The Blue Hour (54 page)

"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."

The End

T. Jefferson Parker
is an

award-winning
journalist and the author of six previous novels, including the bestselling
Where Serpents Lie.
He lives in Laguna Beach, California.

About the Author Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for
exclusive information T. JEFFERSON PARKER is the author of thirteen previous
novels including the New York Times bestseller The Fallen and the Edgar
Award–winning novels California Girl and Silent Joe.

www.tjeffersonparker.com

The Fallen

California Girl

Cold Pursuit

Black Water

Silent Joe

Red Light

The Blue Hour

Where Serpents Lie

The Triggerman’s
Dance

Summer of Fear

Pacific Beat

Little Saigon

Laguna Heat

NEW YORK
Copyright © 1999, 2000 T. Jefferson Parker All rights
reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner
whatsoever without the written permission of the Publisher. Printed in the
United States of America. For information address Hyperion, 77 West 66th
Street, New York, New York 10023-6298.

ISBN:
0-7868-8969-1

10 98765432