Gray Area

by George P. Saunders

  “Yeah, I get it,” LeMay snarled in a low voice. “It should never have come to this.”

  Giles waited, feigning interest in a potted plant that sat on the corner of LeMay’s desk. He glanced at his watch—a tacit move to let the Chairman know his time was valuable. LeMay got the message.

  “Listen, I’ll get back to you. I have the answer to our problem sitting opposite me at this very moment,” LeMay said, then put the phone back in the cradle. He extended his hand to Giles.

  “Good seeing you, Preston,” he said.

  “Thought the next time we’d meet would be at the Christmas party,” Giles said easily.

  “Things change,” LeMay said, shrugging. “We’ve got a bit of a monkey-spunk situation on our hands, Preston. And I don’t want it to get any more ass-fucked, blood and semen running down our legs and it’s time to find a diaper, if you know what I mean.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  “It’s more unexpected and nuisance in nature, but I want to nip it in the bud now. And, you’ll be happy to know, it’s a relatively simple assignment,” LeMay said through a sigh.

  “Lovely.”

  “Yes. And you won’t be alone. We’ll give you some bodies to lend a hand.”

  “I love bodies,” Giles said and smiled.

  “Here’s the shit of it: Our legal department is down two problematic attorneys. That’s fine, but we have another issue.”

  “I can hardly wait to hear what it is,” Giles said, smiling.

  “It’s an unexpected fly in the ointment,” LeMay said. “Like I said, I don’t want it to get out of hand.”

  “Why not use your first man—the one who made your two attorneys go away? Sounds like he did well and could do so again,” Giles said.

  “Nah, not possible,” LeMay waved his hand dismissingly. “Too much exposure. And that party has indicated that it simply won’t take on another assignment so close to home.”

  “Close to home?”

  “We have someone inside Arc-Link helping us. But this party is close to the Top Dog himself, the partners I mean, and has indicated little interest in this assignment.”

  “Ah, a problem unto itself.”

  “A great ass-fuck of an inconvenience but we’re dealing. That’s why you’re here.”

  Very cryptic, Giles thought, but didn’t really dwell on LeMay’s need for secrecy at the moment. In truth, he didn’t give a fuck. Method and timeliness of payment were at the forefront of his interest. That and the target.

  As if reading Preston’s mind, LeMay picked up a file and handed it to him. “Here’s your Kodak moment. We need this done Fed Ex, no two day service.”

  Giles scanned the file, the face, then finally the location. No big sweat. My god, he’d never earn another cool million as easily again. This one he could probably do alone, without LeMay’s offer of other assistance, but he figured the company was just covering all their tracks.

  And as LeMay said, this target really, really had to go away, and snippity-snap at that. Fine.

  “Okay,” Giles said. “And the money?”

  “We already talked figures. That’s not a problem. We’ll deposit it in your usual account in the Caymans. Unless things have changed?”

  Giles smiled. Oh, yes, things have changed. The biggie being he was soon to be out of this crap of a career and kicking it in the Bahamas. Long legged women, Mai-tais, and all the time in the world.

  “Nah, no changes,” Giles said.

  The two men stood, and LeMay shook his hand. “We will see you at the Christmas Party, yes?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Giles smiled without losing a beat and then turned and left the room.

  THIRTEEN

  Marianne Simpson had lived well, this much Diamond could discern. The house Turner pulled in front of was one of those Mexican Hacienda imitations, and a damn good one at that. A little fountain with a sleeping poncho boy in a sombrero trickled water from the boy’s mouth, while two little cherubs were both pissing colored water into a small, ceramic bowl near the front door. There was even a cactus garden lining the perimeter of the house itself. Here in the middle of West Hollywood a home like this went for almost a million bucks; hell, maybe over a mil. Diamond thought depressingly of his studio hell with a family of cockroaches and a lawn chair for a bed.

  By some unhappy coincidence, just as Turner parked the car in the elaborate driveway, two black and whites saddled along the sidewalk. Ted Burke got out of one of the cars, already looking about as friendly as a pit viper and ready for a fight. Diamond recognized his sometimes partner, Biff Wincock (loved the name, Diamond always mused, but the guy himself was a pluperfect prick—the perfect adjunct to the already prickish Burke). Burke headed toward them, a large bull preparing for the run.

