Casey headed for the door. “Let me change first and wash the grunge off my face.”
“That’s unnecessary,” Lalonde replied. “The sooner we go to the morgue, the quicker we’ll have answers.”
“This is a costume to attract trash, Detective.” She turned to Krueger. “Go figure, huh?”
Casey tried to move fast to the women’s locker room downstairs but Lalonde’s news had a paralyzing effect. The same thing had happened three years ago when that doctor called from Paris. She was at work then, too, eating a cheeseburger. In a heavy French accent, the man explained how botulism had killed Dad. Her first response had been anger. No one had even bothered to let her know he’d been sick. After the call, she threw up. Greg was driving the M9 at the time, so Lou had taken her home.
Casey reappeared twenty minutes later to find the detectives looking curiously at her, trying not to seem surprised. Casey attempted a smile. She’d replaced the gelled spikes with her usual light brown curls, the heavy makeup for a trace of lipstick, and the skimpy clothes with plum trousers and a silk blouse.
“Did you need to perform an entire makeover?”
“Why do a half-assed job?”
“For expediency?”
Following him to the exit, Casey rolled her eyes and waved at a worried-looking Amy. Lalonde chose the back seat of the Sebring, while Casey sat in front with Krueger.
“Tell me about the food poisoning in Paris,” Lalonde said.
“Dad died nine days after eating at a burger joint called Alvin’s All-Canadian Café. The bacterium was in a mayonnaise-based salad dressing.”
“How many others were ill?”
“No one, according to my lawyers.”
“Lawyers?”
“I’d heard that adults stood a fairly good chance of surviving the toxin. I wanted to know if the hospital had been negligent. The lawyers didn’t think so. Apparently, botulism’s not easy to diagnose when only one person’s been infected, and it took too long to find the source. By the time the doctors knew what was wrong, Dad was too far gone.”
“Bit odd that only one person was infected, isn’t it?”
“I thought so. It turned out that some fool used the remains of a jar of mayonnaise that hadn’t been refrigerated. The restaurant was busy at the time and no one would take responsibility for it.”
The drive to the airport to collect his body had been surreal and, in some ways, offensive. She’d had to pick up Dad from the cargo area, not that she would have wanted him swooping down the chute at the luggage carousel. But still . . . cargo.
Losing someone she loved and trusted had depressed her for a long time. Her adult relationships had never been as strong or trusting.
“I guess a blood analysis hasn’t been done yet,” Casey said. No one answered. “You guys really don’t want to tell me much, do you?”
Lalonde kept his gaze on the window.
• • •
Casey rubbed her arms and shivered. The morgue was colder than she thought it would be, or was she shivering because of the possibility that all her grief had been wasted on a lie? An attendant accompanied Lalonde to a labeled, oversized drawer and Casey’s heartbeat quickened. Lalonde produced a key and unlocked the compartment. The attendant slid a shrouded body toward them.
Someone touched Casey’s arm and she jumped. Krueger. Sympathy flashed across his face as he guided her nearer the body. She’d tried to mentally prepare for the sight of mutilated flesh and a close resemblance to Dad. One of last year’s criminology classes had discussed body decomposition. Nasty stuff. She vowed to stay cool and calm.
Lalonde turned to her. “Ready?”
Feet apart, arms crossed, and standing strong, she said, “Go ahead.”
One glimpse of the victim’s face and her stomach somersaulted. Gashes crisscrossed his scalp and descended to what remained of the left side of his face. Dried blood and bits of gray stuff matted his hair. Dozens of cuts mangled the upper half of his left arm and shoulder.
“Is this man Marcus Holland?” Lalonde asked.
Memories of Dad raced through her mind, images so vivid it was as if no time had passed and grief was just beginning.
“Is he your father, Miss Holland?”
“Just a sec.” Her legs grew shaky. Casey looked at the attendant. “Is there an appendectomy scar?”
She’d only glimpsed the scar once, by accident, after Dad’s operation twenty years ago.
Lalonde nodded to the attendant who lifted the sheet. Casey looked at the floor.
“There is,” the attendant said.
“Well, Miss Holland?” Lalonde asked.
Casey swayed toward the body, then recoiled, terrified of touching it. She tilted to one side. Hands gripped her arm and shoulder. Perspiration dampened her upper lip.
Lalonde said, “Get her some water.”
How could this man be Dad? It didn’t make sense. “No bloody way!”
“Are you saying this man isn’t your father?”
Pulling free of Krueger’s grasp, she charged out of the room.
Two
NORMALLY, CASEY LIKED Mondays. If the day went well, it set the tone for the week. If today’s events had set the tone, she’d stay in bed tomorrow. Sitting here beside a grave marked “Marcus Adam Holland,” she wondered who the hell she’d been visiting for three years. Casey picked blades of grass. How many times had she come here to think things through? The silence had always offered answers. Now there were only questions. The peace Cedar Ridge Cemetery had brought her was gone.
She studied the marble marker Lou helped her choose. Greg hadn’t wanted any part in funeral arrangements, so Lou volunteered. He always had been more supportive than her husband. Lou had met Dad lots of times. Three hundred people strolled past the open casket that day, and no one had said a thing about mourning the wrong guy. His deception had been perfect.
Why had Dad abandoned the people he loved? She thought he’d been happy with his life. Busy with work and a parade of bimbos until he outgrew the silliness and hooked up with Rhonda. While Casey hadn’t seen much of him those last two years, they’d still shared problems and secrets. They’d been so much alike that she often knew his thoughts before he told her. Soulmates. Of course, she’d once thought the same about Greg.
How had Dad managed to fake his death? Casey smacked the black marble. Behind her, someone’s knee cracked. She turned to find Detective Lalonde picking a quarter out of the grass.
“Did you drop this?”
“Doubt it.”
He pocketed the coin. “With six kids to support, even the loose change counts.”
“Are all six yours, or is it a blended family?”
“Blended about as well as oil and water, but that stays between us.”
“My theme of the day,” Casey sighed, “Dads with secrets.”
“Did you hit the headstone out of frustration or anger?”
She ran her hand over the clipped grass. “The funeral was a scam.”
“Then the man in the morgue is your father?”
“Looks that way.” She stood up. “Sorry about running off. I needed time alone.”
“No problem. You were never out of sight.”
She met Lalonde’s gaze. “You said you found him in a house on Marine Drive?”
“On the main floor, in front of a chair in his den. It appears the killer came up from behind while your father was still seated.”
Casey pictured the cuts on his left side. “He must have raised his arm to ward off the blows.”
Not an image she wanted to dwell on. She focused instead on pansies surrounding a nearby tree trunk. A large, deep blue and black Steller’s jay squawked from a branch.
“What did your father do for a living, Miss Holland?”
“He was an architect with his own firm. His associate and friend Vincent Wilkes inherited the business.”