Gray Area

by George P. Saunders

  And that would be the end of the conversation.

  Yeah, he knew how the chat would go. But that was not what was of interest to him at the moment.

  As he sat in his nondescript Ford Sable one block away from the site where brainless Kosstler was being examined by a few detectives, Giles stared at Lou Diamond. Diamond stood alone, away from the madding crowd, hands shoved into his pockets—watching his cop brothers analyze the residue of his constabulary efforts in law enforcement.

  Interesting guy, Giles thought. Tougher than previously expected.

  Giles was not so arrogant as to believe every target he was given was the proverbial sure thing—though no target assigned to him had ever escaped his skill and efficiency. But he was a careful man by nature and he knew it was a good thing never to underestimate the unknown quantity in any given situation. Perhaps that’s why he was still alive and others in his profession were practically extinct.

  He would consider the method by which he would deal with Lou Diamond, but he would do so on his own time and in his own way. These things couldn’t be rushed. As the Wicked Witch of the West had once said to Dorothy—these things had to be handled delicately.

  He took out his cell phone and prepared himself for the tedious farce of relaying the results of this operation to Dame LeMay. He never took his eyes off of Lou Diamond, not even when LeMay answered the call.

  “Son of a fucking bitch!” LeMay snarled. “How could this have fucking happened, Giles?”

  “It did. Simple as that, old friend,” Giles said tonelessly. “It won’t happen again.”

  Giles expected yet another tirade, but instead he was met with only silence.

  “Alright,” Le May finally said. “I assume you’ll handle it at some point? And soon?”

  My how things change, and Giles was genuinely surprised. “Yes, of course. I thought you’d be more distressed.”

  “I’m not holding my pecker and jerking off in a wet hankie, if that’s what you mean,” LeMay said testily. “But, we’ll call it even, on one condition.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “We have another target tonight. I have two items on the job but it sure would make my Christmas morning if you’d be there to baby-sit. Because, as we’ve just noticed, you do it so well.”

  You old fuckstick, Giles thought. Rubbing it in and then asking for more.

  “This is another gig pursuant to the same issue which you will no doubt conclude in your own good time. I hope you don’t mind. We’d just love it if you could lend a hand.”

  Prick. But there were political considerations going on here, and politics could get so emotional at times…

  “How can I help?” Giles said, almost sounding gracious.

  An armada of cop cars continued to converge on the area, along with two fire trucks and a small crowd of gawkers, half of those awakened indigents who were unaccustomed to their drunken stupors being rudely interrupted by high speed chases in the wee hours of the morning.

  Lou Diamond watched the dead assassin, with a face so mashed and mutilated that it resembled something not unlike a pound of reddish-green condemned veal, being zipped into a body bag. A plain clothes cop named Rex Daniels sidled up to Diamond. Daniels and Diamond went way back. They were rookies in the department a hundred years ago, except Daniels went career and Diamond took the more circuitous Journey of Life.

  “Beats the fuck out of me, Lou,” Daniels muttered, scratching his head and studying a button on the verge of jumping off his worn jacket. “We picked up the one you iced at your apartment. Like this poor prick, not a shred of I.D. You say you don’t have a clue why they were trying to hit you?

  Diamond shrugged. Convincingly, he thought. He had a clue, alright, but he wasn’t going to give it to Daniels. “Never seen these guys in my life. Maybe they’re IRS.”

  Daniels offered a humorless chuckle. “On the other hand, I hear you’ve been bringing down a lot of scum lately. Maybe you’re under contract.”

  A young cop, barely out of the Academy, approached Daniels and handed the older vet a paper bag. Diamond’s mind wandered momentarily; funny how in all those cop movies, everyone handed plastic baggies to one another. In fact, plastic bags were never used to hold evidence—too flimsy. Diamond wondered absently in a micro-second why the think-wizards in Hollywood had never gotten this right.

  “Well, well,” Daniels said, staring into the bag.

  Inside was the assassin’s weapon of choice.

  “Goddamn beautiful piece of hardware,” Daniels admired. He took the weapon out and tested its weight. “This might be something.”

