Gray Area (11 page)

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 house.  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 emotional 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.”

“Easy does it on the downhill skiing, okay?” Diamond joked.

“Fuck you,” Burke said, managing a grin.  “I’ll be running the
one-minute in about a day.”

Burke was loaded in and the doors shut behind him.  Sage turned to
Diamond.  “I’m outta here.  Enough excitement for my day off. 
Oh, and don’t forget Dr. Westover, okay?”

Diamond nodded once again.  “Yes, dear.  Go home and give
Louise my best.”

“Fuck you, I’ll give her
my
best,” Turner grinned.  “You need
a lift?”

“I’ll stick around awhile longer.  Catch a ride with a black and
white.” 

Turner nodded and left. 

Diamond looked at the Simpson house one more time as the small army of
police investigators finished up.  He was about to leave when he saw an
elderly woman in the next lot staring at him.  When she saw him looking
directly at her, she waved him over.  Diamond walked over the grass divide
that marked the boundaries of the Simpson house and presumably, the house of
this old woman.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” Diamond said.

“You police?” she asked somewhat anxiously.

“I know I don’t look it, but yes.  What can I do for you?”

The old woman looked beyond Diamond and shook her head back and forth,
making little clicking sounds with her tongue.  “Always knew there’d be
trouble.  Nice lady, Marianne.  But that husband.  A
drunk.  Should have seen him last night.  Potted.”

Diamond was again putting one and one together and coming up with six
point nine.  “You mean he was drinking last night?”

“All night.  And yelling.  I’m surprised Marianne put up with
it.  But I don’t think she was home.”

The old woman had clearly not heard that Marianne Simpson had been
killed.  “Yelling,” Diamond repeated.  “Who was he yelling at?”

The old woman shrugged.  “Early on, it was his wife.  But then
she left.  Stormed out of the house.  Later, someone came over—”

“Someone?” Diamond interrupted.  “Male, female?”

“Couldn’t really tell,” the old woman replied.  “Too dark and whoever
it was had on pants and boots and one of those long coats like Humphrey Bogart
used to wear in Casablanca.  You know the type?”

“Sure,” Diamond said.  “Trench coat.”

“Right.  Oh, and a baseball cap, too.  Least I think it was a
baseball cap.”

“What time did this person come over last night?”

“After midnight, I guess,” the old woman said.  “After the police
had come and gone.”

Diamond realized he hadn’t even gotten her name.  “Ms.—”

“Hutchinson.  Agatha Hutchinson,” she said.

“Ms. Hutchinson, are you telling me that Don Simpson didn’t leave the
house last night?”

“Not that I know of.  I think he was too drunk to move,” she said
with grave conviction, as if there was no greater sin on the planet than
imbibing alcohol.

“The police conducted a massive search of his house,” Diamond
offered.  “They said he wasn’t home.”

She gave a small smile and a roll of her eyes which seemed to say,
“there’s a lot more here than meets the eye, sonny.”  Mrs. Hutchinson
wagged her finger at him, indicating that he should follow.