The Opposite of Dark

He lowered his arms. “Write up your report after you see our guests.” He nodded toward the door.

“Guests? Benny said a detective wanted to see me.”

“There are two of them.”

She noticed the way Stan’s lips pressed together until they almost disappeared between his gray beard and moustache. His lips always vanished when he was tense. “What’s up?”

His gaze didn’t quite meet hers. “You’ll see.”

Hmm. The last time Stan avoided eye contact and tensed up like that was two years ago, when she’d told him she was divorcing Greg. He never had coped with crying women too well.

“Tomorrow you can start on the purse snatchings you’ve been bugging me for,” he said. “Drop by for details whenever. I’m going to grab some lunch.”

Leaning close to the door, Casey heard male voices. She strutted inside. It took three seconds to realize that her black leather miniskirt, torn stockings, and stilettos were making a bad impression.

The older man, stiff and solemn in his brown suit, stared at her spiky hair while the younger guy glanced at her D cups. Understandable. The girls were barely contained in the tank top under her jacket.

On the other side of the door, Stan yelled, “I ain’t sitting in a friggin’ pink chair!”

Casey smiled as she nodded to the officers. “I’m Casey Holland.”

“Detective Lalonde with the West Vancouver Police Department,” the older man said, displaying his shield. “This is Corporal Krueger.”

West Van police? What were they doing out of their jurisdiction? As Krueger shook Casey’s hand, his long thick moustache twitched.

“While we waited for you, Mr. Cordaseto told us a bit about MPT,” Lalonde said. “I’d forgotten that the government’s pilot project became privately funded. I thought it was still at least partly subsidized.”

“Funding ran out, but the government insists on fewer cars on the road, so investors bought it twelve years ago, for a good tax break, apparently. Mainland fills the void in the suburbs and shares the load with TransLink buses on busier routes.”

“I understand you’ve worked here ten years?”

Why were they interested in her background? “Yes—five as a driver and five in security.”

“And you’re a civilian doing police work?” Krueger asked.

Casey didn’t appreciate the disdain in his voice. “It’s not much different than loss prevention work in retail, except we’re mobile, and, as you guys know, it’s too expensive to have police riding buses all day nabbing vandals and creeps. Most of the people we catch commit petty crimes and end up with fines, probation, or community service.”

“The suspect you pursued today sounded dangerous.”

“Not really. He squeezes thighs and runs away,” she replied. “If he was armed or more aggressive, the police would be involved.”

“Do you like this work?” Krueger asked.

“It’s more interesting than being a driver, unless you count the time a guy pulled a knife on me. After that, I went into security to learn how to protect myself and others.”

She was proud of the gutsy reputation she’d earned among Mainland’s staff, even from old-fashioned farts who thought women didn’t belong in security.

Lalonde said, “Few people would choose security work after an experience like that.”

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.”