Gray Area

by George P. Saunders

  Sage decided not to debate the issue. It would be a fruitless exercise. Diamond was deep in that state that Sage had seen too many times before, despite the technical success of tonight’s operation.

  “I’m sure I’ll get the details of this action in the report,” Sage said. “But you hear this: Tonight, we brought down a major dirt bag. Hell, we bagged the boats and Shit Boy himself. You made that possible, and saved a lot of lives by doing so. Keep that in mind, old friend.”

  Diamond only offered a small nod. Sage eased back, satisfied with at least this little acknowledgement.

  “When was the last time you saw your daughter?”

  “I forget,” Diamond said. “A couple of months, I guess.”

  “Take some time off. I’ll see the Department kicks in a bonus. Shit, they’ll probably want to collectively blow you with ice cubes in their mouths after tonight. You made everyone goddamn heroes.”

  Diamond shrugged.

  Sage reached out and touched the man’s arm. “The girl. She looks a little like Maria,” he said gently. “Whatever happened—I would have trusted her, too.”

  Diamond walked away, staring at the ground.

  A young DEA agent named Lexington approached Sage. Lexington watched Diamond disappear into the night with something akin to awe.

  “Who was Maria?” he asked.

  “His wife,” Sage replied. “She was killed at an ATM five years ago. Shot by two fourteen year old kids for twenty dollars.”

  Lexington whistled softly to himself. “Christ, undercover with this kind of shit for over a month. What kind of guy can swallow that sort of crap?”

  Sage nodded with the only possible answer.

  “A hard mother-fucker of a man,” he said, then turned and walked toward his car.

  FOUR

  Diamond didn’t go directly home. Home these days was a dump of a studio near the L.A. Airport that served more as a guest house to a million or so cockroaches than to himself. Home also smelled like several small animals had died someplace within the walls. Or in his refrigerator. Home didn’t even have a real goddamn bed, just a fold-out lawn chair and an ancient futon—a Target special given to him by his sister-in-law two Christmases ago. The television hadn’t worked in months; not that it mattered. Diamond hardly ever watched TV. Hobbies, pastimes and leisure moments were encapsulated in unhealthy drinking binges, all conducted alone, away from humanity. Diamond drove to the 98th Precinct, opting to shower and clean up there instead of his own God-awful hovel. This was SRT’s command post. Its offices were composed of the Internal Affairs Division, the Organized Crime Division, Narcotics and Administrative Vice. The three divisions were responsible for recording and investigating complaints against department employees and processing disciplinary cases, collecting intel on drug trafficking, and taking assignments that, in general, no one the fuck wanted from other divisions. Those other “no one the fuck wanted” cases were cases Diamond usually got. And, tonight, he had the look of a man with one too many of those cases under his belt.

  He walked through the hall, head down. As was usual this time of night, there was limited staff on duty. A few cops nodded his way, but he did not nod back. All he wanted was hot water and oblivion. Soon, he would have both.

  One cop turned a corner and froze when he saw Diamond. He’d heard about the San Pedro bust on the squawkers earlier that evening.

  “Helluva job, Inspector,” the cop said.

  “Yeah,” Diamond muttered, and moved past the guy into the locker area.

  Five minutes later, a jet stream of hot water enveloped his body, blocking some of the pain. The water felt good. In time, the stink would fade. In time. He let the water wash over him as he stood under the showerhead, fully clothed.

  He closed his eyes, thinking of darkness.

  But out of the void came one searing memory. Juanita—naked, beckoning to him. She screamed, riding him in the shitty, ramshackle tenement she shared with another girl near the San Pedro docks. It had happened three weeks earlier, the night after he had saved her from the local roughnecks in the bar. They’d gone home together, and by Christ if she didn’t look almost exactly like Maria.

  The first round of sex ended abruptly. He had taken her face, and kissed it with surprising tenderness; surprising for him because Lou Diamond had never believed he would feel anything for anyone ever again, even if it was based on sexual attraction alone. Not after Maria.

  “You look at me like you know me,” Juanita had said.

