Gray Area

by George P. Saunders

“What if it wasn’t the cartel?” Diamond said slowly.

  Daniels shrugged indifferently. “Who else?”

  “What if that shit was put here to make it look like August was a coke hound?”

  Daniels grinned back at him. “We’ve got five hundred thousand dollars worth of crack here, Lou. It has Cartel written all over its ass.”

  He turned and walked toward one of his lieutenants. Diamond looked down at the Arc-Link folder in his hand and decided it was high hell and time to head for August’s office and do some digging.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  He was at the forty eight hour marker in the no sleep zone of his week. Diamond moved to the guard station in the lobby area of 311 Grand, home to Berenson & Marelli, and showed his identification.

  “Twentieth floor,” he said, expecting zero resistance.

  The guard, a middle aged black woman who had been engrossed with a crossword puzzle, looked at his police ID and shook her head.

  “Can’t let you up there, sir,” she said neutrally.

  “Why not?” He asked, irritated.

  “That Mr. Marshall Diamond, he’s the head partner—”

  “I know who he is,” Diamond interrupted.

  “Well, there’s a note to all security that no one is to go up there before 7 a.m. today unless he’s up there himself, personal,” the guard replied as carefully as she could.

  “Marshall Diamond is my brother and I’m a police officer investigating several murders,” Diamond said, trying to match the guard’s care in communication. “I’d say I’m the exception to the rule, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’ll have to call Mr. Diamond at home, sir,” she said, and Diamond could tell she had no desire to follow through on this last detail.

  Diamond helped her out as she began to rifle through her personnel papers. “Fine. He’s at 310-652-4431. Don’t let him snarl at you; he’s a grouch in the morning.”

  The guard considered this, then studied Diamond for a moment longer. She looked at his ID once more, then grinned suddenly.

  “Well, since you’re his brother and a cop,” she said, “guess there’s no harm in accessing you.”

  “Guess not,” Diamond grinned.

  “You wouldn’t know a six letter word for culpable, would you?” she asked absently, punching in a numeric code at her console and accessing the elevators to the upper floors.

  Diamond looked at the puzzle and ruminated for a second. He smiled at her. “Guilty.”

  She did the math, then chuckled. “Damn straight, Detective Diamond. Guilty, as charged.”

  Diamond muttered a thanks, then headed for the nearest elevator bank, his mind roiling at the sudden turn of events of late. He didn’t believe for a moment that Robert August’s murder was linked to drugs or even the cartel. No, August was murdered for the same reason he, Diamond, was also almost killed: something to do with the Randall/Simpson deaths. August was involved somehow.

  The hallway leading from the elevators into the main reception of Berenson & Marelli was dimly lit, powered down for the night. The air conditioning hadn’t kicked in for the day and the air was musty and stagnant. Diamond scanned the names on the office doors, most of which were closed and locked. As fate would have it, the door of Robert August’s office was cracked open.

  Diamond removed his Berretta and pushed the door open further. Not that he really expected anyone to be inside but, of late, Diamond was a walking nerve ending of suspicion and excess caution.

  Half an hour later, surrounded by boxes and files, Diamond found himself no closer to understanding the death of Robert August. Most of the paperwork in the office was memoranda heavy, mainly to partners and associates, and revolved around transactional activity with off-shore companies and investors. Standard stuff for which a young attorney like August would have been responsible for generating; all good billing, hour-filler type of things.

  He was about to move out of the office when one last file caught his eye. He reached for it and read the label: Arc-Link, Classified. One memo, copying Marshall Diamond, with two lines of text that read: Transaction with US finalized. Filed in Records. There were some additional cc’s to Linda Baylor and Jason Randall. Randall and August were dead. His brother and Linda ...

  Records. He moved through the law library where Jason Randall and Marianne Simpson spent the last minutes of their young lives together. The Records Room was an office away, just around the corner. Not surprisingly, it was locked.

