Gray Area

by George P. Saunders

  “I’d treat what time I had, a good twenty years if you’re lucky, with a little more respect,” Julie said. “May I suggest a leave of absence? You have a daughter, I believe.”

  He slammed his glass down and looked at her. “Julie, I’m scared shitless. If what you say is true then what the hell kind of father can I expect to be?”

  “Why don’t you show real courage, Lou, and find out?”

  He turned away from her and began to reach for the Chivas again. Then he pulled his hand back and turned to her, nodding.

  “Thanks for the time, doc,” he said.

  “I mean it about the time off,” Julie followed him to the door. She reached for his hand and faced him, uncomfortably close.

  “When someone like you breaks, Lou, it won’t be an easy toy to fix. It’s just that simple.”

  Lou nodded once again. Truer words were never spoke.

  SIXTEEN

  As he made his way up the Pacific Coast Highway back to Linda Baylor’s townhouse, the late afternoon sun hovered over the water for what seemed like an eternity to Lou Diamond. The sea was flat, as smooth as a lake, and on the opposite side of sky just above the Topanga Hills, the crescent of the moon and the planet Venus began to beam brighter as the sun disappeared over the horizon. It was a perfect twilight in every respect; calm, cool, almost mystical.

  Diamond breathed deeply of the salt and seaweed air. Other odors intruded as he neared Gladstone’s, the trendy seafood restaurant on the fringe of Malibu proper, and the Charthouse just a few blocks up the road. He realized that he hadn’t eaten since last night, though he wasn’t the least bit hungry. The visit with Julie had helped, but it did not completely eradicate the horror of the Palomito encounter in San Pedro. Moreover, he couldn’t stop thinking about his brother’s double murder scenario and Berenson & Marelli.

  That wasn’t quite true, really.

  What he couldn’t stop thinking about, of course, was Linda Baylor.

  He pulled into her driveway five minutes later. The doors to the garage were locked; presumably she was home. And, if he had any doubts, they vanished when he saw her front door cracked open.

  For him, he thought. The open door policy reserved especially for Lou Diamond.

  He didn’t bother to knock this time. He called out once he was in the foyer. “Ms. Baylor?”

  Not that he was expecting an answer; he already understood the way she worked. Linda Baylor liked games, liked to tease, and liked to lead men on a merry chase. He wandered further into the house, and that’s when he heard the steam hissing from somewhere down the hall.

  Diamond followed the noise to a huge bathroom area at the end of the main hallway. On further inspection, he could see that the bathroom was annexed to what appeared to be an indoor steam room.

  Snazzy, he thought. Should have stayed a lawyer, made the bucks, and avoided psychotic drug traffickers in warehouses. His mind was skull-fucking him again and he closed his eyes for just a second to focus. He then opened the steam room door.

  She was there, between him and a miasma of white hot steam, lying on a wooden bench. She was, of course, completely naked—her preferred state of being on most any occasion, Lou concluded.

  “So you came after all,” she said, turning a lazy head his way.

  “You invited me,” he said evenly.

  “So I did.” She sat up and reached for a towel. It looked like an afterthought because she didn’t seem to care if he saw her buck happy or not. More mind-fucking, he thought to himself acidly.

  She reached for the top of an ice chest at her feet, lifted it, and produced a beer.

  “Drink?” she asked.

  Diamond walked into the steam room and took the offering. She smiled at him, as the towel slipped down, revealing a perfect breast. “You always seem to be catching me at awkward moments. I wonder why that is?”

  Diamond cracked the beer and shrugged. “Just lucky, I guess.”

  Linda reached for a bottle of opened champagne and poured it into a chilled glass. “I steam for thirty minutes every day. If you don’t mind, we can talk in here.” She smiled at him. “I would suggest getting out of those things, though.”

  Diamond sipped more beer, holding her gaze. He then took off his jacket and shirt, slipped out of his shoes, then lost the underwear. He reached for a towel, but matched Linda’s pace—unhurried, leisurely. He sat on the opposite side of the bench.

