Red Light Read Online Free PDF Page B

night before.
    Nobody's perfect, she
thought, but she expected herself to be. What was it Hess had said? Forgive
yourself, Merci. You've got another fifty years to spend with you.
    Duly
noted.
    The CSIs had outlined
the body in dark chalk before removing it. Merci looked from the case file to
her partner.
    "I don't get
this. Coiner and O'Brien say she was dragged three feet into the dining room.
That, from the blood smear on the carpet."
    "So he could
shut the door behind him," said Zamorra. "Her feet were in the
way."
    "But why, Paul?
What did he do in here? He didn't use her sexually, at least not that we know
of. He didn't take anything we know of. He left cash, credit cards, some good
prescription drugs in the medicine chest. He took a big risk coming in. He
wasted time. Why?"
    "Maybe
he took her picture, got himself off, then hit the road.'
    Merci recalled the
recent unsolved murders of prostitutes: two in motels at different ends of the
county, one dumped on Harbor Boulevard, down by the car dealerships. All three
were streetwalkers strangled, one bludgeoned, one shot in the head.
    "No
semen."
    "Maybe
he used a rubber. She had plenty."
    Merci
thought about this but couldn't make it fit. The whole thing seemed so
efficient, so cold, so sexless. There was no evidence he'd even touched her,
other than to drag her out of the way of the door.
    They
stood at opposite ends of the dining-room table. Merci noted the place mats,
the matching cloth napkins beside them, the short crystal vase in which Lynda
Coiner had found the casing. There was a nearly empty glass of water at one
place, and a nearly full cup of coffee at the other. She could see the oblong
smudge of lipstick near the rim of the water glass. Both were laden with black
fingerprint dust. Merci could see where the tape had been lifted off the
tumbler. She got down to a good angle for light and saw fingerprint dust on the
glass table, too. Prints galore.
    She
went into the kitchen, saw the still-crusted baking pan on the counter, and the
flatware, salad bowls and plates in the sink. There was a wing and a thigh in
the pan. No booze glasses, no booze bottles. Standing in front of the sink you
could see the ocean out a window to the right.
    "Okay,
Paul. So she makes dinner for someone. Her calendar said D.C. Let's say it's
the eight-thirty arrival that Coates heard—a big man, light on his feet,
familiar with his surroundings. He knocks and she answers. No loud words. No
loud music. No sounds of struggle or gunshot or anything else. They eat their
salad and chicken. No alcohol. At ten-ten he leaves. All's quiet for five
minutes. We know this because Alexander Coates is in his bathtub with his
trusty stopwatch."
    Zamorra
had moved into the living room. He stood in the sunlight looking down at Aubrey
Whittaker's high heeled shoes. His voice sounded flat, abstracted. "Then
Man Friend Number Two climbs the stairs and comes down the walkway. He's a
smaller guy, wearing soft shoes. He doesn't knock but she opens the door
anyway."
    Merci
leafed through the CSI reports to see if the doorbell had been dusted. Evan had
worked it and found nothing. She said so.
    "Maybe
he wiped it," said Zamorra. "Maybe he knocked quietly. Maybe Coates
belched, splashed, yawned—just didn't hear."
    Merci
considered. "She hears the knock or the ring, goes to the door and opens
it. But not before she turns on the porch light and looks through the peephole.
This is important. She must have recognized him.
    If she didn't, why
did she open up? She's a call girl. She's seen a lot of things. It isn't her
nature to trust. But she opens the door."
    "She
knew him," said Zamorra. "She thought she did. If we cancel out
Coates's assumptions based on sound, we're looking at the same guy. The simplest
explanation. The dinner guest, D.C. That's why Coates didn't hear the knock. It
was soft, because he'd just left. He knew she'd assume it was him again. A soft
knock, she comes door and says who is it, and he says