“I got lucky,” Denver said. “Novak’s around and he was the one who talked to the victim’s friend. He gave me her number.”
“Thank you, I really appreciate it.” Casey surveyed the parking lot to ensure she wouldn’t be overheard. “Any more news on a possible leak?”
“No. Hear anything from your end?”
“Nothing concrete.”
“What about not concrete?”
She hesitated. “I have a theory. But if Stan finds out that I told you before running it by him, I’ll be in big trouble.”
“Understood. When are you going to tell him?”
Good question. She hadn’t raised her latest suspicion about Philippe because she had no proof, yet Stan was capable of reading between the lines. Philippe had already had lunch with Erin and he knew where she lived. Maybe Stan’s decision to fire him was based partly on those facts.
“I’m not sure.”
“Come on, Casey. I wasn’t supposed to give you witness contact information, but we’re friends and I trust you.”
Denver hadn’t played the friendship card before, which meant he was serious. If she wanted his support and cooperation in the future . . . “I’ve been wondering about Philippe.”
“I had a feeling his name might come up.”
“He’s been doing things he shouldn’t have.” Casey told him about Philippe’s lunch with Erin, and that Philippe would soon be fired.
“Thanks for telling me, and be careful around him, okay?”
“I’ll try.”
Denver took a few seconds to respond. “Not the can-do attitude I was hoping for.”
“What can I say? Philippe doesn’t bring out the best in me.”
“Then stay away from him and take care of yourself.”
“Sounds like a plan.” She just wasn’t sure she could stick to it.
. . .
By the time Casey reached Hilda’s neighborhood, she was tired and irritable, thanks to heavy traffic. She hadn’t told anyone that the headaches still occurred far too often, especially if she’d been active. Even now, she could feel the pressure starting to form. She pulled up in front of Daisy’s house and popped a couple of pills.
Daisy emerged, carrying a bouquet of flowers. Instead of the usual tracksuit, she was wearing a skirt and blouse, along with the ubiquitous straw hat. Casey had called her an hour ago and offered to drive her to the hospital. Their conversation had been brief. She’d sensed that Daisy didn’t want to talk much.
Daisy slid in beside her. “Hello, Casey.” She frowned. “Are those bruises?”
Casey had forgotten that Daisy hadn’t seen her since before the attack. “Yes, but they’re nearly gone, and I’m doing much better.”
Daisy shook her head. “I’m sorry that happened to you. Hilda and I planned to visit, but then her husband fell and broke his hip. We were making daily trips to a different hospital than yours, and I wound up looking after her.”
So, Hilda had been on her own. That could explain why she’d been targeted. “No worries. I was too doped up for conversation. How’s Hilda doing?”
Daisy straightened her shoulders as if resolved to be clear and strong. “Not great. She was kicked a lot, including in the head.”
“Oh god.”
“I think she’ll make it, physically anyway. The doctors are annoyingly noncommittal about her prognosis. Hilda’s four kids are coming in from other parts of the country. They’ll give me more details.”
“Can you show me Hilda’s house?”
“Sure. It’s just around the corner.”
Casey cruised down Hilda’s quiet residential street. A number of houses had tall hedges that made it difficult to see front doors from the road. Such was the case with Hilda’s property. Casey stared at the police tape along the front. It looked like the crime-scene techs hadn’t finished. An unoccupied police cruiser and sedan were parked out front. She wouldn’t be surprised if Novak was inside.
“Who found her, and when?” Casey asked.
“The next-door neighbor heard a crash about two in the morning and called police,” Daisy murmured, turning to Casey. “Why would anyone beat up an old woman who carried little cash and would be incapable of identifying her attacker?”
“Hard to say.” And even tougher to describe. Casey didn’t have the heart to say that the violence was probably just a bonus for that silver-eyed psycho. “Had Hilda been talking about her husband’s hospitalization in public?”