  “Ah, shit,” Turner muttered. “All I need is to hear him whine to me that you’re out of your jurisdiction again. Just what I don’t fuckin’ need.”

  Diamond nudged Turner in the ribs. “Smile, pardner. It always works.”

  Turner smiled broadly at Burke and Wincock. “Ted. Biff. You bastards. What are you doing here?”

  “Heard there was a GQ underwear commercial,” Wincock shot back, his eyes already scanning Diamond with ill-concealed dislike. “Knew I’d book the audition.”

  “You pretty boys are all alike, and, shit, if my black dick isn’t boasting half a stalk,” Turner chuckled then looked to Burke. “Can’t tell you how much our little talk perked me up this morning, Ted. Didn’t even need my lithium afterwards.”

  “Eat me, Turner,” Burke said, glaring at Diamond. “I thought we had an understanding. I thought you were going to talk to Wonder Boy here.”

  Turner shrugged diplomatically. “We talked. And he’s within his rights to conduct an investigation on this matter. If you want codes and regulations cited, I have those available. As long as he’s not stepping on official toes, he’s free to play.”

  Again, Burke realized this was another battle not a game for the winning. “Well, you’re wasting your time anyway. We came by last night and earlier this morning. No Don Simpson, not a goddamn trace.”

  And not a good sign, Diamond thought to himself. Chips were mounting up in favor for Don Simpson’s guilt in the killing of his wife and lover. Diamond began to walk toward the front door.

  “He’s not there,” Burke said easily. “We’ve been watching the place for the past twelve hours. No one has come out or gone in.”

  “Then there’s no harm in knocking,” Diamond said just as easily. Translated: Fuck you, Burke. You don’t tell me what to do, ever.

  “Suit yourself. It’s—”

  But Burke was cut short by the two gunshots. Windows crashed outward and suddenly big-prick Wincock was screaming—a bullet lodged in his thigh. Burke turned toward Wincock’s scream, but was knocked to the ground by a slug to the gut. Burke went down, an audible gasp of pained astonishment escaping his lips.

  Diamond dove behind some garbage cans and shoved Turner behind the fountain just as more gunfire tore the sombrero right off the stone fixture. Wincock took another shot, this time to his shoulder. One of the cops back by the black and whites went down, his arms shredded at the elbow joint. The other cop returned fire and, per protocol, was on the squawk calling for major backup.

  Diamond returned fire once, aiming for the shattered window. Presumably that was the point of origin for all the bullets and, logically, the proximate location of the shooter. Turner looked toward Diamond, only ten feet away.

  “Simpson?”

  Diamond shrugged. He was more concerned about Burke and Wincock, now hopelessly exposed to the strafing gunfire emanating from the house. But the shooter was not interested in picking off the injured men. More shots were fired, but they were wild, aimed at the cop cars beyond.

  Diamond ran from his position of cover and dragged Burke to the small brick wall that acted as a kind of divider to the driveway and the cactus garden extending around the hou
se. Burke nodded to Diamond, a perfunctory signal that said he was okay, not ready to die just yet. Diamond nodded back then glanced back at Wincock who was crawling toward the brick divider. Diamond reached out and pulled the man the rest of the way. Bullets continued to fly and in the next moment, a scream followed.

  “Fucking stay away from me, murderers!”

  Diamond examined Burke’s gut wound; ugly more than deadly. Diamond suspected it would be one helluva cramped recovery. The bullet had passed through the fatty tissue to the left of any major internal organs. Burke’s six-pack a night had absorbed most of the damage caused by the round.

  “You’ll live,” Diamond said quickly, mopping up blood with his jacket, glancing to the window every second or two.

  “Fuckin’ A,” Burke snarled. “Son of a bitch.”

  “You okay, Wincock?” Diamond looked to the big cop. Wincock was assessing his two wounds, both equally non life- threatening. He nodded, spitting vehemently.

  “I want to cut the nuts off that sucker then shove em’ down his fuckin’ throat.”

