Gray Area (7 page)

“You’ll have to take my word.  Besides, didn’t Marianne have a
husband?”

“Don Simpson,” he said, impressed by her segue to everyone’s most
probable suspect.  “They’re calling him now.  Tomorrow we’ll have a
nice little chat.”

“Sounds like your man, Lou.”

“That’s what my brother says.  But lately, I’m developing a neat
little philosophy which goes something like this:  don’t judge shit by its
smell.”

Linda smiled.  “Very moving.  And where do I fit in this
poetically concise philosophy of yours?”

Diamond smiled back.  “I don’t know yet.  You might say, I’m
still sniffing around...”

Linda stared at him for a moment without comment.  She then reached
for the Chivas once again, but instead of refilling her own glass, she walked
to him and poured him another drink.  He allowed it, taking in her
intoxicating closeness.  She looked into his eyes, then at his face with
its myriad of cuts and contusions.  He could smell the scotch on her
breath.  His heart began to race.  She smiled.

“You always look this good?”

“Depends on the company I keep,” Diamond said.  “My company earlier
tonight wasn’t the best.”  He killed the scotch, put it on the bar, then
turned and walked to the front door.

“So now what?” Linda asked from behind him.

He turned and regarded her coolly.  “I’ll be back tomorrow to make
our friendly little talk official.  I’m sure you’re familiar with the
procedure.”  

“One seal broach, Lou,” she said quickly.  “Thrown out of court in
the first five minutes.”

“You like games, Linda.”

“I like winning,” she shot back.  “I’m—”

“—a lawyer,” he interjected.  “I know.  Don’t get
defensive.  I’m not charging you with anything.”

“It wouldn’t stick anyway.  Besides, you haven’t asked the
question.”

“What question?”

“Did I kill them?”

Diamond let that one sink in.  He searched her eyes, trying to
figure out what the hell she was doing with him.  Her eyes were icy,
unyielding; like those of a shark.

Or a killer.

“Good night, Mr. Diamond.  My attorney will be here at ten
a.m.  Door will be open for you.  Call it my new policy—just for
you.”

He smiled at this.  “I’m surprised
you
haven’t asked the
question, Linda.”

“What question, Lou?”

“Did I like what I saw upstairs?”

A small, seductive smile formed on her lips.

“Did you?”

“Good night, Linda.  See you at ten.”

He heard the soft chuckle of amusement from Linda Baylor as he walked out
into the pre-dawn Malibu morning and closed her front door.

EIGHT

What he hated to see at around five in the morning after a bad night on
the San Pedro docks, dealing with his brother, and being toyed with by a
neurotic femme fatale, was his door unlocked—and slightly ajar.  Just
something about that really bugged him.  He took out his .38 and nudged
the door further open.

As these things go, of course, it was dark inside.  Whoever had
breached his private and inner sanctum felt no need for lights.  Too early
for the super, he mused, and no one else had the key.  That meant whoever
was inside most likely did not have his best interests at heart. 

The curtains fluttered near the terrace.  The sliding door that led
to his luxurious terrace view of the back alley off of Century Boulevard, was
also slightly open.

His wheely-bar suddenly rolled toward him out of the darkness.  A
bottle of Glenfiddich scotch (single malt) had a note attached to it.  Even
in the dim light he could make out the only word on the paper:
SURPRISE
.

He turned and looked at Marshall sitting in the one and only armchair in
the dingy room.  Lou lowered his gun, then lifted the scotch.

“You should have been a cat burglar, instead of a lawyer,” he said
neutrally.

“What’s the difference?” Marshall replied.  “I remembered you kept a
spare key under the mat.”

“Pity you don’t remember the more important details in life,” Lou said in
a low, feral voice.

Marshall sighed. 

“What do you want?” Lou moved on, tired to the bone, and anxious to get
rid of Marshall.

“A brother,” Marshall said.  “One that doesn’t hate my guts.” 
He walked to Lou and took the Glenfiddich, unscrewed the cap, and poured a shot
into two glasses.

“You saw Linda?” he asked, eyes concentrated on the shot glasses.

“Yeah, I saw her.  I knew she would call you.  Call it a
hunch.”

“And?”

“We’re going to talk later this morning,” Lou replied, taking the
proffered glass and tossing it back.  “Your health.” 

