Red Light Read Free Page B

years in the same apartment, listening to your
neighbors and their lovers come and go, you got good at it.
    "Mr.
Coates, those two arrivals you heard upstairs, they were the footsteps of men,
correct?"
    "Yes."
A confessional glance and nod.
    "The
same man, or two different ones?"
    "Oh,
different men, certainly. I was going to tell you that if you didn't ask."
    "How
sure are you of that?"
    "Well,
if you hear two voices, you know there are two people. Same with
footsteps."
    "What
else about them, by the sound of them?"
    Zamorra
aimed a look her way but said nothing.
    Coates
settled his bottom into his chair, readying himself for his presentation.
Eighteen years of anecdotal data, Merci thought, about to find its way into a
thesis.
    "The
first? Heavy, but not overweight. Not in a hurry. He was light on his feet, but
you can't fool the boards. Pounds are pounds. Young and probably athletic. And
familiar. Familiar with the area. He was wearing hard-soled shoes or boots. Not
cowboy boots, they have an entirely different sound. I pictured a young
businessman coming home from work, happy to be home, eager to see his wife or
his lover. When he left he was ... reluctant. He wished he wasn't leaving, but he had to."
    Zamorra
was staring at the floor, his pen in his hand.
    Coates
looked at Zamorra with concern, made an internal decision, turned his
attention back to Merci.
    "The
second? A much lighter man. He was young also, light on his feet, quick. Soft
shoes. In somewhat of a hurry. I couldn't tell if he was familiar with the area
or not. He left much more slowly than he came. He sounded .. . unsteady.
Uncertain. I think I remember him pausing, about halfway down. I may have
imagined that. I can't swear to it. I pictured him as a young man eager to see
someone. Eager to get there, get what he wanted, then eager to leave. You know,
an impatient young buck on his way to the next thing. When he paused, I saw
him realizing he'd forgotten something. But he didn't go back."
    Coates
sighed and looked into the fire.
    Zamorra
abruptly shut off his tape recorder, cast his black eyes on Merci, then the
man. "How much pot did you smoke in the bathtub?"
    Merci
had smelled it very faintly, too, when she had first sat down. It hadn't seemed
relevant, yet.
    Coates's
face took on an expression of blank defiance. "One half of one
joint."
    "Strong
stuff or cheap stuff?" Zamorra asked.
    "Very
strong."
    "There're
other people to talk to," said Zamorra. He stood and walked out.
    Merci
finished her notes. The door slammed.
    "That man is
unbelievably angry," said Coates. 464
    "Believe it. Thank you."
    Back
on the upstairs walkway, Merci stood aside for the coroner's people to wheel
Aubrey Whittaker past. She thought that Aubrey Whittaker would most likely have
been wheeling around in her red Cadillac if she hadn't answered the door for
the wrong guy. She looked out to the sparse 2 a.m .
traffic on Coast Highway. Zamorra was already interviewing another neighbor.
    Inside
she was greeted by the green eyes and wide smile of Evan O'Brien. The CSI held
up a small paper bag. Merci took it and looked in at a cartridge casing that
had rolled into the bag's corner.
    "The
forty-five caliber Colt," said O'Brien. "Load of choice for many in
law enforcement."
    Merci
Rayborn looked at the CSI with a hostility that could overtake her in a
heartbeat. Jokes about her profession were never funny.
    "Hey,
Sergeant, don't rain on me for some of the best physical evidence you can ask
for. Lynda found it."
    "Raped?"
    "Apparently
not. And no signs of forced entry. Looks like some kind of scuffle or something
in the kitchen."
    "How
many shots?"
    "Probably just one.
There's a hole up in the corner of the slider. Your bullet is out there in the
ocean somewhere."
    "Find it."
    "Yes, Sergeant."
     

CHAPTER TWO
    M erci met
Mike for breakfast at seven in the courthouse cafeteria.
    She'd had three hours
of sleep and now seemed to have feathers between her brain and her thoughts.
Tim, Jr.,