“Then what should I do with the second Marcus Holland when his body’s released?”
“Uh . . . well, let me consult with the morgue and our head office, and I’ll get back to you.”
Casey gave him her cell phone and landline numbers. She covered her face with her hands. It was all too weird. Twenty-four hours had passed since this ordeal began. In some ways she felt worse than she had yesterday. The thought of a second funeral made her cringe. The first one was bad enough, especially after some freak trashed Dad’s house, forcing the reception to move to Rhonda’s place. This time, no announcements would be made in the paper.
Casey felt a headache coming on. Before it got worse, she made a quick call to find out when Dad’s remains could be claimed. After a long wait and a couple of transfers, she learned that Mother, of all people, had asked to claim the body. Since Mother wasn’t next of kin, Casey refused to give consent.
She wasn’t too surprised that Mother hadn’t tried to contact her about Dad. After all, Casey had made it clear that she didn’t want any contact between them, and Mother hadn’t come to the funeral three years ago. Why did she want his body now? What made her think she had any right to him?
Casey grabbed a teddy bear from her shelf and threw it across the room. Rhonda used to say it was better to lash out at stuffed animals than people. Soon all the bears were bouncing off the sofa, thumping against walls, or skidding along the floor. Adrenalin pumped with the ferocity that only criminals and her mother could bring on.
Casey’s vision blurred and the throbbing in her head escalated. Damn. A migraine was coming. She didn’t get them often, but the symptoms could be harsh. Casey closed her eyes a moment. The only remedy for it was to take a painkiller and sleep.
Casey shuffled to the bathroom, popped a couple of pills, and then slid under her comforter. The last thought she had before dozing off was that she’d have to pick up all those bears.
Six
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.