Gray Area (4 page)

Sage nodded with the only possible answer.

“A hard mother-fucker of a man,” he said, then turned and walked toward
his car.

FOUR

Diamond didn’t go directly home.  Home these days was a dump of a
studio near the L.A. Airport that served more as a guest house to a million or
so cockroaches than to himself.  Home also smelled like several small
animals had died someplace within the walls.  Or in his
refrigerator.  Home didn’t even have a real goddamn bed, just a fold-out
lawn chair and an ancient futon—a Target special given to him by his
sister-in-law two Christmases ago.  The television hadn’t worked in
months; not that it mattered.  Diamond hardly ever watched TV. 
Hobbies, pastimes and leisure moments were encapsulated in unhealthy drinking
binges, all conducted alone, away from humanity.  Diamond drove to the 98
^th
Precinct, opting to shower and clean up there instead of his own God-awful
hovel.  This was SRT’s command post.  Its offices were composed of
the Internal Affairs Division, the Organized Crime Division, Narcotics and
Administrative Vice.  The three divisions were responsible for recording
and investigating complaints against department employees and processing
disciplinary cases, collecting intel on drug trafficking, and taking
assignments that, in general, no one the fuck wanted from other
divisions.  Those other “no one the fuck wanted” cases were cases Diamond
usually got.  And, tonight, he had the look of a man with one too many of
those cases under his belt.  

He walked through the hall, head down.  As was usual this time of
night, there was limited staff on duty.  A few cops nodded his way, but he
did not nod back.  All he wanted was hot water and oblivion.  Soon,
he would have both.

One cop turned a corner and froze when he saw Diamond.  He’d heard
about the San Pedro bust on the squawkers earlier that evening. 

“Helluva job, Inspector,” the cop said. 

“Yeah,” Diamond muttered, and moved past the guy into the locker area.

Five minutes later, a jet stream of hot water enveloped his body,
blocking some of the pain.  The water felt good.  In time, the stink
would fade.  In time.  He let the water wash over him as he stood
under the showerhead, fully clothed.

He closed his eyes, thinking of darkness.

But out of the void came one searing memory.  Juanita—naked,
beckoning to him.  She screamed, riding him in the shitty, ramshackle
tenement she shared with another girl near the San Pedro docks.  It had
happened three weeks earlier, the night after he had saved her from the local
roughnecks in the bar.  They’d gone home together, and by Christ if she
didn’t look almost exactly like Maria. 

The first round of sex ended abruptly.  He had taken her face, and
kissed it with surprising tenderness; surprising for him because Lou Diamond
had never believed he would feel anything for anyone ever again, even if it was
based on sexual attraction alone.  Not after Maria. 

“You look at me like you know me,” Juanita had said.

“You remind me of someone,” Diamond answered her.

“Who?

“A girl ... someone I once cared more about than anything else in the
world,” he murmured, unable to meet her eyes.

Juanita had laughed.  “Ah, another girl,” she said, trying to tickle
him.

“Another girl,” Diamond said, then kissed her again.  He made love
to her once more, fiercely, as if he was trying to exorcise a demon or, at the
very least, a haunting memory.  It worked. When he finished, he got out of
bed and moved toward the dilapidated bathroom.

He watched as Juanita got out of bed and reached for his pants.  She
felt the weight of the fabric, shook a trouser leg.  She then reached for
the .38 special he carried everywhere.  A tingle of concern, possibly even
panic, skittered up his spine. 

Juanita looked at him, holding the gun.  “This is a cop gun,” she
said neutrally.

“Maybe,” Diamond had said at the time.  “But I ain’t no cop.”
Juanita smiled.  She went to him and touched his face.  “Promise?”

He kissed her.  “Promise.”

Diamond, now soaked through and through in the shower, opened his eyes,
spitting out some froth. 
A cop gun, she had said.  That should
have been the giveaway to him that she was working with Palomito.  He
should have seen it.  But no, he had been distracted by pussy and a girl
who looked remarkably like his dead wife.

And now two good men were dead, lying in the county morgue with
sobbing wives and fatherless children crying over their deaf—

He turned and saw that the young cop he’d seen in the hall was staring at
him, speechless.  Diamond collected his thoughts enough to address his own
irritation at being bothered.

