The Opposite of Dark

by Debra Purdy Kong

  “I’d burn the money before I let Darcy get a single dime.” Casey popped the cassette out of the player. “I should phone Lalonde, see if he’s found the bastard.”

  “If Darcy doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be.”

  “Mother will lead them to him and she’s not so hard to pin down. All I have to do is tell her I found the cash and she’ll come running.”

  “Have you?”

  “No.” Interesting how quickly he asked the question. “What’s your next move?”

  “Find Darcy. Once I tell him about the evidence, he’ll come after me for the tape, which is why I should store it in a safe place.”

  “I’ll find the safe place.” She dropped the cassette in her purse. “But go ahead and tell Darcy you have it.”

  “To prove I really am on your side, here.” Theo handed her the letter, sketch, and keys. “Be careful, Casey. With or without this evidence, Darcy’s not finished with you until he has the money.”

  “I’m not finished with him either.” She opened the door. “What’ll you do with Darcy when he comes after you?”

  “Turn him over to the police.” Theo stood. “I’ll let you know when that happens.”

  Casey watched him leave. She sat there a few minutes, thinking about everything Theo had said and wondering if he really would go after Darcy. Finally, she stood and headed back to the waiting room where she found Barb slumped in a chair and looking haggard.

  “I’m still waiting to see him,” Barb said. “Maybe you should go home.”

  “I can’t.” Casey reached for her hand. “Not yet.”

  She left the room and started to look for her phone until she remembered that it was probably still with Lou, or in his apartment. She’d have to find a public phone to call Rhonda. She’d need to call Stan, too, to let him know why she might be late for work tomorrow.

  • • •

  Casey didn’t know what time she fell asleep in the hospital’s alcove, but when she awoke, the clock on the wall showed five-thirty; a new day. With her ears ringing and a migraine forming, Casey shuffled back to the Sheckters’ waiting room. Chairs were occupied with sleeping people, many of whom she’d met at barbecues, Christmas parties, and weddings.

  Barb smiled wearily at Casey and stepped out of the room. “I’ve seen him,” she murmured. “They took the bullet out and the doctor said he’s doing well.”

  “Will he be okay?”

  “They’re cautiously optimistic. The next twenty-four hours will tell the story.” She hugged Casey. “I have a good feeling about this, so please go home and get some sleep. I’ll call when you can visit.”

  Casey didn’t move. How could she crawl into a comfy bed and leave Lou here?

  “I’ll call, I promise,” Barb said.

  She gave her another hug and then returned to her family, leaving Casey to wander down a corridor. A sign pointed to ICU straight ahead. Casey walked toward the unit. At the end of the corridor, the wide double doors identified Unit Four. Each door had a narrow pane of glass covered by a burgundy curtain. She tried to peer through the curtains.

  “Can I help you?” a woman asked behind her.

  Casey turned to find a nurse watching her with curiosity. “I have a friend in ICU, but I’m not sure which room. His name’s Lou Sheckter.”

  “I’m afraid only family can visit patients here.”

  “I know. His mom said Lou’s doing well. Is that still true?”

  “He’s young and strong, that one.” The nurse patted Casey’s shoulder. “Hang in there.”

  The nurse pushed a large button beside the entrance and walked between the opening doors that exposed beds and equipment. Curtains hid patients’ faces. She wanted to run inside and look for Lou; even took a step forward, but the doors closed. Reluctantly, Casey left.

  At this time of morning, traffic was light and she was home in fifteen minutes. The whole neighborhood seemed at peace, as if nothing awful had happened here. Casey tiptoed through the quiet house, relieved that Rhonda wasn’t sitting here, expecting an update. She just didn’t have the energy to talk right now. In her apartment, she swallowed a couple of painkillers, shoved the sketch, letter, and cassette under her pillow, and then collapsed into bed.

  Three hours later, the rumble of a muffler-less car woke her. Since her head didn’t hurt as much, she got up and called the hospital. All they would say was that Lou was still alive. Casey made herself a coffee, dialed Lalonde’s number, and got voice mail yet again. Why didn’t that man ever answer his damn phone?

