Gray Area (18 page)

This Diamond fellow had already had quite a night.  And what would
be the sport in simply walking up to the man and putting a bullet into his
exhausted brain?  Forget the sport, Giles thought … where was the
compassion in it?

No, friend Diamond, Giles sighed, backing away from the roof door and
moving down the stairs … tonight would not be the time to bring things to an
inevitable conclusion.

Tonight, there would be a reprieve.

And with that, Preston Giles moved quickly down the roof stairs, not
realizing that he was smiling all the way.

TWENTY-FOUR

The corpse of Robert August was covered and lifted into the M.E. van half
an hour later.  Timmy had already been zipped and bagged five minutes
earlier. 

Rex Daniels out of homicide was there ... again, and staring at his old
friend Lou Diamond. 

Diamond, his humor overall just a notch above foul, was being bandaged by
a diligent young medical assistant.

“Ouch,” he snapped.  The poor M.A. withdrew quickly as Daniels
approached them.

“My, but we’re having a busy night,” Daniels commented dryly.

“Fridays, huh?” Diamond said dully. 

Daniels watched the M.E. van drive off. 

“I would have said suicide, if it hadn’t been for a trashed helicopter,
and by the way, nice shooting,” Daniels said, pretending to be interested in
Diamond’s flesh wound.  “That, and two more stiffs on the Lou Diamond Big
Dick Notch Board.”

“Let me guess,” Diamond said, all business.  “No identification.”

“Four phantom bad guys.  Your lawyer buddy must have pissed someone
off big-time.”

Diamond considered this in silence.  That Linda Baylor had
recommended a little tete-a-tete with August just a few hours before his death
did not diminish her as a prime ingredient in the increasingly sordid stew
revolving around the law firm of Berenson & Marelli.

“Let’s take a look at the apartment,” Diamond said at last.

The forensic and evidence guys had been all over the place for the last
twenty minutes.  Neat folks they were not, though most of the mess had
obviously been caused by the struggle between August and his two killers. 
Papers and folders lay strewn on the living room floor and August’s desk had
been rifled through, the drawers torn from their holders.  Someone had
been looking for something.  Diamond bent down and picked up one folder,
marked “Contracts.”  The emblem of Berenson & Marelli was embossed on
the jacket.

The folder was empty, its contents hiding under the desk.  He
reached for them and looked at the title on each page.  ARC-LINK
INDUSTRIES.  He remembered from his old lawyer days what boiler plate
Limited Partnership Agreements looked like, along with attendant Exhibits,
Schedules and Appendices.  Berenson & Marelli was clearly representing
Arc-Link’s interests.  No doubt a lucrative client judging by some of the
figures he was looking at.  Six hundred million dollars in purchases from
yet another company called UNCLE SAM, INC.  The purchases were
undefined.  Nothing unusual, Diamond reflected, nor did they have much to
do with Robert August.

Or did they?

Daniels appeared behind him, holding two full baggies of white powder in
either hand.

“Snow heaven, Lou.  Your boy August must have had some mean
connections to get this kind of take.”

Diamond reached for one of the baggies.  He opened it, dipped his
finger inside, and pulled out a mote of white on his nail.  He gave it the
taste test, then glanced at Daniels.  Daniels nodded.

“You lie down with dogs, you get fuckin’ fleas.  Ten to one your
shooters were with the Cartel.”

Not bad odds.  And on the surface, not a bad bet.  Coke, bad
guys, a dead lawyer.  All spelled trouble and a professional hit. 

It was all so simple.  Police perfect, neat and clean.  Open
and shut, as they used to say.

Or was it?

“What if it wasn’t the cartel?” Diamond said slowly.

Daniels shrugged indifferently.  “Who else?”

“What if that shit was put here to make it look like August was a coke
hound?”

Daniels grinned back at him.  “We’ve got five hundred thousand
dollars worth of crack here, Lou.  It has Cartel written all over its
ass.”

He turned and walked toward one of his lieutenants.  Diamond looked
down at the Arc-Link folder in his hand and decided it was high hell and time
to head for August’s office and do some digging.

