Gray Area

by George P. Saunders

  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?”

  “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.