The Opposite of Dark (6 page)

BY THE TIME
Casey had finished another uneventful shift, grabbed some food, then talked to Dad's Marine Drive neighbors, it was dark. No one admitted to having known Dad. Few had even seen him, and most didn't want to discuss the night of the murder because the police had already asked enough questions.

“Marine Drive's a busy street,” an elderly neighbor said, “with cars speeding along all the time. Some passenger in a vehicle could have spotted a car in your dad's driveway, or saw someone entering the house. I did see a couple of people walking their dogs that night. One of them is a tall lady with short red hair who lives down the street. Didn't recognize the other young fella.”

Casey had spoken with a woman who'd been walking her dog, but the lady had been back home by seven-thirty and hadn't noticed anything. Casey had also tried to reach Dad's lawyer, but the guy's number was out of service, nor was he listed anywhere. The only good news was that her migraine had gone away and her nap had dredged up a useful memory: an easier way to enter the house than lock picks would be.

On the chance that Lalonde's people hadn't finished with the crime scene, Casey put on the gloves from her first aid kit. She removed a flashlight from the glove box and then a tire iron from the trunk, should a weapon be needed.

Standing by her car, she studied the house. Crime scene tape still stretched along the property, but there were no signs of police anywhere. Despite Lalonde's warning to stay away, the temptation to unravel Dad's secrets had drawn her here like an enormous magnet. She needed to walk through those rooms, needed to try to make sense out of everything she'd learned.

She'd seen enough this morning to know that floodlights were everywhere. Motion sensors would probably light up the yard the second she stepped onto the property, which was why she'd told the neighbors, including Gil, that she'd be here tonight, so they wouldn't worry about activity at the house.

Casey checked to ensure her cell phone and lock picks were tucked inside her jacket pockets. Taking a deep breath, she ducked under the tape and stepped in front of a tall bush. Two narrow windows flanked each side of the double doors. As expected, no lights were on in the house. Her flashlight scanned each side of the door in search of a potted plant. At their old place, Dad had kept a spare key buried in the pot. She'd often badgered him to buy a fake plant with sand so she wouldn't have to stick her hand in dirt to pull out the little bag with the key. Dad had refused. Said she'd learn not to forget her key this way. He'd been right. But there were no potted plants here, not even a hanging basket.

The second Casey stepped forward, the floodlights and porch lights came on. She stopped and looked around. Okay, fine. Nothing to worry about. Glancing at the damaged alarm system by the front door, she marched across the yard and down the right side of the property, noting the fence between this and Gil's place. She reached the only door along the exterior, the one Gil would have seen from his garden. The broken window looked boarded up tight, and more crime scene tape was fastened across the door.

The floodlights allowed Casey to see the single lock without the flashlight. Studying the deadbolt lock, she smiled. Dad never had liked big fancy locks. Still, it took Casey some time before the tools did their job. Pinpricks of sweat dampened the back of her shirt. She recalled Lalonde's warning and feared what she might find, but she couldn't walk away. There'd be no peace until she understood what had motivated Dad to create a new life. Face the fear, she told herself. It's what he'd taught her. Casey opened the door.

Inside, her flashlight exposed a computer monitor, banker's lamp, and phone on a teak desk. She checked the phone. Still in service. Her flashlight beam swept past a pair of French doors opening onto the living room. Left of the doors, bookshelves built into the wall stretched to more French doors at the far end of the room. Those doors appeared to lead to the foyer. To Casey's left, three tall windows overlooked the front yard.

Aside from a few office supplies, the partially open drawers were empty. In the credenza behind the desk were a half-dozen liquor bottles and glasses. A printer sat on top of the credenza, the
CPU
, minus the hard drive, beside it.

Casey stepped farther into the room, stopping at the edge of a rug. Dad's body had been found here. She saw what looked like light-colored dirt on the navy rug and possibly darker splotches, though it was hard to tell the color. A pale blue and coral upholstered chair, however, revealed a few blood spatters. She swept her flashlight to the right and spotted four indentations where another chair must have sat, the chair Dad had been using when attacked. Probably taken by the forensics team. Beyond the rug, a trail of dry blood droplets led to the foyer. As far as she knew, Lalonde hadn't yet found the murder weapon. Maybe the killer took the cleaver with him.

Casey stepped back and leaned against the desk. The room's smell was a strange combination of metal, chemicals, sweat, and possibly blood. She could almost picture Dad sitting with his legs outstretched and eyes closed like he always did, unaware that someone was creeping toward him with the cleaver raised.