  Diamond nodded. “Fine. Right now give me a little cover, if you can.”

  His .38 led the way as he sprinted out from behind the brick divider.

  Predictably, the shooter offered a few shots of objection at Diamond, but they were wide and didn’t even come close to him. Diamond moved as quickly as he could to the side door, hugging the wall tight.

  “I’ll shoot anyone who tries to come at me,” the voice within shouted.

  Diamond listened to the fear within the threat. He was sure it was Don Simpson, and he knew something else, deep within his gut: that Don Simpson, with this current sloppy attack on the police, panic swelling in every scream, could not have killed his wife and Jason Randall. Whoever performed that meticulous piece of assassination was quiet, smart, and diabolical. If he didn’t get to Simpson first, the SWAT teams would, and then that would be it, fat lady singing and all.

  Already the SRT choppers buzzed above. Three of them circling like predators ready for the kill. About a thousand cop cars could be heard approaching in the distance. Diamond made his move.

  He kicked open the side door and immediately took cover behind a huge refrigerator. The shooter had not heard his entry, or simply didn’t care, because he continued firing wildly from his position in the front living room. Diamond followed the sounds of rattling gunfire until he could see Don Simpson from the kitchen.

  Simpson’s back was to him, his focus directed to the front yard and driveway. He continued to fire what appeared to be an Uzi semi-automatic. He wasn’t aiming at anything in particular, but making a helluva lot of noise doing it nevertheless.

  Diamond braced himself by the exit point of the kitchen.

  “Drop it, Simpson,” he said flatly. “Police.”

  Don Simpson turned and fired wildly. Bullets tore into the wall near Diamond. Any cop in his right mind would have lit Simpson up like a Chinese Lantern, but Diamond decided to let the tantrum play itself out. More bullets slammed into the wall near him and Simpson eventually ceased fire.

  “Stay away, motherfucker!” Simpson shouted, not even bothering to take cover. Another clear indication to Diamond that the man in the living room was a rookie in combat tactics and, more than that, just scared shitless.

  “Are you Donald Simpson?” Diamond asked from his position outside the kitchen.

  “Goddamned right I am,” Simpson snarled back. “And I’m not as easy to waste as Marianne.”

  He fired twice, as if to punctuate the statement. Diamond looked beyond Simpson, through drawn transparent curtains, and could see that Turner had taken this brief opportunity of internal gunplay to move out from behind the sombrero statue and back to the black and whites on the street. He could make out more cars taking position in the streets. Time was running out.

  “Simpson, listen to me,” Diamond said. “I’m a cop. But I’m also a private investigator. I’ve been hired to find out who killed your wife.”

  This seemed to interest Simpson. “Who hired you?”

  “Marshall Diamond. He was your wife’s boss. I’m his brother.”

  Simpson listened to this then fell back on his ass, against a huge armchair. He began to cry. “She never hurt anyone. I knew she was screwing around on me, but shit. She didn’t deserve to die. Why? Why did they kill her?”

  He was rambling, sobbing, shaking his head. Diamond was just happy he had the guy talking. “Lots of folks think you killed her, Don.”

  “That’s a fucking lie,” Simpson shot back, snot and spit flying from his nose and mouth. “She was my baby. They killed her!”

  “Who?” Diamond asked.

  “Those fucks at the firm,” Simpson said emphatically. “It’s a goddamned hornet’s nest. They’re all a bunch of fuckstick mobsters. They killed my baby.”

  Diamond almost felt sorry for the guy. But there was the very real fact that he still had an Uzi in his possession and had critically wounded three officers.

  “My wife was killed, too,” Diamond said. “Shot. Just like yours.”

  Simpson opened his eyes, sucking in his sobs. “No shit?”

  “Five years ago,” Diamond continued. “I felt like you. If it wasn’t for a few friends—I never would have made it through.” Simpson didn’t respond to this. Diamond heard more sniffing of snot, more sucking up of spit and thought, good, the guy was listening, maybe even thinking, too. “Listen, Don, we don’t have a lot of time. I’m coming around this corner. Unarmed. If you shoot me, you’re going down.”