  Diamond reached for his Berretta and aimed at the lock, point blank. The shot ripped through the metal. Diamond pushed the door open and hit a light switch.

  It took him only five minutes to find the case box marked ARC-LINK. Within it, Diamond fished out a stack of papers, all bound and all contractual in nature. Some correspondence was interspersed, all of it to the Department of Defense and all involving purchases valued at well over a billion dollars. Of special note to Diamond were the cc’s on every letter: his brother, Linda Baylor, and the now deceased duo of Jason Randall and Robert August.

  Half of the principals in the law firm handling Arc-Link’s interests were dead.

  Why?

  Diamond continued to leaf through the paperwork. He then went back to page one, letter one, on top. Putting a story of murder together the best he could.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  St. Joseph’s Medical Center was still a slumbering giant at half past five in the morning. Shifts were at their most minimal, security at its most lax. A perfect time for someone with the inclination and necessary skill required, to find a certain patient and assassinate him or her with little attention called to the act.

  Don Simpson had slept fitfully all night. He had been kept sedated since his arrest and incarceration. Yet for all the narcotization of his system, Simpson was not at rest.

  His room was dark, save for the perpetual blinking green light representing his vitals sign activity that oscillated on a machine just to his left. He stared at it, hypnotically, wondering absently what was going to happen to the rest of his life. Marianne was dead. He had barricaded their home, opened fire on police, and had injured several cops in the assault. He had lost his job (naturally) due to the incident, and he was looking at five to ten. Maybe four with good behavior and a shrink telling a jury that his response to his wife’s death caused him to lapse into some kind of temporary insanity. And on and on.

  Not good, just not good at all.

  The rest of his life. What a joke.

  The figure appeared at the door, dressed in the green scrubs of an orderly or nurse. Simpson turned when he heard movement near the entrance of his room.

  “Who’s there?” he called out, feebly.

  No answer. The figured walked slowly into the room, his face obscured by darkness.

  Simpson squinted into the dim light. “You here with my pills?” he asked again.

  The figure remained silent. “You got a tongue?” Simpson said, irritated.

  The scalpel came up quickly. Before Simpson could utter another sound, the blade slashed across his carotid and jugular artery with two skillful cuts. He gurgled momentarily in shock and agony, then began to die as the two arterial highways to life spilled their contents onto his bed and the floor. The EKG and other machines he was tied to sounded out an alarm.

  The figure turned and quickly exited the room.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Turner Sage had also not slept well that night, though for quite another reason than that of Don Simpson. The pain and the heat that ran down his arms periodically after each attack, tended to leave a residue of exhaustion for hours thereafter. The pacemaker had been implanted a year earlier, and the scar tissue was indicative of the healing process, but Turner’s cardiac condition at large still caused massive discomfort. They had told him that the pacemaker would give him two years, maybe three. There was no way to really forestall the inevitable decay of the heart muscle, not with irreversible myocardiopathy. He had bought some time, a few years, precious months. It was
a delay tactic against the grim reaper, nothing more. And the pain, no matter the surgical preemption to ultimate disaster, was a constant.

  So when the phone rang at just minutes before 6 a.m. in the morning, Turner Sage, who had not slept a wink, picked it up. He was wide awake and annoyed, the inevitable byproducts of the constant ache in his chest.

  “This better be good,” he said.

  The voice was that of a friend. “Turner.”

  “Hello, Lou. Why aren’t you sleeping?”

  “Sleep. What’s that?”

  Turner smiled to himself. “You’re a funny guy, Lou.”

  “Laugh a minute. Look, Turner, I need you to check something out for me. Today, first thing.”

  “What is it?”

  “I need some information on a company called Arc-Link Industries. I’ve tried directory assistance for both Washington D.C. and California. Nothing. Yet they have offices in both locations.”

  Turner sighed. “This have something to do with your brother and the murders?”

  “Yep.” That’s all Diamond was giving him for the moment, so Turner didn’t push. No need. Diamond would tell him sooner or later.