Casey stood straight to banish the image. Who was capable of such brutality? Not anyone she knew, surely. Why dwell on suspects anyway? Lalonde could deal with that. She entered the living room, where an elaborate entertainment center filled the wall to her right. A smoked-glass coffee table and more chairs were placed before a long sofa facing the full-length windows. Moonlight exposed a rippling, silver-laced ocean.

As Casey tiptoed down the room and into a small nook off the main living area, the yard's motion sensor lights switched off, darkening the interior too. She found her way into a dining room where a crystal chandelier glistened in moonlight from the windows.

In the foyer, a suit of armor stood by the staircase. Dad had always wanted one, who knew why. Her flashlight zeroed in on another door just beyond the armor. This had to be the kitchen. To build one in the center of a house was so like Dad.

Casey reached for the door handle, then spotted traces of blood and hesitated. If this was Dad's blood, how had it gotten this far? She'd never thought about who cleaned up after the police were done with a crime scene. Was it up to the victim's family?

Opening the door slowly, Casey stepped inside. A rectangular island dominated the room. She thought she smelled onions. More blood splotched the floor and cupboard below the sink. She stared at the stains. Had the killer come in here to wash up before leaving? With that many strikes to the scalp, a fair amount of blood must have splattered him or her. There was no sign of a dishcloth, soap, or towel, or even dirty dishes. Placing the tire iron on the island, she knelt to examine a slightly squiggly pattern. Made by coarse material? A corduroy trouser leg maybe?

Casey strolled around the kitchen. Had Dad left clues about his life somewhere? She walked around the room twice until she remembered the shelf paper. When Mother still lived with them, Dad used to hide money and his itinerary from her under the lining paper at the back of the cutlery drawer. He'd wanted Casey to know where he'd be, told her that Mother had enjoyed too many wild shopping sprees to be trusted. Casey later learned the real reason for Mother's desperate need to keep tabs on his itinerary was so she could plan her trysts. Casey had lost count of the times Mother had tried to trick or bully information from her.

She never did learn when Dad had first suspected Mother's infidelity. But when he caught her in the act with Rhonda's husband, he wasted no time ending things. “Acknowledge the problem and act quickly,” that was his motto. Having been on the receiving end of this method in her teens, Casey had learned to use the strategy well.

Dad wouldn't have needed that sort of hiding spot in this house unless he'd planned for her to be here at some point. On the other hand, he had lived with plenty of secrets and maybe hiding notes beneath lining paper was merely the habit of a paranoid man. Casey started on the drawers nearest her. When she reached the cutlery drawer, a tiny bit of one corner felt slightly loose. She removed the plastic cutlery tray, pried the corner up with her fingernail and then peeled it back. She hadn't gone far when she felt a slip of paper.

Casey slid the paper out and found herself looking at a grocery receipt. The receipt wasn't large: eight items bought, nothing unusual, but Dad had bought these items about a month before his death in France. On the back, the name “Simone Archambault” had been written in Dad's familiar scrawl, along with a telephone number. So, they had known each other before that night at Alvin's All-Canadian Café. Vincent said Dad had intended to tell her about the house. Why had he wanted her to find Simone's name this way? She stuffed the receipt in her pocket and put the shelf paper and tray back in place. Picking up her tire iron, Casey left the room and climbed the spiral staircase.

At the top of the stairs, the darkness dissipated slightly and she caught a whiff of damp soil. Casey pointed the flashlight on a small atrium in the center of the floor. Six trees dominated the area, two of which nearly reached the glass ceiling. Entwined branches created a collage of leaves. Smaller plants sat on tabletops.

Casey started forward when something struck her shoulder. A second strike on her back forced her to her knees. With the third strike Casey's forehead smacked the tiled floor. She dropped the tire iron. Someone kicked it away.

With both hands on the flashlight, she swung it against her attacker's leg so hard the batteries rattled and the light died. A deep voice grunted. She thought of the ponytailed guy. The light blinked back on and she struck again. Her attacker yelled. Casey tried to scramble away but a kick to her ribs made her collapse. She rolled onto her back, dropping the flashlight.

The man lunged for the light, but she grabbed it and scuttled backward along the tiles. All she could see was a dark sweatshirt with a hood pulled so low that it covered most of the face.

He tried to stomp her foot and missed. Casey kept moving but couldn't gain any ground. He grabbed her ankles, pulled her toward him and knelt down, straddling her hips. The flashlight darted over his jeans, the floor, table legs. His thighs squeezed her body. Hot, bony fingers gripped her neck until Casey rammed the flashlight into his crotch. He groaned in agony and collapsed onto his side.

Casey bolted for the staircase. She took the steps two at a time, leaping over the last three. Gasping for air, she turned the deadbolt, yanked the door open, and raced outside.