  No response. Diamond pressed on. “If you don’t shoot, you’ll get through this. Choice is yours.”

  Simpson stared at the Uzi in his hands. He began to shake his head back and forth. “She wanted a divorce. Couldn’t stand my drinking anymore.”

  Diamond stepped out from around the corner. Simpson looked up at him, staring into Diamond’s .38. But he didn’t raise the Uzi.

  “I told her I’d get clean,” Simpson said. “I begged her for another chance. I loved her. Y’understand?”

  Diamond nodded. “Yeah. Lose the piece, Don. Slowly, nothing sudden.”

  Simpson seemed suddenly exhausted. He nodded and tossed the Uzi to the side. “Promise you’ll find the motherfuckers who killed her?”

  Diamond took out some cuffs and turned Simpson around. “Guaranteed,” he said.

  FOURTEEN

  “Even money Simpson is the shooter,” Turner said as both he and Diamond watched Don Simpson, now cuffed and tearfully quiescent, being forced into a police car half a block away. “Just a feeling I have about these things.”

  “Maybe,” Diamond shrugged. He didn’t sound convincing and Sage picked up on the doubt immediately.

  “Lou, he goes apeshit nuts with an Uzi the day after his wife is murdered. You don’t call that suspicious and beyond a reasonable doubt that he did his old lady and Randall?”

  Diamond turned to face his old friend. “It means he freaked. Pulled a number that’s gonna get him some considerable jail time. Something about him—I just don’t believe he’s our bad guy.”

  “Think again, buddy,” Turner said, nodding to an investigative officer exiting the Simpson house. “We found a .16 millimeter Beretta. With silencer.”

  Diamond watched the young officer hand Sage the paper bag marked Evidence, with the gun and silencer attachment within. “Ballistics called in a few minutes ago and read the stats on Marianne Simpson and Jason Randall. Both were shot with a .16 mil. Pathology puts eighty percent probability that judging from points of impact and bone fragmentation, the shooter used a silencer.”

  Diamond thought about everything he’d heard in the house from the distraught Simpson. Then he thought about his gut hunch—which was rarely wrong—that something else was missing. Something that didn’t quite add up.

  “I don’t get it,” he said at last. “The guy was begging me to find his wife’s killer. Or killers. If he was the shooter why waste time with an elaborate and emo
tional act pleading innocence?”

  “Lou, he was fucked out of his mind. Two bottles of Jack and enough PCP, uncut, thank you Jesus, to drop a small horse. Not to mention some blotter acid. Haven’t seen that shit since ‘69.”

  “Your point?” Diamond muttered, knowing exactly what the point was but still mentally tabulating facts and statistics that just didn’t jive in his mind.

  “Point being, he had so much crap in his system he was babbling nonsense. Hell, in that state he probably didn’t even remember doing his wife or Randall.”

  Diamond nodded, unable to really offer a substantive argument to a mountain of facts that all but said, Don Simpson, you murderous motherfucker, you’re going down hard.

  “Call your brother,” Turner said. “You’ve got your killer.”

  A voice called out from behind them. “Diamond!”

  Burke was being gurneyed into an ambulance, an I.V. attached to his arm, his gut wrapped in gauze. He looked customarily pissed off as he fought back pain, but there was something in his expression minus the usual fury he saved for Lou Diamond alone.

  Diamond and Turner walked over to him. Burke sniffed a snot-ball full of blood, clearing his nostrils. “You saved my butt, Diamond. I guess I owe you.”

  “For old times sake,” Diamond offered, managing a grin. Burke was a prick through and through and a corrupt one at that, but Diamond figured he could give some ground to a guy on the wrong side of a bullet.

  “I won’t be in the office for awhile,” Burke managed, “It’s yours, if you want. My people will work with you on this case, no smoke.”

  Diamond nodded, impressed with the offer. He supposed it was Burke’s way of saying thanks and no hard feelings. “I appreciate that, Ted. But we may have nailed our shooter, in case you weren’t keeping up on current events today.”

  Diamond held up the paper bag and the .16 mil. Burke nodded. “Still, you need anything, call. Looks like I’ll be taking that vacation for you.”