“Only one person wears a broach like that in the firm,” Marshall said. “Linda Baylor. But she’s not your killer.”
“I never implied as much,” Lou said. “I was just asking a question.”
Something about the way Marshall jumped to Baylor’s defense set up an alarm inside of Lou. Not a loud one, but a titter nevertheless. He had the feeling that his brother knew more than he was telling, and it fueled Lou’s overall annoyance.
“I’ll keep this, if you don’t mind,” Lou said to his brother. “Not a word to Burke, okay?”
Marshall nodded surreptitiously. Lou left through the front doors of the library.
Burke approached Marshall.
“Your brother is a pain in the ass.”
“Older brothers tend to be. Comes with the territory.”
“You and he aren’t exactly the picture of fraternal love. Mind if I ask why?”
Marshall studied Burke and shrugged. “He blames me for the death of his wife.”
Burke nodded, thinking about this for a moment. “I know about that case. Tough break. But you’re his brother. One day, I’m sure he’ll forgive you.”
Marshall smiled without a trace of humor.
“No, Detective, I don’t believe he will,” Marshall said as he watched Lou disappear around the corner of the elevator banks. “As a matter of fact, he promised to do one thing before he died.”
“What’s that?”
“He promised to kill me.”
SIX
As Lou exited the library, the brother thing vis-à-vis himself and Marshall again loomed large in his already flagellated ethos. They were so goddamned different, always had been, always would be. Even when they had been friends of sorts, before Maria’s death.
It had started out when they were children and carried itself over to adulthood. Though Lou was always the protective “big brother,” Marshall never took to being the recipient of that kind of guardianship. In fact, Lou suspected from early on that his younger sibling resented it.
From the very beginning, Marshall was the brilliant whiz kid. In school, he was a scholastic standout, soaring over every known I.Q. test ever created. Teachers loved Marshall’s dizzying intellect, and mom and dad adored him for his seemingly endless potential. Lou never begrudged his younger sibling the attention … but it did make him more of a loner, less secure in any abilities he had. Those abilities did not manifest themselves until much later when he joined the Marine Corps, and still later in the police force. Abilities that made him, though an expendable asset, an asset nevertheless on the battlefield.
Marshall went on to Cornell, then later graduated with honors from Princeton’s elite law school. He became a partner in the firm of Teller and Mix in New York after only a year of associateship, having brought in more than twenty clients and fifteen million dollars in billing fees. Lou followed his younger brother’s career with vicarious pride. His own rise through the military ranks was slow, if somewhat sporadically spectacular, but it could not match Marshall’s stellar ascent. Lou finally earned recognition in the overthrow of Panama, then later in the jungles of Nicaragua against rebel insurgents. By the time he was thirty, he had a rank of captain and was given his own command in the Gulf War. It was here that he shined in several high-visibility campaigns against the Iraqi Republican Guard—guerilla operations which prevailed due to his experience in the bush of South America. There were later medals, commendations, and congratulations from the president, even High Tea on the White House Garden. Honorably discharged in 1991, he joined the elite SWAT division of the Los Angeles Police Department, where he continued to wage war, albeit of a different kind, and again distinguished himself on the field of combat. In 1994, he quit SWAT, and got his J.D. After a few years, he started his own law practice, mainly pro bono defense of juveniles gone slightly bad, or really bad beyond reasonable doubt. It was during these years that he met Maria, and of course, the rest was history.
Marshall had not been supportive of Lou’s decision to pursue the law. Though Lou had graduated from a small college near home with straight A’s, Marshall believed, and told Lou as much, that he didn’t believe this was a good career shift. Lou was mildly baffled, but undeterred. At the time, he was tired of war and of the street. He wanted peace. And though he didn’t expect to get married within one year of passing the bar, he thought he was ready for the commitment.
Four years later, Maria, his wife, and mother to his only daughter, was dead.
So while the fraternal bond between Marshall and Lou was never close, it expanded by light years in the aftermath of Maria’s death. Marshall had tried to reach out repeatedly in that first year, along with his wife Cyndi, but Lou’s own pain and his rage against his brother, was too great. Perhaps somewhere, deep down, Lou recognized that Marshall was not responsible for his Maria’s death. But he would have to dig pretty deep to acknowledge this fact. Then, and now, Marshall was as culpable for Maria’s death as her true murderers.
But here they were again, speaking. Or, rather—communicating.
And what more fitting thing to bring them together than a double homicide.
Diamond continued walking until he reached the outer reception area near the elevator banks. The company staff book was lying flat on the reception desk. As he reached for it, a voice called out to him.
“Officer Diamond.”
Lou turned to regard a young man of around twenty-eight staring at him. He wore a sweatshirt that said UCLA on the front and small, wire-rimmed glasses were even now sliding down his nose. He was sweating like a pig.
