The Opposite of Dark (28 page)

She'd called Van Tech Secondary and learned that the school did have an active track and field team, but the woman on the phone said she couldn't give out information about practice times. School security had tightened over the years.

Casey checked her watch. It was nearly noon and a warm sunny day. Lunch break, and lots of students would be outside, and possibly the track team. Van Tech was fifteen minutes from here if traffic moved well. Even if the team wasn't practising, she could still look for a tall kid with a black and yellow backpack. Good running skills didn't mean he was on a team, especially when he was so busy with stealing purses.

A short while later, Casey reached the high school and noticed bus stops out front on either side of East Broadway. She made a right turn onto a side street, then pulled over and studied the layout. From here she could see one of the stops and part of the playing field behind the school.

As expected, students were everywhere. Using a pair of binoculars she kept for surveillance work, Casey scanned the area. One of Mainland's buses arrived, but it didn't stop. She eased the Tercel forward for a better view of the track. The block-long, green space looked more like a small park than a school sports field.

Five guys and two girls were stretching on the track. On the grass inside the track, more boys were playing football. Casey parked near the field's public entrance. The binocs would make her too conspicuous. She put on her hat and sunglasses, stepped out of the car and sauntered across the grass, keeping her distance from the track. A hill led from the track up to the school parking lot. Several girls sat on the grassy slope, watching shirtless boys play football and stretch on the track.

As Casey climbed she heard a girl say, “God, Jason's so flexible; he's awesome.”

All of them seemed to be watching a black-haired, broad-shouldered kid who posed with legs apart and hands on hips, like he was used to being admired. The kid had the muscular upper body of a sprinter.

The student who interested Casey, though, stood half a head taller and appeared not to have lifted a weight in his life. His skinny frame was better suited for longer distances. The boy had the same physique as the purse snatcher. Without the backpack and a close look at his face, though, she couldn't tell if this was her guy.

Casey sat near the girls as all five boys, including the tall, skinny kid, prepared themselves at the starting blocks. The whistle blew and the boys took off. The skinny kid stayed in front for half a lap before the others caught up and one guy pulled ahead. Casey watched the skinny kid's relaxed and fluid technique. He sure moved like the perp. At the start of the second lap, he picked up speed and was again in front. The longer he ran, the more distance he put between himself and the competition. He won the race easily.

Afterward, the kid stood apart from teammates and talked to the guy who'd timed the race. The school bell rang and he headed for the gym bags and backpacks near a bench. When he lifted a black and yellow backpack, Casey smiled. Strokes of luck were rare in her business, but not impossible. A familiar backpack and great running skills, though, didn't mean she could confront him. Casey removed a notepad and pen from her shoulder bag and caught up with the girls who'd been ogling the athletes.

“Excuse me,” she said, and smiled. “I'm writing an article about promising high school athletes, and I was wondering if you could tell me the name of the tall guy who just won that last race.”

“Speed's about all the dork's got going for him,” a girl answered.

Her friends laughed.

“That bad, huh?”

“You don't want to know.”

“Is he your school's fastest runner?”

“One of them,” another girl replied, “but Karl hasn't got what it takes to become a world-class anything.”

“Karl who?”

“Karl P. Hawthorne,” the girl said. “Or K.P., as he likes to be called. Anyhow, you should talk to Allen and Jason. They're our best sprinters. Karl only does eight and fifteen hundred meters.”

“Thanks.”

Stan would be happy. She should be, too, but Lou was fighting for his life and it seemed Mother had killed Gustaf Osterman. Worse, Darcy was lurking out there, willing to murder people for three million bucks. Regret, fear, and anger trampled on any good feeling she'd started to have.

WHEN CASEY RETURNED
from Van Tech at 1:00
PM
, Rhonda wasn't home. Just as well. She'd want to know what had happened at Mother's, and Casey wasn't looking forward to answering. Still, she supposed Rhonda should know. But first, Stan needed to hear about Karl P. Hawthorne. She dialed his number.

Stan listened, then said, “I should reprimand you for working on an assignment I transferred to someone else, but I get why you did it. So write up what you saw and I'll call
VPD
.”

“No problem.”

Casey glanced at her message machine. Strange that she still hadn't heard from Lalonde about the evidence, unless he'd found Mother and Darcy and was busy interrogating them. She heard Rhonda's station wagon pull up to the house. Casey went downstairs and into the kitchen.

“Damn it!” Rhonda slammed the fridge door. “Forgot the bloody milk!”

She forgot all the time, but usually didn't get this angry. “What's wrong?” Casey asked. “Besides the milk?”

Rhonda let out a puff of air. “I went to see Mom. She's trying to bully me and Summer into staying with her a few days.”

“Not a bad idea.”

“It damn well is. I'm not living under the same roof with that woman again.” She slumped into a chair. “Speaking of mothers, how'd it go at Lillian's?”

“She wasn't there, so I went in.”

“God, Casey, are you sure no one saw you?”

“I was seen all right.”

As Casey told her about Krueger, the cleaver, and the blue sequined dress, Rhonda's bloodshot eyes didn't blink. When she'd finished her story she waited for Rhonda to say something, but she just sat there staring.

“Poor Lillian,” she said finally.

“That's it? That's all you can say?”

“Not much more to say, except that she's finally gone off the deep end.”

“I learned something else.” Casey hesitated. “It turns out the murdered man wasn't Dad but a guy named Gustaf Osterman. He worked for Theo Ziegler, too, which means he knew Mother and Darcy.”

Rhonda frowned. “That can't be. I talked to Marcus, remember? Did Lillian tell you that crap?”