  “You remind me of someone,” Diamond answered her.

  “Who?

  “A girl ... someone I once cared more about than anything else in the world,” he murmured, unable to meet her eyes.

  Juanita had laughed. “Ah, another girl,” she said, trying to tickle him.

  “Another girl,” Diamond said, then kissed her again. He made love to her once more, fiercely, as if he was trying to exorcise a demon or, at the very least, a haunting memory. It worked. When he finished, he got out of bed and moved toward the dilapidated bathroom.

  He watched as Juanita got out of bed and reached for his pants. She felt the weight of the fabric, shook a trouser leg. She then reached for the .38 special he carried everywhere. A tingle of concern, possibly even panic, skittered up his spine.

  Juanita looked at him, holding the gun. “This is a cop gun,” she said neutrally.

  “Maybe,” Diamond had said at the time. “But I ain’t no cop.” Juanita smiled. She went to him and touched his face. “Promise?”

  He kissed her. “Promise.”

  Diamond, now soaked through and through in the shower, opened his eyes, spitting out some froth. A cop gun, she had said. That should have been the giveaway to him that she was working with Palomito. He should have seen it. But no, he had been distracted by pussy and a girl who looked remarkably like his dead wife.

  And now two good men were dead, lying in the county morgue with sobbing wives and fatherless children crying over their deaf—

  He turned and saw that the young cop he’d seen in the hall was staring at him, speechless. Diamond collected his thoughts enough to address his own irritation at being bothered.

  “What do you want?”

  “Uh, sorry to disturb you, Inspector,” the cop stammered, “But your brother called. Said he needed to talk to you in a hurry. He’s at his office.”

  Diamond turned the shower knob to the off position and wiped steaming water from his eyes.

  Marshall had called. Strange. He and Marshall hadn’t communicated in years. Strike that ... since the night his brother had gotten his wife killed at an ATM.

  Diamond nodded slowly. “Thanks,” he said softly.

  “Inspector,” the cop said, backing up. “This precinct is real proud you’re a part of it. Just wanted to let you know that.”

  Diamond looked up and stared at the cop. The guy was bright-eyed and smiling. Diamond continued to stare. The cop stopped smiling and swallowed hard. Diamond willed the cop to leave, his tired eyes terribly clear in their desire.

  It worked.

  FIVE

  He arrived at his brother’s law firm less than an hour later. The building was surrounded with yellow police tape and dozens of law enforcement and forensic personnel were scrambling in and out of the structure.

  Diamond flashed his badge to the security cops assigned to the revolving front doors. Once look in their eyes told him that word of the San Pedro bust had gotten around. He hoped to Christ no one congratulated him again—or else his body count for the night was going to soar. How his cluster-fuck screw-up was being regarded as a triumph was a mystery to him.

  He decided to put that aside. Something had gone down at Marshall’s office, and since his cell phone hadn’t cooperated on the way over, he wasn’t sure exactly what that something was. All he knew was that someone was dead. Period. He’d changed clothes, some jeans, a tee-shirt and a torn leather jacket. He looked vaguely vagrant in every respect but didn’t give two shit
s.

  He’d had a night. And it looked like that night was far from over.

  The elevator took him to the twentieth floor, home to the prestigious Berenson & Marelli law cartel. His brother Marshall was the managing partner, as close to the Top Dogs as you could get without having your name embossed on the fake gold plaque that denoted the firm’s name on the walls directly in front of the elevator banks. Diamond knew that Berenson & Marelli, the “old men” as they were called, rarely appeared in the office anymore. They delegated a few big cases here and there, but mainly from home, bars, or the golf course. Benefits of lives well lived, or enrichments ill-gotten. In the legal world, these distinctions were simply not mutually exclusive.

  Diamond didn’t need to ask for directions to the scene. All he had to do was follow the myriad of people trailing in and out of the law library. He could see Ted Burke from Homicide by the front doors—the last guy he wanted to deal with tonight. Burke turned to Diamond as if sensing him by sniff—recognizing the stench of a sworn enemy. The frown came to both men automatically; too much history between them.