  “You’re not a shy man, Lou.”

  “You like games, Linda. I don’t.”

  She studied the latticed network of scars that covered Diamond’s body. “How is the investigation going?”

  “Slowly.”

  “Have you talked to everyone at the office?”

  “Most,” he replied, losing himself momentarily in the coolness of the beer.

  “Have you talked to Robert August?”

  Diamond jogged his memory for the name. “Contract attorney. No, not yet.”

  Linda poured some more champagne. “He and Jason were friends. Good friends. I’d talk to him. Before it’s too late.”

  “Too late for what?”

  Linda sipped champagne and began to rub down her thighs.

  “Did you know that Jason was bisexual?”

  Diamond leaned forward, completely focused on what she had to say. And for the first time since he’d met Linda Baylor, he saw her turn away from him. This is vulnerable territory, he mused. The Ice Queen has a soft spot after all.

  “No, I was not aware of that.”

  “When I found out, I was furious. God knows who else he was screwing.”

  “That must have been ... painful,” Diamond said.

  “Yes. I hated Jason for that.”

  “Enough to kill him?”

  Linda stood up and walked toward him. The towel fell to the floor. She sat next to him and put a tentative hand on his bare knee. “Even when you’re relaxing, you’re still working. You’re different from your brother.”

  “How?”

  “There’s something ... sad about you. Sad and lost,” she said, and this time Diamond could detect a note of heartfelt sincerity in her voice.

  “And Marshall?” he asked, finishing the beer.

  Linda smiled and sighed. “Smart. Savvy. Cold. A terrific lawyer. But not lost.”

  “I can tell I’m making a great impression,” he said, keenly aware of her closeness. He could feel his erection and it irritated him.

  “It’s a terrific impression,” Linda said. “I think you’re more like me. You look like a killer. You’re built like one. But inside ... you’re just scared.”

  Linda’s hand traveled from his knee to his right hand. She took it and placed it on her thigh. Diamond watched and allowed her the lead. Her eyes now bore into his own and Diamond was aware that she was guiding his hand up her leg. A second later, and his hand was no longer on her leg. His jaw clenched but he did not pull back.

  “Sometimes,” Linda said huskily, “I just want to forget how scared I am.”

  The steam now seemed thicker to Diamond and he realized he was sweating like the proverbial pig. Linda closed her eyes as she began to gently massage herself with Diamond’s hand. She moaned softly as his hand worked faster between her legs, again, controlling every move. She felt to Diamond like a kind of exquisite, soaked velvet, her insides made solely for the purpose of heart-stopping sex. His fingers, with her guidance, found that place that caused her to breathe faster, and he complied with her unspoken need, rubbing, kneading her wetness, watching her face contort in unbridled pleasure.

  Diamond told himself this should stop—this was not exactly in line with standard operating procedure, thank you very much. But he knew that he would allow her to use him, for no other reason than he was completely spellbound by Linda Baylor. She opened her eyes slightly, the tempo by which she was guiding his hand to stimulate her increasing with each passing moment. At last, she let out a small gasp. When the moment arrived she screamed, grabbed his one hand with hers, an
d shuddered for several seconds, eyes clenched shut.

  Recovering, she released his hand, stood and took her place on the opposite side of the bench, as if they had shared nothing more than a friendly chat. She poured another glass of champagne, then finally allowed her eyes to meet his as she reached for a can of Budweiser.

  “Refill?” she said.

  Diamond was momentarily speechless. Composing himself, he nodded no. “I’m good,” he muttered.

  “I know,” Linda smiled. “You surprise me.”

  “Now surprise me,” he said reaching for his clothes. A tidal wave of mixed emotions washed over him, not the least of which was a kind of self-loathing.

  “How?” Linda asked.

  “Tell me who you think killed Randall and Simpson,” he said.

  “By that question, I can tell you have doubts about Don Simpson being your killer, as well as myself. In which case, Lou ... keep digging,” she said, and then her smile disappeared. “You might not like what you find.”