TWENTY-FOUR

He was at the forty eight hour marker in the no sleep zone of his
week.  Diamond moved to the guard station in the lobby area of 311 Grand,
home to Berenson & Marelli, and showed his identification.

“Twentieth floor,” he said, expecting zero resistance. 

The guard, a middle aged black woman who had been engrossed with a
crossword puzzle, looked at his police ID and shook her head.

“Can’t let you up there, sir,” she said neutrally.

“Why not?” He asked, irritated.

“That Mr. Marshall Diamond, he’s the head partner—”

“I know who he is,” Diamond interrupted.

“Well, there’s a note to all security that no one is to go up there
before 7 a.m. today unless he’s up there himself, personal,” the guard replied
as carefully as she could.

“Marshall Diamond is my brother and I’m a police officer investigating
several murders,” Diamond said, trying to match the guard’s care in
communication.  “I’d say I’m the exception to the rule, wouldn’t you?”

“I’ll have to call Mr. Diamond at home, sir,” she said, and Diamond could
tell she had no desire to follow through on this last detail.

Diamond helped her out as she began to rifle through her personnel
papers.  “Fine.  He’s at 310-652-4431.  Don’t let him snarl at
you; he’s a grouch in the morning.”

The guard considered this, then studied Diamond for a moment
longer.  She looked at his ID once more, then grinned suddenly.

“Well, since you’re his brother and a cop,” she said, “guess there’s no
harm in accessing you.”

“Guess not,” Diamond grinned.

“You wouldn’t know a six letter word for culpable, would you?” she asked
absently, punching in a numeric code at her console and accessing the elevators
to the upper floors.

Diamond looked at the puzzle and ruminated for a second.  He smiled
at her.  “Guilty.”

She did the math, then chuckled.  “Damn straight, Detective
Diamond.  Guilty, as charged.”

Diamond muttered a thanks, then headed for the nearest elevator bank, his
mind roiling at the sudden turn of events of late.  He didn’t believe for
a moment that Robert August’s murder was linked to drugs or even the
cartel.  No, August was murdered for the same reason he, Diamond, was also
almost killed:  something to do with the Randall/Simpson deaths. 
August was involved somehow. 

The hallway leading from the elevators into the main reception of
Berenson & Marelli was dimly lit, powered down for the night.  The air
conditioning hadn’t kicked in for the day and the air was musty and
stagnant.  Diamond scanned the names on the office doors, most of which
were closed and locked.  As fate would have it, the door of Robert
August’s office was cracked open.

Diamond removed his Berretta and pushed the door open further.  Not
that he really expected anyone to be inside but, of late, Diamond was a walking
nerve ending of suspicion and excess caution. 

Half an hour later, surrounded by boxes and files, Diamond found himself
no closer to understanding the death of Robert August.  Most of the
paperwork in the office was memoranda heavy, mainly to partners and associates,
and revolved around transactional activity with off-shore companies and
investors.  Standard stuff for which a young attorney like August would
have been responsible for generating; all good billing, hour-filler type of
things.

He was about to move out of the office when one last file caught his
eye.  He reached for it and read the label:  Arc-Link,
Classified.  One memo, copying Marshall Diamond, with two lines of text
that read:  Transaction with US finalized.  Filed in Records. 
There were some additional cc’s to Linda Baylor and Jason Randall. 
Randall and August were dead.  His brother and Linda ...

Records.  He moved through the law library where Jason Randall and
Marianne Simpson spent the last minutes of their young lives together. 
The Records Room was an office away, just around the corner.  Not
surprisingly, it was locked. 

Diamond reached for his Berretta and aimed at the lock, point
blank.  The shot ripped through the metal.  Diamond pushed the door
open and hit a light switch.

It took him only five minutes to find the case box marked ARC-LINK. 
Within it, Diamond fished out a stack of papers, all bound and all contractual
in nature.  Some correspondence was interspersed, all of it to the
Department of Defense and all involving purchases valued at well over a billion
dollars.  Of special note to Diamond were the cc’s on every letter: 
his brother, Linda Baylor, and the now deceased duo of Jason Randall and Robert
August. 