  “Detective, it’s Casey Holland. I’ve been given some evidence that proves my father was murdered three years ago, and I was wondering if you could come by to pick it up. The evidence makes it clear that Darcy Churcott killed Dad, so please call me.”

  The sight of yesterday’s bloodstained shirt on the floor made her queasy. She needed to keep busy. Maybe talk to Mother about Dad’s murder. She found the business card Mother gave her and then dialed the number. No answer there either. She tried Mother’s work number and was informed by a receptionist that Mother wouldn’t be in today. Damn it. Was she home or not? One way or the other, she’d find out. Casey retrieved her lock pick set from the top of the fridge. Afraid to leave the evidence here, she shoved it all in her handbag.

  Rhonda was sliding a sheet of cookies into the oven when Casey entered the kitchen.

  “They’re chocolate chip, Lou’s favorite,” Rhonda said. “How is he?”

  “I just called. He’s alive, but that’s all I know.”

  “Are you going back to the hospital?”

  “After I search Mother’s place.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No, Rhonda, if a neighbor calls the police or Darcy’s there, we could be in serious trouble. Summer needs you safe here. How’s she doing?”

  “Still shaken about Lou. I told her she didn’t have to go to school today, but she wanted to.” Rhonda paused. “I explained what I could about Darcy to the principal. Staff will keep an eye on her and I’ll pick her up after school.”

  “Does she know he shot Lou?”

  Rhonda nodded. “She’s handling that part better than I am.”

  “Summer’s a tough kid.”

  “Glad one of us is.”

  Casey headed for her car. After a trip to her safe-deposit box, it took twenty minutes to reach Mother’s condominium. Three more seconds to spot Krueger in a car opposite the building’s entrance, and his head turning as she drove past.

  Twenty-six

  WHY WAS KRUEGER here? Casey found a parking spot half a block away. She turned off the engine and looked around. It was no surprise that Mother lived in one of Vancouver’s trendier areas. The factories and warehouses once dominating Yaletown had been transformed into upscale condos, restaurants, and shops in what were now called heritage buildings.

  Casey put on her sunglasses and ambled down the sidewalk. Might as well get this over with. Smiling, she approached Krueger, who was slouched behind the steering wheel.

  “Hi, there.” Casey leaned down to the open window. “Who are you waiting for?”

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Krueger replied. “Go home.”

  “Did you find Darcy?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe he’ll pop by to see Mother. Is Detective Lalonde watching the back entrance?”

  “Go home, Miss Holland.”

  “If Mother’s inside, she’ll talk to me, not you. She really hates cops.” Krueger’s blank expression was getting on her nerves. “I left a message with the detective about some evidence I received this morning.”

  “He’ll call you when he’s free,” Krueger said. “Better get going.”

  “Since I came all this way, I’ll grab a coffee from the shop around the corner first.”

  She marched away before Krueger could respond. Maybe Lalonde wasn’t here after all. Still, someone else could be watching the underground parking and back entrance.

  When she reached t
he other side of the building, Casey pulled on a hat from her bag, then removed her jacket. Not much of a disguise, but it might be enough. She spotted an entrance right away. Unlocking the door took some time, partly from a lack of practice with the picks, but also because it wasn’t easy to look like she was having key trouble when she was trying to manipulate the pick and tension tool. As she’d hoped, some cheapskate had installed a regular pin tumbler lock.

  Inside the building, the bank of mailboxes revealed that Mother lived in the penthouse. Figured. Casey stepped off the elevator into a spacious area of slate blue walls, halogen lights, and thick carpeting. She pressed her ear against Mother’s door. No sound. She knocked and waited. Still nothing. Casey pulled latex gloves out of her jeans pocket.

  Tools ready, she looked at the elevator. The digital message read “lobby.” In the privacy of the foyer, it was much easier to feel the vibration of the pins, to keep the pressure on them with the tension tool until she heard the click.

  Heart thumping, Casey opened the door. “Anyone here?”