  “How’s that?” Diamond said.

  “This is an Icon-R457. Government issue. These boys were pro. Hard to get this shit unless you’re a Fed.”

  “That a fact,” Diamond said taking the gun and examining it. “Didn’t know that.”

  A lie, but Daniels didn’t need the details. Diamond handed the bag back and walked to his car.

  “Watch your back, old friend,” Daniels yelled after him.

  Diamond opened the driver’s door. “Always do.”

  It was time for another talk with his brother.

  NINETEEN

  Marshall opened the door of his house, his eyes rheumy and exhausted, with a half glass of brandy held unsteadily in his right hand.

  Lou didn’t wait to be invited in.

  “Don’t you ever sleep?” Marshall asked.

  Lou noted the slight slur his brother’s speech. An oddity because Marshall rarely drank to excess and, even when he did, he maintained.

  “I was planning on it,” Lou responded as he sat in an old rocking chair. He studied his brother. “Until two well dressed gentlemen in Armani decided that I’d be better off with an extended rest.”

  Marshall weaved backward, forward, and finally fell onto the couch. “I don’t understand.”

  “Someone put a hit out on me tonight. Damn near go their money’s worth, too.”

  Marshall put his brandy glass on the thousand dollar coffee table he had purchased at an auction one year earlier.

  “Jesus,” he muttered, shaking his head back and forth.

  “Why do I think it has something to do with the Randall-Simpson murders?” Lou asked quietly.

  This got Marshall’s instant attention, and suddenly his eyes were bright and fiery. “Oh, come on, Lou. These murders are pretty straight forward. It’s either Simpson or—”

  “Linda Baylor?” Lou cut him off. “I’m beginning to wonder.” He let the moment hang. Then: “She says you’re not telling me everything.”

  “She’s lying,” Marshall shot back. “I told you, she’d do anything to bug me.”

  “What the hell do you two have going, anyway?” Lou stood up. “One minute you’re her attorney, the next thing she’s trying to screw you in my eyes, and now you’re saying she’s shit.”

  Marshall stood up and shoved his hands into his robe. “It’s a marriage you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me,” Lou said. He was tired of this dance and wanted to go home.

  That’s when Cyndi appeared in her robe, half asleep. She looked at Diamond.

  “Lou?”

  “Hi, Cyn. How are you?”

  Cyndi moved toward Diamond like an anxious lover. She hugged him, then kissed his cheek, then really began to take notice of his appearance.

  “My god, Lou, you look dreadful. What happened?”

  “My moonlighting job of selling girl scout cookies. Dangerous work.”

  “Come on, no joking. I think you need to see a doctor. Some of those cuts—” she stopped mid-sentence, and touched the largest gash on his forehead with gentle concern. He took her hand and smiled, then looked back toward Marshall who was guzzling his brandy.

  “Bro and I were just chatting. Catching up on life, breaking bread. You know.”

  Cyndi studied Lou, then smiled and turned to Marshall. “You could have woke me up, baby. I would have made something.”

>   “Sorry,” Marshall muttered in a voice that said he was about as sorry as a cobra killing a mongoose. Cyndi let it go but frowned at Marshall’s empty brandy glass. She turned back to Lou.

  “Really, Lou, whatever happened to you, I think you need to go to the hospital.”

  “I’m fine, Cyn. It’s great seeing you. Been awhile.”

  “Only a thousand years or so. Hey, are you hungry?”

  “No, thanks. I just need to finish up our little talk here, then I’ll be on my way.”

  Cyndi watched as Marshall headed toward the wet bar and reached for more brandy. He poured. Long. Hard. And killed the drink in a single shot.

  Cyndi leaned in to Lou and whispered. “He’s been drinking. A lot.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I do.”

  “The lush. I’ll tell mom next time I see her. He’ll get no cookies on that day.”

  Cyndi stared at him dead serious for a moment, then broke out into a giggle. She put both hands on his chest. “Clown.”

  “Yeah. That’s me.”