  Bad history.

  “Heard you were under,” Burke responded. He might well have said “what the fuck are you doing here?” The subtext was not lost on Diamond.

  “I was. Closed the deal tonight.”

  “Heard you were a star.”

  “So, what do we have?” Diamond said, ignoring Burke’s exhaling acrimony.

  “What we have is something you don’t need to be a part of,” Burke said, hostility brewing with every passing second. “You look like cow shit. Go home and take a vacation. They tell me you deserve it.”

  Diamond walked into the library. And got an eyeful of the two corpses that were once Jason Randall and Marianne Simpson. Chalk outlined the remains and rivers of blood flowed in all directions.

  “Messy,” Diamond noted casually.

  “It’s a little spooky,” Burke conceded. “Two lawyers doing some late night cramming. Someone crashed the festivities and did ‘em both.”

  “Looks like more than research and developing incisive legal arguments was happening at the time,” Diamond said. Not a hard piece of deductive reasoning; both Jason and Marianne were buck naked. Jason’s dick was still preternaturally stiff.

  “Prelim exams bear that out. Little bit of late night fuck and suck. Lawyers, remember?”

  Diamond gave an ugly smile at the slight; Burke knew Diamond had been a lawyer. Burke also knew that Diamond had assisted IA in nailing Burke for a bit of small time take from some pimps in East L.A. Diamond told him to his face that day two years back.

  Diamond could give two shits if Burke still held a grudge.

  “In any case, the picture thus far is no perps, no witnesses, zipperino. Front entrance doesn’t know fuck-all as to how anyone got to this floor without recorded access. Great post-9/11 security, huh? Even money says they came through the loading dock and up the freight elevator. Cleaning crew uses it twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Have we talked to them yet?” Diamond asked.

  “We’re rounding them up. Most don’t even speak English. So far, hear no evil, see no evil.”

  Diamond squatted down and examined the body of Jason Randall, then glanced over at Marianne.

  “Two shots. Good caliber.”

  Burke nodded. “Letter fucking perfect. The bullet boys dug out the caps. Looks like some kind of Colt. One of the APC’s.”

  “Who made the call?”

  “I did,” a voice said from behind Diamond.

  Diamond turned and looked at a tall, handsome man in his early forties. It was his brother, Marshall. “Hello, Lou,” he said.

  Lou stood and faced Marshall. Their eyes locked for a long moment before Marshall again spoke. “You look like hell.”

  “That’s the consensus.”

  “Who are you?” Burke looked to Marshall.

  Marshall extended his hand to Burke. “Marshall Diamond. I’m the Managing Partner of this company. And you?”

  “Burke, Homicide. Marshall Diamond. At the risk of sounding completely numb-nuts obvious, let me guess: you and super cop here are brothers.”

  Marshall cleared his throat, then looked to Lou. “Yes. That we are. In any case, I came in tonight just before two to work on a case that goes to trial tomorrow. I found Jason and Marianne, just like that.” Marshall nodded distastefully toward the corpses.

  Burke took out a pad and pencil. “Mr. Diamond, do you know of anyone who would have had a motive for killing these people?”

  Marshall shrugged. “Marianne was married. Maybe—” he hesitated, glancing at Lou, looking for assistance or guidance. Lou stared at him silently, remotely enjoying his brother’s discomfiture.

  “Go on, sir,” Burke urged.

  “Well, Marianne was going through a separation with her husband. Her choice. If he knew she was involved with Jason, like this,” he shrugged, letting the innuendo hang for a moment. “And as for Jason, well, he was always a bit of a fuck-around. Young, full of come, hot-shot draft choice. I recruited him myself. Talented, but somewhat distracted.”

  “Clearly,” Burke agreed, glancing at Marianne.

  Marshall took a breath. “I—was hoping to keep this quiet.”

  “Good luck,” Lou said.

  “I was hoping you could help, Lou,” Marshall said softly.

  “Marshall, this is a double homicide. It’s not like we have a suspect, or even a witness. You’re looking at a full scale investigation.”