“The pathologist and the police verified her story.”

“She probably paid them to.”

“I don't think so.”

Rhonda stood and leaned on the table. “The resemblance was perfect.”

“Thanks to some careful surgery.”

“Are you saying Lillian created a twin to upset me?”

“No, Theo arranged it. He wanted Gustaf to find the three million and wait for business contacts to show up, people who could have generated millions more for Theo's company.”

Rhonda gripped the table as if to steady herself. She looked kind of dazed.

“You okay?” Casey asked.

“Yeah. Bit much to take in, that's all.” She fetched her purse from the counter. “I'm going to get the milk. You need anything?”

“Yeah, I need Darcy caught and Lou to survive.”

Back in her apartment, Casey again checked for messages. Neither Barb nor Lalonde had called. She tried some yoga moves to ease the tension that stretched from shoulders to pelvis. But she knew the tension wouldn't go away until questions were answered, arrests made, and the friggin' money found. She couldn't put off the search any further. It was the only way the vultures would leave her and those she loved alone.

Dad had left her the notebook and a key to the house. Was the clue in the book or in the house? She'd already tried every hiding place she knew inside and out. She had to be missing something. Something in the design? She thought of the blueprints. Gislinde said Dad had planned to give them to her when he'd finished the place and supposedly forgot. But he'd died, and Gislinde, probably realizing Gustaf had taken over, was the one who'd forgotten about them. Had Dad inserted a clue in the prints? If Gustaf hadn't told Gislinde about his search for the money, she wouldn't have had a reason to show him the prints; prints she'd stored at her sister's place.

Casey scooped up the blueprints from her bedroom and then spread them over the kitchen table. Dad had loved creating hiding places. When she was little, he designed one in their medicine cabinet to keep drugs out of her reach. Could he have built a spot large enough to store three million bucks? Casey pored over the prints, room by room, until her intercom rang. She hoped it was Lalonde.

“This is your mother. I need to see you.”

Oh, crap. Had Mother seen her leave the building? Did she know the bloodstained dress was gone? No way was she ready for a confrontation. Then again, she never would be.

“Are you alone?” Casey asked.

“Yes.”

“Be down in a minute.”

She hid the prints and hurried downstairs, glad that Rhonda had gone to the store. The last thing she needed was her and Mother under the same roof.

When she opened the front door, Mother made a weak attempt at a smile. They didn't speak as Casey escorted her into her apartment.

“What are you doing here?”

Lillian surveyed the room. “I came to say goodbye. I'm leaving the country.”

“Permanently?”

“Do you care?”

“Detective Lalonde will. I imagine he's looking for you.”

“Really? I was just approached by a Vancouver police officer who's watching this place. I told him I'm your mother and am here on family business. He didn't seem to care.”

Casey sighed. Apparently a rookie on guard duty hadn't yet been informed that Mother was a prime murder suspect.

Lillian strolled toward the bay window. “I'm sure you don't want to discuss us, but I do. Think of it as a last request.”

Casey sat in the rocking chair and watched Mother.

“Have I caused you so much pain that you still can't talk about the past, Casey?”

She rocked back and forth. “I've never felt I was important to you.” She couldn't quite meet her mother's eyes. “Now, well, you're not someone I'd choose for a friend.”

“That's a shame,” her voice faltered, “because I'd choose you.”

“I'm a hard friend to make. I ask for honesty and trust.”

Lillian perched on the arm of the sofa. “I was honest with you the other day, wasn't I? It's the only meaningful gift I have.”

Casey wasn't sure she wanted this gift.

“You've gone to a lot of trouble to understand the past,” Lillian continued. “You're entitled to the whole truth.”

“Speaking of which, have you been in touch with Darcy since late yesterday afternoon?”

“No, and I've dumped that maniac.” Anger flashed across her face. “I'm sorry your friend was shot. Theo told me what happened.”

Casey stopped rocking. “Did he also tell you that Darcy murdered Dad and that I heard him practically admit it on tape?”

Watching Mother's complexion turn the color of chalk almost made Casey feel sorry for her. After she highlighted what she'd heard, Casey added, “And this is the piece of shit you chose for a lover?”

“Darcy may have acted on Theo's orders.”

“Prove it.”

Lillian removed a cigarette and lighter from her purse. “Theo had Gustaf take Marcus's place only days after the murder. Doesn't that imply premeditation?”

It did.

“Gustaf was a perfect likeness and too well rehearsed. They'd planned this a long time.” Her hand trembled as she lit the cigarette. “He looked and acted so much like Marcus, on the surface anyway. At first it was easy to pretend . . .” The sentence dissolved as she dragged on the cigarette.

“And you went along with the charade.” Casey stood. “You've been playing Theo's game for years.”

“I didn't know much about Theo's shadier deals for a long time. Remember, I was just the courier, the delivery person. Eventually, I learned more and wanted to leave, but he wouldn't let me walk away.”

“Uh-huh. Rhonda thinks you'd do or say anything to protect yourself.”

“Rhonda's not fit to judge me!”

Casey wouldn't let the anger faze her. “You've been playing games yourself, and a really cruel one with Rhonda.”

Lillian's appraising look lasted a long time. “Rhonda's hung onto you all these years by making you feel sorry for her. When did you decide to compensate her for my mistakes?”

“Compensate?”

“By becoming the daughter she always wanted, until Summer came along, anyway. Rhonda latched onto your kindness, then brainwashed you.” As she took another drag on her cigarette, Lillian's hands shook harder. “She's been holding you emotional hostage ever since.”