Marshall nodded. “Long life.”

Lou took off his jacket, then his shirt.  His back was scarred and
brutalized, particularly so by this evening’s earlier exercise in
madness.  Marshall winced as he noticed the level of abuse his brother’s
body had been subjected to, not only of late, but throughout his entire
life.  Lou thought he saw something in Marshall’s eyes—a kind of remote,
fraternal concern.  That momentary flash of emotion passed almost
immediately.  He jutted out his chin—a habit-twitch Diamond hated—came
back to the matter that had clearly brought him here in the first place.

“She didn’t do it,” Marshall said quietly.

Lou turned to his brother and nodded.  “So you keep telling me.”

“She and I—” Marshall began, then hesitated. 

Just like Linda Baylor had when beginning to explain about their intimate
relationship, Lou thought.

Lou held up his hand.  “She told me.  Very romantic.  I’ll
be talking to the whole firm.  You’d better let people know that.”

Marshall nodded agreeably, delighted that his brother wasn’t going to
prod more on the subject.  “I’ve been on the phone for hours. 
Everyone wants to cooperate.”

“I’ll bet.”

“By the way, Don Simpson wasn’t at home,” Marshall said.  “They’ll
try the house again tomorrow.”

Lou already knew this.  He had checked in with Divisional twenty
minutes ago. Burke had relayed the message that he could go fuck himself from
here to Tuesday before he’d be cooperative with Diamond on this case, but Lou
had friends in Homicide.  Well, if not friends, then people who respected
him and were willing to pull favors now and again.  Simpson’s house had
been checked out by a black and white, standard procedure.  Like Marshall
had said, the number one suspect in the Simpson/Randall double murder case was
nowhere to be found.

“Tell me about Linda Baylor.”

Marshall took a hit of scotch.  For a second Lou thought his brother
would just say good night and walk out the door.  Marshall looked
downright uncomfortable, swirling his drink in his hand.  Lou watched as
he killed it.

“She came in about eight months ago.  Out of New York. 
Sterling background.  Columbia, number one in her class and on the
Bar.  Very impressive.”

Lou was not surprised.  Linda Baylor was as sharp as a cobra in his
book.  That she looked that good on paper, too, was consistent.

“Go on.”

“About a month after she arrived, we became ... involved,” Marshall said,
clearing his throat.  “It was over in a heartbeat, but it was
incredible.  She’s an amazing woman.”

“Cyndi must have liked that,” Lou said.

Marshall regarded him in steely silence.  Then he sighed and looked
out the window.  “It was a mistake.  Fortunately, Cyndi never caught
wind of it.”

Cyndi and Maria had been good friends and Lou, who had few friends in
general, genuinely liked his sister-in-law.  After Maria’s passing, it was
Cyndi who called him every day for a month, leaving messages on both his home
and cell phone, always asking what could be done.  Or more specifically,
what
she
could do, absent Marshall’s involvement.  Cyndi was great,
no bones about it.  It momentarily rankled him that Marshall had cheated
on her, even if he could understand the lapse given his new acquaintanceship
with Linda Baylor.  But he really didn’t feel like putting the stones to
Marshall at the moment.  Too much effort and what the fuck for,
anyway?  Had he been so good with women of late?  Had he made so many
wise decisions?  At least Marshall’s indiscretions didn’t get men
killed.  No, that honor belonged solely to him.

“She wouldn’t tell me where she was tonight when I asked her.”

Marshall looked annoyed.  “C’mon, Lou.  She’s not stupid. 
You tell her two people at the firm she works for have been killed, you show
her a piece of jewelry that belongs to her that was found at the crime scene,
and you expect her to answer any questions related to those items without the
benefit of legal counsel?”

“If she had nothing to hide why even be remotely concerned about needing
legal counsel?”

Marshall frowned, as if to imply, oh, whatever.

“You seem to know a lot about what I said to her,” Lou pressed. 

“You said it yourself, we talked after you left her tonight.  Gave
me the rundown,” Marshall said without losing a beat.  “She thinks you
suspect her of the murders.”

“I have no concrete reason to suspect her of anything,” Lou said. 
“Why the paranoia?”