  “Meaning?” he said, almost finished dressing.

  “Marshall isn’t telling you all he knows,” she said. “If I were you, I’d book Simpson and take a vacation.”

  “I get that a lot these days,” Diamond said with clear irritation. “Why do I get the feeling you aren’t telling me everything?”

  “Because I’m not.”

  Diamond studied her. “I’m not going away until I have answers, Linda.”

  “I’m counting on that,” she said. Her gaze was frank, and it disconcerted Diamond. Because what he saw behind that frankness was something truly surprising.

  He saw fear. Genuine fear.

  “Linda, if I find out you’re the shooter, I’m going to slam you hard,” he said.

  “That almost sounds exciting,” she replied.

  “It won’t be.”

  Linda watched him as he reached for the door. “I’m going out on the boat Sunday. Come with me.”

  “I’m going to spend some time with my daughter.”

  “Your daughter,” she echoed, and nodded. “Yes. Alright. Saturday, then.”

  “I’ll be working,” he said.

  “Play hooky. Besides, by Saturday you’ll have more questions,” she said, standing and stretching her perfect body. “And I might have more answers.”

  They stared at one another for a moment, then Diamond walked out.

  SEVENTEEN

  His encounter with Linda was disturbing. Yet it had been exciting, too, there was no denying that. He wanted her on a savage, animal level. While he chided himself for this desire, it did not diminish the ache and longing in his loins.

  The bitch. She knows I want her.

  He drove. It helped a little. When he glanced down at his watch, he realized that he had been driving on surface streets for hours, more or less in a circle between Malibu and Long Beach.

  This is nuts. Get a grip.

  He decided it was time to go home and sleep.

  When he got back to his apartment, he was genuinely exhausted. He remembered that he hadn’t gone shopping for himself in nearly a month—he’d been undercover that long with the Palomito matter—and so a stop at the local Food King was not inappropriate. In fact, it seemed like a damn good idea at just ten minutes shy of midnight.

  At first, Diamond didn’t notice the two men, both in well-tailored suits, both benignly yuppie in appearance. They entered the elevator with him on his way up to his third floor shitty apartment; they even nodded toward him, friendly as hell. He hadn’t given them a second thought, his mind on Linda Baylor. He did notice the two men when they got off on his floor. He made it a point to notice them ... because, quite simply, he didn’t recognize them as familiar neighbors.

  He walked down the long, dingy hall to his own apartment at the very end, near a fire escape. The two men were both knocking on another door, near the elevator. Diamond glanced at them for a moment, as he fumbled for his own keys. Friends to someone on this floor, he catalogued them finally. Nothing more.

  He found the key, inserted it into the lock and opened the door.

  He did not see the two men down the hall abandon their knocking efforts and make a speedy approach toward his own apartment. Nor did he see them produce semiautomatic pistols.

  It was only the moment after he closed the door, and put the groceries down on the floor that he was able to listen to the two sounds that saved his life. The sounds were the unmistakable chambering and cocking of two guns on the other side of the door.

  Diamond didn’t bother to turn around. He dived behind his couch, a good ten feet from his front door, just as the first barrage of gunfire decimated it. The strafing rounds ripped through his television set, stereo and the terrace glass. Glass became airborne, showering around him, as he pulled his own .38 police special from his jacket and waited.

  For a moment, there was silence. Diamond remained motionless. The front door creaked open. He rose from behind the sofa and fired three times.

  Two rounds slammed into the point man about to enter Diamond’s apartment. He died before he hit the ground, his last thought, Diamond hoped, being one of bemused astonishment—the last thing the shit-grub would have expected is someone alive and packing after the barrage of firepower thrown at him. The second man watched his compatriot die then glanced at the swinging, half blown off door and made a very cogent decision. He turned tail and ran.

