Gray Area (6 page)

By all rights and reason, Diamond knew that he should cut the horseshit
and go straight to Burke.  Give him the skinny on Benjamin’s
information.  On the other hand, he thought … fuck Burke.  Let him do
his own detective work.  Everyone in the firm would be questioned, due
process.  Benjamin, a sit-to-pee kinda guy, would start gushing as the
first cop approached him, spilling all.  So now, he had a little bit of an
edge on the informational bunny trail, and he was going to use it.  Just
to piss Burke off … and maybe even Marshall.  His brother wanted him to
wrap this case up quick, nailing Marianne’s husband, who probably
was
the
perp, assholes and elbows be known.  But Diamond was feeling a tingle in
his belly that said this case might be something more than meets the immediate
eye.  Hell, it was worth the effort in thinking out of the box.

And Gabe Benjamin did say that he just
had
to meet Linda
Baylor. 

Just
had
to.

Diamond snagged the employee call-list from the reception desk, then
headed for the elevators. 

SEVEN

Five minutes later, in a phone booth across the street, he called Linda
Baylor. 

The phone rang.  No one picked up.  Diamond removed his wallet,
opened it, and looked at the only picture he had.  A picture of his eight
year old daughter, Sonia.  She was smiling; she was always smiling. 
It
almost
made Lou smile.  Almost. 

No answer on the Baylor residence.  Diamond hung up and punched in
another number … a number he knew by heart.  The phone rang a hundred
times or so it felt to him.  Then a voice came on:

“Hello?”

The voice was that of a little girl, sleepy, barely articulate.

Diamond closed his eyes.  Reveling in that one word, and the sound
behind it.  Hello might very well have been “daddy.”  He looked at
the picture of Sonia one more time, then hung up the phone.

Lou Diamond didn’t normally frequent the fancy home fronts of Malibu
Beach, California.  Back in ‘92, a special ops went down in Topanga Canyon
that Diamond had spearheaded when he was SWAT.  Another successful
bust.  No casualties, except for a few dead crack-head dealers with stolen
AK-47s.  Closest he’d ever gotten to the rich and famous neighborhood of
Malibu.  Looked nice, though, he had to admit.  Quiet. 
Sexy.  Smelled of money.

He drove into a driveway, the numbered address of Linda Baylor embossed
on a gold-sealed plaque just above an iron gate.  He could hear the waves
of the Pacific crash against the surf nearby.  Two lights were on in the
house, both upstairs.  A 55 SL Mercedes, red and brand-spanking new, was
parked in the garage.  It all but screamed,
I Am Bitch, Hear Me Roar
.

Somewhere from the top level of the beach house, Paganini’s theme from
Variations
floated over the night air. 
Somewhere in Time
, Diamond
mused.  Pretty music, he thought.  Again, another touch of beaucoup
bucks and high life livin’. 

He parked his car behind the Mercedes, then walked to the front
door.  He knocked.  No one answered.  He glanced off to the
side, saw a stairway leading to the second level terrace.  No harm in
tapping on the window—

…
as if someone gently tapping, rapping at my chamber door …

—no harm at all. 
Come on, stay focused
, he chided
himself.  He knew he was getting tired, little poetic fairies were
starting to talk in his head, and he was a little punchy.  After what he’d
been through tonight already, who wouldn’t be?

As he got to the top of the stairs, he stopped to get a gander of the
dark Pacific.  A low ground fog had formed along the beach, swirling and
snaking inland like some kind of malevolent spirit on the prowl.  Other
than that, the night was clear, a million stars burned bright against a
moonless sky.

Diamond turned toward the window of the second level terrace.  The
curtains were drawn, so there was no obstruction to his view.  And the
view was one that caught him off guard.

She walked out of the bathroom, naked as jaybird, oblivious to his
presence at the terrace window. 
Blonde, legs from here to Appalachia,
beautiful—
key words in Diamond’s moment by moment mental blow summing up
the young woman no more than twenty feet away.  He froze, afraid that if
he moved suddenly the flash of his shadow would frighten her.

But, in the final analysis, he froze for quite another reason.

He could not stop staring.  Or, truth be known,
fantasizing
?