  “Arc-Link. Right. I’m not busy enough. I’ll call you at home.”

  “No,” Diamond protested, and there was an urgency in his voice that Turner noticed and worried about immediately. “Call me at this number.”

  Turner took down the number, wondering just what the hell his best officer was up to now.

  “Also, check with that Navy guy of yours down south,” Diamond finished. “It’s important.”

  “It always is,” Turner said. “You okay, Lou?”

  “Worse than ever, thanks for asking.”

  Turner was about to chuckle in commiseration, but Diamond hung up abruptly.

  Diamond continued to mull over the personnel history of Jason Randall. He had finished with the Arc-Link research fifteen minutes earlier. Any more intel on that subject would hopefully come from Turner’s contacts and further research a little later. For now, Jason took up his complete attention.

  Randall had graduated with honors from Harvard. A superstar, destined for greatness. Nothing that would indicate he’d be targeted six years later for assassination.

  He was about to go through the personnel file on Linda Baylor when Marshall appeared at the doorway of Records. Diamond could see that Marshall was stunned.

  “Kind of early, isn’t it, Marshall?” Diamond said. “Saturday and all?”

  Marshall’s tone of voice was low, feral ... and afraid. “What are you doing here?”

  Diamond closed the personnel folder on Linda Baylor.

  “I’m here trying to put together some pieces to a puzzle that, I have to say, I’m sorry I ever got involved with,” Diamond replied.

  Marshall nodded. “Starting now, you’re free of that puzzle. You’re fired.”

  Diamond stared blankly at his brother. Why didn’t this surprise him? Still, the question needed to be voiced. “Why?”

  “Don Simpson is dead,” Marshall said tonelessly.

  Diamond’s jaw tightened and he closed his eyes and nodded. They killed him, he thought. The same people who killed Randall, August and almost himself.

  “The hospital called me at home. They say it looks like suicide. Used a scalpel, cut his own throat. Guess murdering his wife and lover must have been too much for him to bear.”

  Diamond held his brother’s gaze, but said nothing.

  “You’re twenty thousand dollars richer, brother,” Marshall said, suddenly at ease again. “I’m paying you in full today. Go take a vacation.”

  Marshall turned away, and Diamond was on him. He shoved the bigger man against the wall, fairly snarling.

  “I’ve had a bad fucking night, Marshall,” he said in a harsh whisper. “After our little chat, I went to visit Robert August. Want to know what I found?”

  “I was told,” Marshall said evenly. “They also found a substantial cache of drugs, I believe.”

  “Your firm is building up a nice little body count and you’re not even flustered,” Diamond said, digging deliberately, and not releasing his hold on his brother.

  “Come on, Lou. Robert August had nothing to do with Jason’s or Marianne’s death. It’s a freak coincidence.”

  Lou almost laughed at this. “Who are you kidding?”

  Marshall’s eyes bore into those of his brother. “Walk away, Lou. It’s over and you’re finished here.”

  “Is it the mob?” Diamond asked.

  “Lou, come on. Enough is enough—”

  “What is Arc-Link Industries?”

  This gave Marshall pause. His chin jutted out defiantly and Diamond knew that he had hit a nerve.

  “They’re one of our clients. Why are you asking?”

  “I’ve seen the copies of the letters and memoranda with your name, Linda Baylor’s name and two dead attorneys who don’t need to be mentioned.”

  “Lou, don’t dig any further. Please.”

  Something in his brother’s voice disturbed Diamond. It was a plea, more than a command or even a request.

  “Your people are being murdered, Marshall. Systematically. And someone is trying to make damn sure that I never finish this investigation. I want to know why.”

  Marshall turned away and swallowed hard.

  “Walk away from this,” he said with difficulty. “Today, Lou. I’m sorry I ever brought you in. If you go now, things will work out. It’s that simple.”

  “It’s never that simple, Marshall,” Diamond said, his anger seething. “Why did you hire me, anyway?”