  Marshall looked down and took a breath. The gesture was one of patient indulgence for a troublesome puppy. Lou was familiar with the quirk, and was annoyed by it.

  “I know something of the law, Lou,” his brother said. “I’m only concerned about extensive press attention and intrusion. We have several clients who solicit the services of this firm based on our deliberate low profile status.”

  “Funny, Marshall,” Lou said, glancing again at the pathetic corpses on the floor, “I thought your main concern would be finding the killer.”

  That shut his brother up for a moment. Marshall didn’t look down this time.

  “I can give you even money that the killer was Marianne’s husband. He had provocation.”

  “Thank you for that, Mr. Diamond,” Burke interjected, weary of the simmering emotion between the two brothers. “We’ll look into that possibility.”

  Lou wandered off and pulled a book from one of the shelves. But Burke wasn’t finished with him.

  “This isn’t your turf, Diamond. I understand why your brother would call you, but you’re not needed here. Don’t make me get territorial.”

  Lou shrugged, not even bothering to make eye contact with his brother. “I’m not pushing, Burke. It’s your gig.”

  Marshall stepped forward, both hands up in protest.

  “Wait a minute, Lou. That’s why I called you. Aren’t you on this case? I mean, you’re a cop—”

  “I’m SRT, bro. Not Homicide. I chase drug runners, gangsters, and dirty cops.” He let that hang for a moment, just for Burke. Then: “This is not my jurisdiction. Thanks for the courtesy call, though, and good luck.” He turned and started to walk away.

  “Best decision you ever made,” Burke couldn’t resist as Lou walked passed him.

  Maybe it was this last dig that made Lou stop. Maybe it was something else; a long night, too much shit in the past few hours, a dead wife, a wasted life—he couldn’t immediately say. But Lou made a decision within a split second, and as soon as he had committed himself to it, he had the feeling his life would change forever.

  Not that it hadn’t changed enough already...

  “You have one other option, Marshall,” Lou turned, as if in afterthought.

  “What?” Marshall asked impatiently.

  “I have a P.I. license. If you’re so inclined, and can meet my fee, you can hire me on as an independent investigator.”

  “You’re hired,” Marshall said without hesitation.

 
Burke moved like an animal ready to feed on fresh kill. “Diamond, don’t do this.”

  Lou regarded Burke without expression.

  Burke turned from brother to brother, then snarled at Diamond. “What about your vacation?”

  Lou offered an ugly smile. “With as much as I’m gonna charge my brother, now I can afford to take it.”

  Burke fumed for a moment longer, then moved off to confer with the Medical Examiner. Marshall watched Burke stalk away.

  “He doesn’t like you.”

  “You think?”

  “Listen, thanks for—”

  “Twenty thousand for the job, ten up front.”

  “Alright. Jesus, Lou, what the hell happened to you? You look like you got hit by a truck.”

  Lou didn’t want to get into it. He was already studying the library, trying to get a clear picture of the incident site. “The shooter knew the layout of this place. Odds are he knew your people were here—and what they were doing.”

  “Like I said, Marianne’s husband. He’s your number one suspect,” Marshall said.

  “He’s your number one suspect.”

  “It’s Simpson, Lou,” Marshall said emphatically. “And see that this thing gets closed fast, would you?”

  “You seem pretty sure this is all about a jealous husband.”

  “Writing is on the wall. No one better to suspect at the moment, is there?”

  Lou shrugged. Something twinkled on the ground, just under a small computer table against the wall. It caught Lou’s eye and he walked over to get a closer look. Marshall followed, impatiently glancing around at the army of investigating officers invading his firm.

  Lou reached under the desk, and pulled out what appeared to be a broach. It was a golden seal, couched against a small bed of emeralds. Lou scanned around to see if Burke or anyone else had seen him retrieve the jewelry. Satisfied that everyone else was involved with corpse-related matters, he took his brother by the arm and led him to a small enclave in the library.

  “Belong to anyone you know?” Lou asked Marshall, examining the broach.