The thought filled him with a furious guilt.  He told himself he was
not the least bit titillated, but she was a magnificent creature, and fuck a
duck ... he
enjoyed
watching her.  She had reached for a towel and
was now drying herself.  Head, neck, breasts, legs and feet. 
Luxuriously.  As if she had all the time in the world. 

As if ... as if she
knew
she was being watched.

Diamond lowered his eyes momentarily, remembering why he was here. 
When he looked up, she had left the room.  He moved quickly back down the
stairs, sucked in a cool, damp breath of ocean air, and again knocked at the
front door.

This time it opened after about a minute.  She was there, towel
wrapped around her head, wearing a red flannel robe.

“Ms. Linda Baylor?” he said, clearing his throat and putting on his best
routine just-the-facts-ma’am expression.

“Who’s asking?” she said in a low husky voice that seemed accustomed to
interrogating versus being interrogated.

Diamond pulled out his wallet and let the flap fall, revealing his
badge.  “Lou Diamond.  LAPD.”

Linda allowed a small smile to cross her lips.  “Marshall’s
brother,” she said at last.  “Come in.”

He followed her inside, closing the door behind himself.

“That’s some connection,” he said.  “How did you know—”

“That you’re his brother?  Please,” she sighed, as if it was all too
obvious, and a bore to boot.  “I’ve seen your picture in Marshall’s
office.”

“Oh,” Lou said, mildly surprised to hear that Marshall kept a picture of
him.  “You and your wife,” she clarified.

Lou’s heart did the funky chicken.  The mention of Maria suddenly
filled him with an aching depression.  He decided to shut up for a moment
and take in the room.

The house was exquisitely decorated, every table, chair and lamp an
antique.  After getting an eyeful of her upstairs—the modern sleekness,
the perfect attendance to personal grooming, even the way she dried herself—he
had expected something different.  Something maybe nouveau riche, or even
vaguely faux Picasso.  Fake, he mused, summing it all up in a single word.

But Linda Baylor was a constant surprise. 

“You like antiques,” he commented tonelessly.

“You noticed,” she said, heading for an oak-covered wet bar near the
front terrace sliding doors.  Diamond continued to scan the house. 
Next to antiques something else was prominent.  Animals.  One kind of
animal in particular: small, large, stuffed, plastic, wooden, cute.

Seals.

The place was lousy with knick-knack seals.  They perched in every
corner, on every desktop, on every ledge or counter. 

“You like seals, too,” he said.

Linda dropped some ice into two glasses.  “You might call it a
fetish, Officer.”

“What’s the attraction?” Diamond turned to look at her directly.

Linda Baylor didn’t even blink.  “One of the few animals on the
planet that doesn’t want to hurt anything.  They live to play.  And
to make love.  Did you know that seals mate for life?

“Now I do.”

“A very peaceful creature,” Linda continued, licking a finger clean of an
errant ice chip.  “Ironically, they’re being murdered by the thousands
worldwide.  Clubbed and skinned for their pelts.  By men, of
course.  The greatest killers in the universe.  The greatest rapists,
too.”  She paused, reached for some Chivas, then turned to him. 
“Scotch?” 

“Drink of choice among us rapists,” he said casually.  “Thanks.”

Linda poured the scotch, handed him a glass, then glanced at her
watch.  “It’s almost two thirty in the morning, Mr. Diamond.  And
aside from letting you watch me finish my shower, what can I do for you?”

There it was.  She’d known he was gawking at her from the top
terrace.  And she had let him.  Hell, he thought—she probably
liked
it.  Christ knows why, but it perked his perp antenna up a little higher
in terms of making Linda Baylor a very suspicious character.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” he said softly.  “No one answered the
door first time around.  So—”

“So,” she interrupted gracefully.  “I hope you enjoyed the show.”

She drank her scotch.  In a single gulp.  A no-bullshit girl,
Diamond thought suddenly.

“Ms. Baylor,” Diamond began once more.  “Listen—”

“Call me Linda,” she said.  “After all—we’re not exactly strangers
anymore.”

She was fencing with him. 
Fucking
with him was more
accurate.  Seeing how much she could get away with, or maybe to needle
him.  Why?  He sighed.  Goddamn women lawyers; they were a
strange breed, plain and simple.