  Diamond moved cautiously toward what remained of the front door. The man whom he had killed lay against the far wall, his legs twitching—a phantom reflex phenomena. The twitching suddenly ceased. Diamond glanced at the fire escape and saw the silhouette of the other man already on his way down. Diamond followed.

  The stairwell led down to the garage. Diamond didn’t decrease his speed descending, even when two shots ripped into the wall six inches from his head. He fired in the direction of the shots.

  The garage exit door loomed ahead, smashed open by the assassin’s hasty departure. Diamond ran for the door in time to see his would-be killer move toward a small black sedan.

  “Freeze!” he yelled, gun up, then ducked behind a pillar.

  The gunman did the opposite. He raised his intimidating weapon and fired off a careless shot in Diamond’s direction.

  Diamond fired once. The gunman jolted backwards, a stain of red blossoming on his chest. For all the impact of the bullet, the big man still persisted, and opened the door to the sedan. Diamond continued firing, taking out the passenger window and the windshield. The sedan roared to life, lurched out of the open parking space and fish-tailed toward the gated exit.

  Diamond ran for his car, fishing out his keys, and silently cursing the span of time it took him to perform the task. He threw open the driver’s seat and gunned the ignition. He slammed the gears into drive, hit the accelerator and sideswiped a neighbor’s car in his rush to the gate.

  Diamond prayed for little traffic. Of course, the prayer went unanswered. The gunman’s vehicle swerved across three lanes like a drunken bear. Cars screeched, swerved and collided, as the sedan continued to accelerate.

  Diamond leaned out of his window and took a potshot at the car ahead. His aim was true and the back window of the sedan blasted into oblivion. Suddenly, the sedan veered into a small side street. Diamond stayed with it and kept firing into the black maw of space where the back window used to exist.

  Diamond accelerated and braced for impact. He rammed the sedan once, twice. Enough to do what Diamond expected of the tactic. The sedan lost control, swerved again, smashed into the sidewalk, and then jack-knifed. There was still enough forward momentum to send the front of the sedan at fifty miles an hour into a solid brick wall of the dead end street.

  At that same moment, Diamond hit his brakes. He saw the injured assassin’s body fly through the front windshield of the sedan and into the wall. A spray of blood told Diamond that there would be no future questioning for this one particular perp. Still, training and caution were hard friends to lose. He stepped ou
t of his car, gun trained on the destroyed sedan and approached the mess of human being lying horribly twisted at the base of the brick wall.

  The assassin’s skull had been smashed open, brain strewn across the front hood of the sedan. Amazingly, the assassin’s chest heaved several times before quieting into a gurgle and finally a rattle—sounds Lou Diamond had heard too many times in his past. Then the only sounds were the hissing of steam through gnarled tubing and the distant cacophony of police sirens.

  EIGHTEEN

  Preston Giles was not terribly pleased. He wasn’t angry, not even remotely furious, no, he was more annoyed than anything. He had sent Trent and Kosstler in to finish this Diamond issue and it had been pretty straight forward. Guy was just a cop after all, albeit one who had seen some shit in his day according to the file, but a burn-out by all other accounts. A pain in the ass who had been hired by the head of Arc-Link’s law firm—his own brother—and was sticking his nose in all the wrong places. Loser, the rest of the file said, ever since the death of his wife. A drunk, too. Easy pickings.

  That’s how Diamond read on paper, anyway.

  Yet, as of two minutes ago, Kosstler had his brains painted on a brick wall and the target was still alive and kicking. Trent, Giles could safely assume, was also as dead as yesterday.

  He’d have to call LeMay. The old man was sure to bitch about this. Giles would remind the old fuck that he had simply been asked to supervise the operation; to ensure success, as it were. LeMay would continue to squeal like a gutted pig before Giles would then calm him down and assure him that the target would nevertheless be secured, by himself, personally, and no thank you to additional assistance.

  His personal guarantee. Preston Giles’ personal promise to deliver.

  LeMay would stop his bitch-moaning and inquire tersely how long it would take. Giles would respond enigmatically that it would be very soon.