“Yes?”
“I’m Gabe Benjamin,” he said, folding his arms. He looked in either direction, then back at Diamond. “I’m a lawyer here. Second year associate.”
“Congratulations. What can I do for you?”
He nodded at the seal broach in Diamond’s hand. “Linda Baylor’s?”
“So they tell me.”
“Listen, I—there’s something you should know.”
Diamond waited, saying nothing.
“I—I was here tonight.”
“Really.”
“They—Jason—I mean, you know—Marianne—”
“The dead people in the library.”
“Yes. Them. They didn’t know I was here.”
Diamond shoved his hands into his pockets, sizing up the guy. “You should probably go into that library and tell my associates what you just told me. It could be important.”
“I didn’t see who killed them.”
“What did you see?”
Benjamin started to fidget and sweat even more. He then held up his hands.
“I didn’t see—not at first, anyway—but I heard them. I heard them start to, you know—”
“No, I really don’t.”
“You know—when they began to … get it on, kind of,” Benjamin finished in a whisper.
“I would say they did considerably more than just kind of get it on. Wouldn’t you?”
Benjamin moved a bit closer to Diamond.
“They didn’t know I was here because I was down in Records for most of the day. I thought I was the only one here.”
“Apparently, so did they,” Lou said.
“Yes, I guess so. Anyway, I had come up for some research material in the library, and that’s when I—when I saw them.”
“Getting it on.”
“Right.”
“Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
Benjamin stared at Diamond as if unsure whether to continue or bolt down the hall for dear life. He swallowed hard, and nodded.
“Jason and Linda Baylor,” he said at last. “They were also involved … romantically.”
Diamond continued to fix his gaze on Benjamin, not moving a muscle, daring the young man to continue.
“It ended a little while ago, but it happened,” Benjamin said. “Everyone in the firm knew about it. Jason loved to talk about his conquests. The idiot never knew how to shut his mouth
.”
“Go on.”
“Anyway, she broke it off a few weeks ago, I don’t know why. And Jason shut up, then almost immediately took up with Marianne.”
“This is very interesting stuff, Mr. Benjamin. So why are you telling me this, and not my friends in Homicide?”
“Because I know you’re Marshall’s brother. And I overheard that he wants to keep this close to the cuff.”
“How very helpful.”
“I’m … just trying to play ball.”
Again, Diamond was silent.
Benjamin glanced at the seal broach again. “Linda’s crazy for that shit.”
“So you don’t know if Linda and Mr. Randall had an amicable parting?”
Benjamin sighed. “I don’t think it was amicable at all. With Linda, nothing ends amicably.”
“Why is that?”
“Because she’s a bitch,” Benjamin said with conviction.
“Can you define bitch?” Lou said.
“Look, she’s a brilliant litigation attorney but she is vicious. I should know. I work with her. We handle this firm’s largest account.”
“You’re also setting her up as a fairly good suspect for murder. Is that your intention?”
“No, I didn’t want to do that. I’m just saying … I’m just suggesting that maybe, maybe, she might know who would have done this terrible, heinous thing,” Benjamin said as he began to fidget again.
Diamond studied the seal broach he held, deciding to let Gabe Benjamin sweat for just a few seconds more.
“Maybe I’ll talk to this Ms. Baylor,” he said at last.
“You should,” Benjamin urged.
“Why is that?”
And now Benjamin smiled. “You’ll see.”
He looked to the library, then back to Diamond. “I guess you want me to give a statement to those guys now, right?”
“That’s okay. You gave a statement to me, that’ll do for now. We can make it official later. Good enough?”
Benjamin offered a timid smile. “Sure. Sure, that’s fine.”
“Thank you, Mr. Benjamin. You’ve been very … educational.”
Benjamin nodded, his smile fading. He then turned, walked behind a row of boxes, and disappeared out of sight.
Of course, the killer could very well be Gabe Benjamin, Diamond mused, though he thought that Alfalfa from the Little Rascals was a more logical suspect for murder. The guy didn’t add up as a shooter, and no killer in his right mind would come out and make a statement to a cop that he had been there at the time of the actual incident. No, the Gabester was telling the truth, Diamond concluded. Probably caught Jason and the fetching Marianne fucking hard to high heaven, got an ear and eye-full, then fled the scene with red-faced astonishment. That he hadn’t mentioned that he heard a gunshot was not surprising either—the Records Department was probably downstairs, in one of the four floors that Berenson & Marelli occupied. The discharge explosion from a Colt, the weapon of suspect, was not particularly loud.
No, Benjamin was clean. A weenie, but clean.
Linda Baylor, however …
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 r
obe.
“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.
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