered who the hell she'd been visiting for three years. Casey picked blades of grass. How many times had she come here to think things through? The silence had always offered answers. Now there were only questions. The peace Cedar Ridge Cemetery had brought her was gone.

She studied the marble marker Lou helped her choose. Greg hadn't wanted any part in funeral arrangements, so Lou volunteered. He always had been more supportive than her husband. Lou had met Dad lots of times. Three hundred people strolled past the open casket that day, and no one had said a thing about mourning the wrong guy. His deception had been perfect.

Why had Dad abandoned the people he loved? She thought he'd been happy with his life. Busy with work and a parade of bimbos until he outgrew the silliness and hooked up with Rhonda. While Casey hadn't seen much of him those last two years, they'd still shared problems and secrets. They'd been so much alike that she often knew his thoughts before he told her. Soulmates. Of course, she'd once thought the same about Greg.

How had Dad managed to fake his death? Casey smacked the black marble. Behind her, someone's knee cracked. She turned to find Detective Lalonde picking a quarter out of the grass.

“Did you drop this?”

“Doubt it.”

He pocketed the coin. “With six kids to support, even the loose change counts.”

“Are all six yours, or is it a blended family?”

“Blended about as well as oil and water, but that stays between us.”

“My theme of the day,” Casey sighed, “Dads with secrets.”

“Did you hit the headstone out of frustration or anger?”

She ran her hand over the clipped grass. “The funeral was a scam.”

“Then the man in the morgue is your father?”

“Looks that way.” She stood up. “Sorry about running off. I needed time alone.”

“No problem. You were never out of sight.”

She met Lalonde's gaze. “You said you found him in a house on Marine Drive?”

“On the main floor, in front of a chair in his den. It appears the killer came up from behind while your father was still seated.”

Casey pictured the cuts on his left side. “He must have raised his arm to ward off the blows.”

Not an image she wanted to dwell on. She focused instead on pansies surrounding a nearby tree trunk. A large, deep blue and black Steller's jay squawked from a branch.