“Constantly. She was worried about him. At least they’re in the same hospital. I think they’re going to move her into his room.”
Erin must have overheard Hilda talking about her husband. Now that Erin and the other man had vanished, perhaps Hilda was their last target, at least in the Kerrisdale area.
“I was with Hilda last night until she fell asleep,” Daisy mumbled. “When I left, I made sure I locked the doors.”
Casey saw the guilt behind her crestfallen face. “Daisy, none of the home invasions happened because of unlocked doors. Anyway, I heard on the news that her door was kicked in.”
“They took advantage of her confusion,” Daisy said. “I should have stayed with her.”
“I understand, but the truth is that a second woman in the house might not have stopped them.”
Daisy’s mouth quivered. “Her daughter was going to stay with her, but then Hilda’s grandson became ill. I wanted her to get an alarm like we have, but she and her husband don’t have much money.”
“Did Hilda say whether anyone had come to the house recently? Jehovah’s Witnesses, for instance?”
“She never mentioned it, but two of those religious nuts darkened my doorstep a few days ago.”
“Do you remember what they looked like?”
“Dark suits, pamphlets. One had a beard and the other looked like he could use a shave, which struck me as odd. I warned them that if they tried to give me one of those damn pamphlets, they’d go straight to hell just for annoying me.” Daisy peered at Casey. “You’ve got a strange look on your face. Those Witnesses were phony, weren’t they? Part of the home-invasion gang?”
“Possibly. Was one of them tall and husky?”
“Now that you mention it, yes. He was the unshaven one.”
“What color were his eyes?”
“Can’t say. He wore sunglasses.”
“If you ever see those guys again, call the police right away.”
“Count on it.” Daisy nodded, the flower on her hat bobbing up and down.
TWENTY
Casey grimaced at her image in the dressing room’s mirror. All these layers of white tulle beneath the chiffon made her look like the top half of a lemon meringue pie, but without the tasty, golden-brown tips. Casey still hadn’t decided if she even wanted a white wedding dress, but Barb had insisted that she try this silly frou-frou thing on.
Although the dress was all wrong, Casey had to admit that shopping was a welcome change of scene from yesterday’s depressing hospital visit. A heavily sedated Hilda hadn’t recognized her or Daisy. As hard as Daisy tried to hide her emotions, she was clearly upset. Her greatest fear, she confided to Casey, was that Hilda’s dementia would escalate.
“How do you like the dress?” Barb asked on the other side of the curtain.
“I don’t think it’s me.”
Barb poked her head inside. “It’s lovely! Come and show everyone. Do you want me to zip you up?”
“No thanks.” The dress wouldn’t be on long enough to bother.
Feeling like a total moron, Casey stepped out of the room and stood before Summer and Lou’s aunts, and a salesclerk who couldn’t quite manage a genuine smile. Given Summer’s smirk and the aunts’ pensive faces, they didn’t like the dress either. Mercifully, her best friend Kendal had to work today. Otherwise, Kendal would have snapped a photo of her in this hideous mess and posted it on Facebook with a smart-ass caption.
“What do you think?” Barb asked the group.
“She look
s like a giant spool of white cotton candy,” one aunt remarked.
Summer laughed.
“That dress could swallow Lou whole,” the other added.
“Sore ribs don’t like snug bodices,” Casey said, tugging on the fabric. “Maybe I should try something a little looser and simpler.”
“Gotcha. We’ll keep looking.” Barb swooshed Casey back into the curtained room.
“How about you, Summer?” Casey called out. “See anything you like?”
“I found a pink gown for her with a bow in the back,” Barb answered. “She says pink’s not her color, but I think she and Kendal would look adorable.”
Kendal would kill anyone who tried to make her look adorable. Casey slowly worked the sleeve off her healing shoulder. Although it had become much easier to dress herself, she still had nasty twinges of pain if she moved too quickly.
Her phone rang. She looked at the screen. Denver. Casey let the dress fall to the floor.