  After ensuring the place was empty, Casey began inspecting the large, tidy penthouse. Mother’s home was a showpiece devoid of personal items or used coffee mugs. The bathroom contained a soaker tub and a separate shower stall with flowers etched on the glass doors. There were double sinks, light bulbs surrounding the mirror, and what looked like gold-plated faucets. Everything a spoiled woman could want.

  In the living room, a computer printer sat next to an answering machine. Mother probably had a laptop with her. The machine’s light flashed. Why would she use a machine instead of voice mail? Or did she use both for different numbers? Casey pressed the play button and jumped at the sound of Darcy’s voice.

  “Some jerk got himself shot at Casey’s place and the cops are everywhere. Phone me.”

  The next three messages were also from Darcy, each increasingly abrupt. The fifth message was from Theo, telling her what had happened, and that he’d lost Darcy. “I’ll pop by to see if he shows up,” he’d said. “But you’d better disappear a while.” The sixth call was Darcy again. He was furious she wasn’t home. “Have you turned on me too? Don’t do this, Lil.”

  Darcy’s final call was nothing but curses followed by a slamming of the receiver. Casey looked at the machine. So, where was Mother?

  In the bathroom, Casey opened the cabinet and drawers. No sign of a toothbrush or toothpaste. She searched bedroom closets for a blue sequined dress and hat. In the living room, she lifted chair and sofa cushions, stopping when she spotted a tiny splotch of dark rust on the pale green and ivory cushion. More traces were visible on the back of the sofa, just above the seat. Why this imperfection in such a perfect place? Casey touched the stain. A fragment crumbled and fell into the crack where the seat met the back of the sofa. She removed the cushion and examined the spot again. Not rust. The stains were too dark.

  Staring into the crack, she spotted something shiny. Cautiously, Casey slipped her fingertips into the crevice and touched a hard, cool object. Metal? Slowly, she squeezed her hand into the crevice. Gripping the object, she pulled, but it was wedged in tight. She pulled harder until the end of a cylindrical handle appeared. Casey lifted out a meat cleaver, scattering dried blood on her jeans and the sofa seat. Horrified, she hurried to the kitchen and retrieved a paper bag she’d seen in a cupboard.

  After placing the weapon in the bag, she knelt on the carpet to retrieve the cushion that had become partially wedged under the sofa. Peeking underneath, she noticed strips of duct tape running down the lumpy underside.

  Casey studied the sofa perched on curving walnut legs. The furniture looked so light that if three people rushed to sit down they’d fall backward. She pulled on the back of the sofa until it thumped onto the floor. The lumps shifted. She stripped off some of the tape, reached inside, and felt sequins. Even before she saw the garment Casey knew the sequins were blue.

  She removed the dress and saw splotches of blood. Casey sat on the floor, her stomach roiling. Mother had done a lot of horrible things in her life. But murder?

  She placed the dress in another paper bag, then searched the lining again. A sequined hat appeared, also dotted with blood. She re-taped the lining, then set the furniture upright. It was stupid of Mother to have kept these things.

  Had she killed Gustaf for the money or had she fallen for the same face she’d married thirty years earlier? One engaged to somebody else? In a sordid twist of fate, Mother would go to jail for killing Marcus Holland’s impostor while her lover went to jail for killing the original.

  At the elevator, Casey hesitated. She could burn the dress, throw the cleaver off a bridge, and let the crime remain unsolved. After all, Mother was the only family she had; but to help her get away with murder? With a good lawyer using the crime-of-passion tactic, Mother wouldn’t stay in prison long. Casey stared at the bags. What to do?

  The elevator doors slid open. One glance at the person inside and Casey wanted to sink through the floor.

  Twenty-seven

  CASEY WAS TICKED off with Krueger. He didn’t have to be so rude about grabbing the evidence bags from her. Nor did she appreciate the threat to charge her with breaking and entering, among other things. And confiscating her lock picks was totally unnecessary.

  From the coffee shop, she’d called Barb Sheckter and learned that Lou was still hanging in there. Barb had seen him again, but Lou had been too out of it to talk. Casey was afraid to ask when she could visit. Barb had sounded so exhausted. Yet sitting around waiting for permission to see him would drive her nuts, so better to focus on work.

  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 a
nd 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.