  “I wanted you to wrap this up. Quickly. It was an open and shut case. I didn’t expect you to dig—”

  “You’re right, brother,” Diamond interrupted, putting both hands up in an expression of surrender. “It looks that simple. All the ends are neatly tied up. Don Simpson, husband to Marianne, conveniently kills himself after apparently murdering Jason and his wife the night before. August, ostensibly a crack dealer, was possibly working with a powerful drug cartel who suddenly decided he was a liability.”

  Diamond paused and walked to within an inch of his brother’s face. “Except you and I,” he said in a whisper, “both know it’s not that simple.”

  Diamond let that sit. When Marshall didn’t reply, he turned to leave. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you were the shooter, Marshall,” he said without inflection. “Or master ringleader of whatever the fuck-scam you’re running here.”

  “Why would I try and kill you, too?” Marshall asked. “My own brother?”

  Diamond smiled. An ugly smile.

  “I don’t know … brother. But then again … I don’t know you. Maybe I never did.”

  Both brothers remained perfectly still, silenced by this last statement of irrevocable truth. Finally, Diamond turned on his heel and walked out.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Again, he should have gone home. He was running on fumes and he knew his judgment had passed stinky hours ago. So why was he now pulling up in front of Linda Baylor’s house for the second time in what was only a matter of hours?

  Good question. But no good answer.

  He walked up to the door and knocked, yelling as well.

  “Linda!”

  The early morning mist off the Pacific Ocean tasted salty in Diamond’s mouth and he moved the collar of his coat closer around his neck. It always seemed to get colder out here on the beach with the arrival of dawn.

  Diamond did not knock again. He knew his way around Linda’s house sufficiently to know there were other entrances and exits. He moved around the garden gate and down a cobblestone path that paralleled the side of the house and had a rather sheer drop of forty feet to the beach below. He reached the far end terrace and looked into the living room.

  The back terrace door, not surprisingly, was left ajar. Diamond slid it open and walked in.

  A fire was roaring in the stone chimney, well stoked and fresh. Diamond guessed it was maybe
ten minutes old. He thought about calling out again but figured, why bother? Linda was definitely in the house and had probably heard him calling for her the first time around. Part of her game, he knew … and by now, he felt he was coming to know Linda Baylor very, very well indeed.

  He walked over to a desk that was strewn with papers. He also noticed an open notebook—a diary, more likely, Diamond thought. He read the last few sentences:

  Perhaps tonight is the night that it all ends.

  For better or for worse …

  What I do now, I do for Patsy … only for her …

  Feeling like he was prying, Diamond pulled himself away from the journal and continued scanning the room.

  He walked to the fireplace. The warmth was comforting, and Diamond suddenly felt enervated, exhausted. He sat in one of two identical reclining leather chairs, facing the fireplace, and glanced around at the array of knickknacks on the various end tables. Small seals, some stone, others wood, many ceramic or porcelain, congregated on each table. He picked one up.

  “Hey, little fella,” he said drowsily.

  A picture of a little girl stood near the end of the table next to him, the frame no larger than the face of an alarm clock. Diamond reached for it, knocked over two seal knickknacks in the process, and shattered one on the floor.

  “Shit,” he muttered. Come in and destroy the furniture, he thought. Linda would love him for that.

  The head of the shattered seal was in two pieces and was beyond repair. He put the pinniped casualty back on the table, then returned to the picture of the girl.

  She looked to be the same age of his own daughter. Blonde hair and blue eyes, with a smile that was filled with mirth. Diamond leaned back in his chair, his eyelids as heavy as baby dinosaurs. The little girl, nowhere near as sleepy, stared back at him. Diamond felt himself smile back.

  The image began to fade and was suddenly replaced with the face of his own daughter. She was on the roof of a building, directly ahead of him. Running, laughing and heading right for him. Her arms were extended. For some reason, he was on his knees. He felt his own arms outstretched to receive her.