“Hi, Denver. How’s it going?”
“Not good. I wanted to give you a heads-up.” He paused. “Erin Brightman’s body was found in a dumpster on the Downtown Eastside.”
“Holy crap. I heard something about an unidentified body on the news yesterday but never dreamed it would be her.” Casey stepped out of the mountain of chiffon. “How was she killed?”
“Preliminary reports suggest a heroin overdose.”
“A junkie? She didn’t strike me as the type.” Nor did Erin live or work in that area. “Do you think she was there to buy drugs?”
“She didn’t die in the ally. Her body was moved from an unknown location. Listen, can we discuss this in person ASAP?”
Why? Denver didn’t investigate homicides. “Sure. Where do you want to meet?”
“Your supervisor’s office.”
Why there? Had they identified the leak to the gang? Was it really Philippe, and was he somehow connected to Erin’s death? “I’ll be there in a half hour.”
Casey put her clothes on as quickly as she could manage. Glancing at Barb’s other puffy dress choices hanging in front of her, leaving was a lucky break. She needed to find a dress on her own, something that would feel right the moment she put it on. Casey stepped out of the dressing room to find everyone, including the salesclerk, gaping at her with a mix of curiosity, trepidation, and shock. Damn. They’d heard everything she’d said.
“I’m sorry. I guess you know that I have to go.”
Barb flashed a weak smile. “We’ll keep shopping, then take Summer to lunch and drop her off at your place later.”
Casey turned to Summer. “Is that okay with you?”
“Sure,” Summer said, shrugging. “Be careful driving, though.”
“I will.”
The heavy traffic unraveled Casey’s patience. By the time she stepped out of the car at MPT, she was sweating and irritable, and yet another headache was starting. The patrol car parked near the admin building’s entrance told her that Denver’s presence was more official than friendly.
How long would it be before Philippe’s name came up? Did he know something about Erin’s death? Casey hurried inside and upstairs to the second floor.
Stan’s door was closed, and since this was Saturday the accounting and HR staff weren’t around. She knocked quietly. Denver opened the door and Casey saw the strain on his face. To be expected, she supposed. All police officers, whether directly involved in the home-invasion investigations or not, would be feeling the pressure to catch the gang. The public and some of the media had taken to calling the police incompetent.
“Hi, Denver. It’s been a while since I last saw you.” His hair was grayer, waistline a little thicker.
“Yeah. Too long,” he replied.
“Have a seat, Casey,” Stan said.
“Sure.” She noted the rigidity on his face and lightly flushed complexion. What had these two been talking about? As Casey took the chair Denver offered, her shoulder began to throb.
“I’ll get right to it.” Denver flipped through his notebook. “After Erin Brightman’s body was found, homicide investigators returned to the basement suite. The place was still empty, but they found a single clip-on earring just outside the door, partially hidden under a bit of dirt and leaves.”
“And?”
“Brightman had pierced ears.”
“Okay.” Where was he going with this?
“The earring is made up of three silver-plated disks about the size of a dime,” Denver added.
Casey’s throat went dry. Now she understood their strained, expectant faces. Her earring had been found at Brightman’s place and the police wanted to know why. Denver had been sent here to exploit their friendship. Well, damn.
“Sounds like mine,” she said quietly, without emotion.
“Yes. There was enough of a fingerprint on the largest disk to run it through the system.” Denver removed a small plastic bag from his pocket and held it in front of her. “The print is yours.”
Casey was about to ask how VPD had her prints, then realized that the crime-scene techs would have combed through Harold’s condo for every scrap of evidence.
“I have no idea how my earring wound up by Erin’s door. I’ve never been on her property.” Which was what Denver really wanted to know. She glanced at Stan, who kept his arms crossed, his eyes downcast. “You don’t seriously think I killed her, do you?”
“No.” Denver gave the barest flicker of a smile. “Otherwise, we’d be doing this formally. But you can appreciate my reason for asking.”