Half of the principals in the law firm handling Arc-Link’s interests were
dead.

Why?

Diamond continued to leaf through the paperwork.  He then went back
to page one, letter one, on top.  Putting a story of murder together the
best he could.

TWENTY-FIVE

St. Joseph’s Medical Center was still a slumbering giant at half past
five in the morning.  Shifts were at their most minimal, security at its
most lax.  A perfect time for someone with the inclination and necessary
skill required, to find a certain patient and assassinate him or her with
little attention called to the act.

Don Simpson had slept fitfully all night.  He had been kept sedated
since his arrest and incarceration.  Yet for all the narcotization of his
system, Simpson was not at rest. 

His room was dark, save for the perpetual blinking green light
representing his vitals sign activity that oscillated on a machine just to his
left.  He stared at it, hypnotically, wondering absently what was going to
happen to the rest of his life. Marianne was dead.  He had barricaded
their home, opened fire on police, and had injured several cops in the
assault.  He had lost his job (naturally) due to the incident, and he was
looking at five to ten.  Maybe four with good behavior and a shrink
telling a jury that his response to his wife’s death caused him to lapse into
some kind of temporary insanity.  And on and on.

Not good, just not good at all.

The rest of his life.  What a joke.

The figure appeared at the door, dressed in the green scrubs of an
orderly or nurse.  Simpson turned when he heard movement near the entrance
of his room.

“Who’s there?” he called out, feebly.

No answer.  The figured walked slowly into the room, his face
obscured by darkness.

Simpson squinted into the dim light.  “You here with my pills?” he
asked again.

The figure remained silent.  “You got a tongue?” Simpson said,
irritated.

The scalpel came up quickly.  Before Simpson could utter another
sound, the blade slashed across his carotid and jugular artery with two
skillful cuts.  He gurgled momentarily in shock and agony, then began to
die as the two arterial highways to life spilled their contents onto his bed
and the floor.  The EKG and other machines he was tied to sounded out an
alarm.

The figure turned and quickly exited the room.

TWENTY-SIX

Turner Sage had also not slept well that night, though for quite another
reason than that of Don Simpson.  The pain and the heat that ran down his
arms periodically after each attack, tended to leave a residue of exhaustion
for hours thereafter.  The pacemaker had been implanted a year earlier,
and the scar tissue was indicative of the healing process, but Turner’s cardiac
condition at large still caused massive discomfort.  They had told him
that the pacemaker would give him two years, maybe three.  There was no
way to really forestall the inevitable decay of the heart muscle, not with
irreversible myocardiopathy.  He had bought some time, a few years,
precious months.  It was a delay tactic against the grim reaper, nothing
more.  And the pain, no matter the surgical preemption to ultimate
disaster, was a constant.

So when the phone rang at just minutes before 6 a.m. in the morning,
Turner Sage, who had not slept a wink, picked it up.  He was wide awake
and annoyed, the inevitable byproducts of the constant ache in his chest.

“This better be good,” he said.

The voice was that of a friend.  “Turner.”

“Hello, Lou.  Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“Sleep.  What’s that?”

Turner smiled to himself.  “You’re a funny guy, Lou.”

“Laugh a minute. Look, Turner, I need you to check something out for
me.  Today, first thing.”

“What is it?”

“I need some information on a company called Arc-Link Industries. 
I’ve tried directory assistance for both Washington D.C. and California. 
Nothing.  Yet they have offices in both locations.”

Turner sighed.  “This have something to do with your brother and the
murders?”

“Yep.”  That’s all Diamond was giving him for the moment, so Turner
didn’t push.  No need.  Diamond would tell him sooner or later.

“Arc-Link.  Right.  I’m not busy enough.  I’ll call you at
home.”

“No,” Diamond protested, and there was an urgency in his voice that
Turner noticed and worried about immediately.  “Call me at this number.”

Turner took down the number, wondering just what the hell his best
officer was up to now. 

“Also, check with that Navy guy of yours down south,” Diamond
finished.  “It’s important.”