  She nodded, taking the hint. She kissed him on the cheek. “Have dinner with us on Sunday. Please?”

  “I’m seeing Sonia.”

  She smiled brightly. “Wonderful. Bring her, too.”

  He sighed, suddenly feeling like he was about four thousand years old, give or take a day. “Maybe next weekend, okay? I haven’t spent some quiet time with her in awhile.”

  “Okay. I won’t press.”

  She turned and walked to Marshall. She took the brandy snifter, helped herself to a chug, then handed it back to him. She kissed him quickly on the lips. “Don’t stay up too late. And settle down on this stuff, okay?”

  “You bet,” Marshall slurred. He kissed her, and she moved back toward the bedroom.

  Lou watched her go. For a moment, there was silence between the men. Marshall walked to the bar and poured himself another brandy.

  Lou watched Marshall, who was beginning to weave, as he stood near the counter.

  “Cyndi looks good,” Lou said.

  “Always does,” Marshall burped. “I tell you we’re going to Scotland this winter?”

  “Terrific. Lots of castles, I hear. And Scotsman.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I can’t afford a trip like that on a cop’s pay. Too stylish. But send me a postcard.”

  “I’ll bring you back some good single-malt. Fifty year shit, not a fucking blended. There’s a big dif, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Lou drank half his glass, growing more weary by the moment of this intermission horseshit. Finally, Marshall sighed and cleared his throat.

  “Linda brings in a lot of money for the firm,” Marshall said, a note of resignation creeping into his voice. “You don’t just fire or say fuck you to that kind of rainmaker, even if she is a gold-plated bitch. You deal with her and try to overlook the more obnoxious idiosyncrasies of her personality.”

  “Which you seem to do almost too well,” Lou said.

  Marshall pointed a finger at Diamond. “I hired you to find a killer. Not offer value judgments.”

  “You’re dicking with me, Marshall,” Lou shot back.

  “Fuck you. I’m telling you the truth.”

  Lou watched his brother, trying to find something to work with in terms of negotiation. What was he hiding?

  “I’m getting the impression that the truth is so buried under bullshit that it would take a pile driver to get at it.”

  “Book Simpson for murder,” Marshall said quietly.

  “Fuck you. I’m investigating. And fuck you if you decide to fire me. Burke is hospitalized. I’ve got the run of L.A. homicide.”

  Marshall took a breath and looked out the window. It had started to rain, a light drizzle pattering against the pane. Somewhere over Topanga Canyon, miles away, a streak of lightning crackled across the night sky.

  “Thought we were on the same side, brother,” Marshall said.

  Lou came up to him, forcing his brother to look at him in the eye. “You forget what a cocksucker I can be. Especially when it comes to my job. And I’m going to keep on digging. Because I’ll bet it goes deeper than Linda Baylor. Or Don Simpson.”

  Marshall’s eyes crinkled in understanding. “You’re expecting to find me at the bottom of the shit heap, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve learned to expect everything, everywhere. Any time, any place. It goes with the job.”

  Marshall waved him off and walked away from the window. He reached for the brandy carafe on the wet bar counter. “Just wrap this crap up, Lou. That’s why I hired you. Don’t drag it out.”

  Lou finished the rest of his drink and put it down on the dining room table.

  He then walked to the front door. Just before he reached it, he stopped.

  “What happened to us, Marshall? When we were kids I was the vicious prick of the family. You were always the good one. Defender of the faith, Abel to my Cain. You used to care.”

  Marshall poured more brandy into his glass—almost to the top. “We’re not kids anymore, Lou.”

  Lou thought about that for a moment. “We’re not even friends. Not really brothers, either. And sometimes, it seems ... not even human.”

  Lou opened the door and left.

  Marshall looked at the empty brandy carafe, then reached for another bottle and turned the cap.

  TWENTY

  He should have gone to a motel, someplace anonymous, seedy, hard to find. The wisest course of action after the night and day he’d had already. A quick drink, a long sleep, a better, wiser perspective coupled with a cooler temperament for the next day.

  Should have. His litany.