“If officers checked out Brightman’s suite Thursday night and found that she’d already taken off,” Stan said to Denver, “then how come no one noticed the earring then?”
“They simply wanted to speak with the suspect,” he answered. “At that point, there was no reason to search every inch of the exterior. Also, the earring might not have been there at that time.” Denver turned to Casey. “When did you last wear it?”
“At the rec center, the day I saw Philippe having lunch with Erin.”
“You didn’t notice the earring missing?” Denver asked.
“No, it was just part of a disguise I wore to keep from being recognized by Hilda and Daisy,” Casey answered. “I knew when they attended their aquafit class and wanted to make sure they were okay.”
Denver jotted down notes. “Were both earrings still with you when you removed your disguise?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you change your clothes?” Denver asked.
“In the car.” She paused. “Everything went into my duffel bag. I remember leaving the earrings on top of the dress.”
“Was the bag still in the car between that day and your second visit to the rec center?”
“Yes, on the backseat. I can’t do much lifting, so everything stayed there.”
“When, exactly, did Erin Brightman die?” Stan asked.
Denver’s stare made it obvious that he didn’t like the interruption, but Casey was grateful. This conversation was beginning to feel more like an interrogation. The pounding in her head grew a little stronger.
“Between 2:00 and 4:00 AM Friday,” he replied.
A little less than twelve hours after she and Philippe showed up in the neighborhood. Had their appearance triggered an incident resulting in Erin’s death? Her associate with the beard might not have been happy with the attention that Erin had drawn.
Denver turned to Casey. “Has anyone else touched the duffel bag in your car?”
Casey’s heartbeat quickened. She didn’t want to answer in front of Denver, at least not yet. “Before I answer that, may I talk with Stan privately a moment?”
Denver looked from one to the other. “I appreciate your respect and loyalty to your supervisor, but the answer is no.”
Stan sighed and crossed his arms. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”
“Probably not.” Casey braced herself. “When Philippe spotted me with Monica Silver at the rec center, he approached my ca
r, so I told him to get inside.” She paused. “The duffel bag was beside me on the passenger seat, so he moved it onto the floor. After Monica left, he complained about leg room, so he got out and put the bag on the backseat.” Casey understood why Stan’s face was growing more rigid. “I was watching Erin, not Philippe. The thing is, the bag’s always open because the zipper’s broken. I remember him asking me if it was laundry day.”
“Shit.” Stan rubbed his beard and sighed. “The idiot’s been trying hard to discredit you. Looks like he finally went overboard.”
Denver turned to him. “What else can you tell me about Mr. Beauchamp?”
“He was hired by our company’s president, Gwyn Maddox, four months ago,” Stan answered. “I didn’t know it at the time, but Gwyn recruited Philippe to help him assess my department. The kid embraced his assignment a little too eagerly and began baiting the staff, hoping they’d make mistakes. Issues cropped up.”
“Sounds reckless,” Denver remarked.
“And ambitious. I have no idea how Gwyn enticed Philippe to spy for him. Although, given the kid’s personality, he’s suited for it. Gwyn must have picked up on that during the interview. As far as I’m concerned, Philippe needs to be fired today.”
“What’s his background?” Denver asked.
“Pretty much a lie,” Casey replied. “He claims to have graduated in engineering from McGill, but there’s no record of him ever having attended.” Spotting Denver’s slightly raised eyebrow, she added, “I did a little research.”
“I should have known that Gwyn wouldn’t have bothered with a thorough background check,” Stan said. “He’s not a details guy.”
Denver scribbled in his notebook. “I want to talk to Mr. Beauchamp.”
Stan checked his watch. “He’ll probably come by shortly. The kid always pops in after a shift.”
“Denver’s patrol car might make him think twice,” Casey said.
“Or not. The kid’s too curious, and possibly worried,” Stan answered. “Philippe will want to know why the police are here.”
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