Marshall laughed harshly.  “Maybe it’s the way you show up at her
house in the dead of night to conduct direct examination.  Besides, I know
you.  You’re listening to that gut-hunch of yours. The one that judges and
condemns without mercy.  You may not admit it, but you think Linda Baylor
killed those two people tonight.  The Lou Diamond/Napoleonic code: 
Guilty until proven innocent.”

Lou regarded his brother coldly as he finished his scotch.  “Go
home, Marshall,” he said.  “We’ll talk more later today.”

Marshall slammed his shot glass down on the wet bar.  “Fuck you,
Lou.  I’m not some rookie cop you just dismiss, high, wide and
handy.  I know you’re still pissed at me because of Maria.”

Lou took a step toward his brother.  “I told you never to bring that
up.”

Marshall matched the step with one of his own.  “It’s been five
goddamn years.  How many times do I have to apologize?  Maria’s dead,
and you still haven’t forgiven me—”

Lou grabbed Marshall by his jacket and pulled his fist back.  It
felt good to connect with jawbone, and Lou reveled in the sensation. 
Marshall came back slugging but Lou deflected the blows easily, slamming
another rabbit-punch into his brother’s gut.  The blow took Marshall
outside on the terrace.  He tripped, lost his balance, and went over the
railing.  His hands found the guard rail, and he looked down, three
stories of nothingness below.  

Lou went to the railing and just stared at Marshall.  Marshall
looked up, lip bleeding, but still holding on.

“Go on, Lou,” he said, panting hard.  “It’s easy now.”

Lou reached over the railing and dragged Marshall back onto the
terrace.  The anger was still there but it had dissipated somewhat;
absorbed satisfactorily by beating the hell out of his brother.

“If I hadn’t forgiven you, Marshall, you would have been dead long ago,”
Lou said, then turned and re-entered his apartment.

He poured another scotch, not turning to look at Marshall as he, too,
came in from the terrace. 

“Thanks for the scotch,” Lou said. “Lock up on your way out, would you?”

Marshall wiped his lip.  He looked like he wanted to say something
else, then stopped.  He straightened his tie, and exited out the front
door.

Diamond kept drinking.

He did not stop for several hours.

NINE

And when he drank, of course, he didn’t sleep.  A cold shower and a
warm beer did the job of coffee.  He would have to head back out to Malibu
in an hour.  But he’d have to make one stop first.

This stop he didn’t mind.

Thirty minutes later he parked in front of the one story house on
Western, just off of Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood.  He didn’t even have
to knock on the door.  Lita had seen him coming from half a block away.

“Hey, guapo,” she said, hugging him tightly.  “Long time,
amigo.  Too long.”

“Yeah,” he said.

Lita was a small woman, at one time very pretty.  Now, she wore a
perpetually exhausted expression, hang-dog, some would call it.  She was
only thirty-two, but she could easily have passed for forty.  She took a
moment to appraise Lou, then sniffed the air.

“You smell like booze,” she noted, taking him by the arm and leading him
inside.  “Hard night?”

“Just another day at the office,” he smiled mischievously.

“Right,” Lita said, rolling her eyes.  “She’s out in the yard.”

Diamond walked ahead of her, not meaning to be rude, but aware of how
quickly time was passing.  He stopped at the back yard sliding terrace
door.  Just to watch her for a moment. 

She was playing with a friendly-looking golden retriever; the dog was
easily her size, and equally energetic.  A very serious game of “slobber
on the tennis ball” was in play.  The dog appeared to be winning, an
endless supply of dog-spit at its disposal.

Diamond walked into the yard, reluctant to intrude.  But when Sonia
saw her father, the golden retriever was history.  She ran into his arms,
screaming out the only name she’d ever known for him.

“Daddy!”

He took her and held her tight; the feel, the touch, the smell brought
tears to his eyes.  Memories of Maria flooded his being. 

“Hey, princess,” he said softly. 

She pulled back and touched one of the small contusions on his
face.  “Someone punch you, Daddy?”

“Yeah, and I punched him back!” he tickled her.  She giggled and
hugged him again.  He pulled back and looked into her deep, brown eyes.

His daughter’s eyes.

Maria’s eyes.

He stayed for a quick cup of coffee.  Lita watched him silently,
letting him choose the moment to speak.