  Instead, he found himself in front of Linda Baylor’s beach house thirty minutes later. Fried, feeling elephant-fucked by the world at large ... yet here nevertheless. And why? He tried to convince himself he was just wrapping up an already shitty day of investigation by yet one more round of questioning with Dame Baylor, Esq. The convincing died after one second of honest, objective self evaluation. He wasn’t here to interrogate anyone. He knew exactly why he was here.

  Shit.

  He stopped the car and made a quick call to Forensics to see if the boys in the lab had discovered anything more about the bullets or the gun that were found in Don Simpson’s house. After about three minutes, he was told they had nothing.

  “Same weapon, same bullets, Lou,” Marcos, the head lab technician, muttered. “But what the fuck. That info is about as useful as a feathered dildo in the fun-hole of Typhoid Mary.”

  “That bad,” Lou chuckled.

  “It was remote anyway, you know that.”

  “Too well.”

  “And the weapon itself is stripped of any kind of serial number. I.e., untrackable. But who cares? You got the shooter, right? Motive, no alibi, and, oh, yes—the same gun!”

  “Let me know if you find anything else.”

  “Secrets of World Peace? Mysteries of the Female Orgasm, maybe?”

  “Yeah, stuff like that.”

  “Sure. I’ll send a memo.”

  “Later.”

  Okay, so exactly what he expected. No help on the tech end, still no witnesses …

  … but you have the main suspect, Lou—Don Simpson. Gun in house, silencer, crazy fucked-out-of-his-mind shooting spree, a singing drunk, a vengeful husband …

  … so what was the mystery? As Marshall had pointed out: Marianne Simpson (unfaithful wife), Jason Randall (jealous husband). Gun. Blam, blam. Dead lawyers (the best kind!). Voilà.

  Simple.

  Lou sighed and stared at Linda Baylor’s house.

  Not simple. It all schtunk, as his dad used to say when he was three sheets to the wind on vodka and dying from lung cancer. Schtunk, schtunk, schtunk.

  Lou got out of the car and walked toward the front door.

  He knocked twice and waited. No answer. For no reason at all, he reached for the door knob and turned it. Not surprisingly, the door wa
s open. Inviting.

  Open door. Simple.

  Uh, huh.

  He should leave now. A quick drink, a good sleep …

  He walked into the dimly lit foyer (into the Fifth Ring of Hell, he thought). Stop it, he chided himself. He was just here to—to—

  “Linda?” he called out softly.

  No answer. He continued to make his way into the living room. Moonlight lit the room through the terrace door which was partly open. Again, he thought, inviting. He passed through the terrace door and looked down at the beach.

  She emerged out of the waves like Venus being born from the sea. Of course, she was completely naked (what else was new?!). She found his eyes immediately and smiled as if she had been expecting him.

  “What are you doing on my beach?” she called out, absent any sense of astonishment at his presence here.

  He walked down to the beach taking in her irresistible beauty. “Surprising you,” he whispered huskily.

  He took her in his arms and found her mouth. The kiss was anything but gentle. It was ravenous, almost ferocious. It was met by an indignant slap across the face. He considered the blow momentarily, then kissed her again. She slapped him once more, but his response was yet another kiss.

  This time Linda Baylor returned the kiss in kind.

  They fell to the surf oblivious to everything around them, including the waves raging over their entwined bodies. Diamond tore his clothes off with Linda’s assistance, and drove himself into her. She let out a small scream. His own sounds matched hers as the growl of the ocean enveloped them both.

  Their passion didn’t end on the sand. For several more hours it continued unabated. From the surf they stumbled to the bedroom in a desperate, all consuming, maddening frenzy. Diamond, in and out of reality, occasionally took a second to consider his actions. Brief respites of clarity in a seemingly unending wave of ecstasy that was Linda Baylor. It was wrong. He knew this in the deepest part of his heart. It was a conflict of interest, an impediment to his investigation, a damning breach in personal ethics and professionalism. Yet he couldn’t help himself. And Linda Baylor wouldn’t help him, either.