“May I ask where you were between the hours of midnight and one this
morning?”

She walked over to a lounge chair (a
chaise
, Diamond remembered
from some magazine a long time ago; ‘
faggoty and French, thank you very much
’
as Turner Sage would have put it), and crossed two gorgeous legs. 

He was staring again. 

She
knew
he was staring. 

“You may ask, Mr. Diamond.  But I have to know why.”

Diamond was finished fencing.  It was late, he was tired, and he was
becoming too damned interested in wondering what Linda Baylor looked like up
close and naked, rather than four yards away and separated from him by a
windowpane.

“Do you know Marianne Simpson or Jason Randall?” he asked, taking a hit
of scotch.

“Of course,” Linda replied.  “They’re associates at your brother’s
law firm.”

“Were.  They’re dead.” 

He looked for something in her eyes.  Something he could get a
handle on.  Instead, he got nothing.  A poker player, he thought;
damn good one at that.  “You don’t seem surprised,” he said at last.

“What happened?” Linda said, ignoring the bait.

“Both were killed,” he said.  “At the office.  In the law
library, specifically.  In flagrante delicto.”

Linda’s eyebrows raised at this last piece of information.  Then she
smiled.  “In flagrante delicto,” she repeated, licking her lips and taking
another drink.  “You sound like a lawyer.”

“I used to be one,” Diamond admitted.

Linda nodded and leaned back on her chaise.  “I think Marshall
mentioned that to me.  Let me see, now.  Lou Diamond,  small
college graduate, Marine Corps, Medal of Honor, Purple Heart, Congressional
Recognition for Heroism in Combat, 1991, and one of the youngest officers in
history to be personally decorated by the President of the United States. 
Am I warm?”

Diamond stared at her.  She smiled again.  “Got your J.D. some
time later, opened a private practice for a few years.  Married in 1999,
one daughter, and you retain a current P.I. license.”

Linda sucked an ice cube then swallowed it as she watched Diamond for
some kind of reaction. 

He gave her none.

“What do you want to be when you grow up, Mr. Diamond?”

Diamond felt himself do something he hadn’t done in some time.  He
grinned.  “A peeping tom,” he said.  “And that’s some mention,
Linda.”

“I’m a lawyer,” she said dismissively.  “Research is my
specialty.  And Marshall and I—” she paused now, looking at Diamond
speculatively.  “Well, your brother and I were close once.  Some time
ago.”

She stood and headed back to the wet bar.  More Chivas crackled
across the ice.  She lifted it toward him; he nodded no.  She took
another drink, closed her eyes as the scotch slid down her throat, and then
nodded.

“So.  Jason and Marianne are caught banging one another and a third
party doesn’t approve.  Is that a pretty accurate picture?” she asked.

“You’re good,” Diamond said.

“You should see me in court.  Why are we talking?” Linda’s tone had
changed.  She sounded irritated.  Good, Diamond thought. 
Something aside from the cold-assed arrogant Queen Bitch Counselor demeanor.

He reached into his pocket and produced the seal broach he had taken from
the law library and tossed it to her.  She caught it in a smooth,
beautifully timed nab, which made Diamond’s eyebrows rise an inch.

“Yours?”

“Yes.  Where did you find it?

“In the law library,” he said, walking toward the wet bar.  “Where
your associates were murdered.”

Linda sighed.  “I’m always losing these things,” she said, managing
to sound vaguely petulant.  She turned and looked at him, a bored
expression crossing her face.  “Is this an indictment, Mr. Diamond?”

“It’s evidence,” he said. 

“Circumstantial evidence,” she said, again wearing that disarming and
infuriating smile.  “To wit, evidence directed to the attending
circumstances, evidence that is inferential by establishing a condition of
surrounding and limited circumstances, a premise from which the existence of
the principal fact may be concluded by reasoning.  Thus, it is presumptive
evidence … because it is derived from or made up

of—”

“Circumstances,” Diamond finished for her.

“Correct.”

Diamond had to smother an admiring grin.  He shrugged.  “Hardly
incriminating, but worth a trip out here.  Where were you between midnight
and one this morning?”

She studied her broach and smiled.  “Not at the office, Mr.
Diamond.”

“Call me Lou,” he said,  “Can you prove that?”