“What do you want?”  

“Uh, sorry to disturb you, Inspector,” the cop stammered, “But your
brother called. Said he needed to talk to you in a hurry.  He’s at his
office.”

Diamond turned the shower knob to the off position and wiped steaming
water from his eyes. 

Marshall had called. 
Strange.  He and Marshall hadn’t
communicated in years.  Strike that ... since the night his brother had
gotten his wife killed at an ATM.

Diamond nodded slowly.  “Thanks,” he said softly.

“Inspector,” the cop said, backing up.  “This precinct is real proud
you’re a part of it.  Just wanted to let you know that.”

Diamond looked up and stared at the cop.  The guy was bright-eyed
and smiling.  Diamond continued to stare.  The cop stopped smiling
and swallowed hard.  Diamond willed the cop to leave, his tired eyes
terribly clear in their desire. 

It worked. 

FIVE

He arrived at his brother’s law firm less than an hour later.  The
building was surrounded with yellow police tape and dozens of law enforcement
and forensic personnel were scrambling in and out of the structure. 

Diamond flashed his badge to the security cops assigned to the revolving
front doors.  Once look in their eyes told him that word of the San Pedro
bust had gotten around.  He hoped to Christ no one congratulated him
again—or else his body count for the night was going to soar.  How his
cluster-fuck screw-up was being regarded as a triumph was a mystery to him.

He decided to put that aside.  Something had gone down at Marshall’s
office, and since his cell phone hadn’t cooperated on the way over, he wasn’t
sure exactly what that
something
was.  All he knew was that someone
was dead.  Period.  He’d changed clothes, some jeans, a tee-shirt and
a torn leather jacket.  He looked vaguely vagrant in every respect but
didn’t give two shits. 

He’d had a night.  And it looked like that night was far from over.

The elevator took him to the twentieth floor, home to the prestigious
Berenson & Marelli law cartel.  His brother Marshall was the managing
partner, as close to the Top Dogs as you could get without having your name
embossed on the fake gold plaque that denoted the firm’s name on the walls
directly in front of the elevator banks.  Diamond knew that Berenson &
Marelli, the “old men” as they were called, rarely appeared in the office
anymore.  They delegated a few big cases here and there, but mainly from
home, bars, or the golf course.  Benefits of lives well lived, or
enrichments ill-gotten.  In the legal world, these distinctions were
simply not mutually exclusive. 

Diamond didn’t need to ask for directions to the scene.  All he had
to do was follow the myriad of people trailing in and out of the law
library.  He could see Ted Burke from Homicide by the front doors—the last
guy he wanted to deal with tonight.  Burke turned to Diamond as if sensing
him by sniff—recognizing the stench of a sworn enemy.  The frown came to
both men automatically; too much history between them. 

Bad history.

“Heard you were under,” Burke responded.  He might well have said
“what the fuck are you doing here?”  The subtext was not lost on Diamond.

“I was.  Closed the deal tonight.”

“Heard you were a star.”

“So, what do we have?” Diamond said, ignoring Burke’s exhaling acrimony.

“What we have is something you don’t need to be a part of,” Burke said,
hostility brewing with every passing second.  “You look like cow
shit.  Go home and take a vacation.  They tell me you deserve it.”

Diamond walked into the library.  And got an eyeful of the two
corpses that were once Jason Randall and Marianne Simpson.  Chalk outlined
the remains and rivers of blood flowed in all directions.

“Messy,” Diamond noted casually.

“It’s a little spooky,” Burke conceded.  “Two lawyers doing some
late night cramming.  Someone crashed the festivities and did ‘em both.”

“Looks like more than research and developing incisive legal arguments
was happening at the time,” Diamond said.  Not a hard piece of deductive
reasoning; both Jason and Marianne were buck naked.  Jason’s dick was
still preternaturally stiff.

“Prelim exams bear that out.  Little bit of late night fuck and
suck.  Lawyers, remember?”

Diamond gave an ugly smile at the slight; Burke knew Diamond had been a
lawyer.  Burke also knew that Diamond had assisted IA in nailing Burke for
a bit of small time take from some pimps in East L.A.  Diamond told him to
his face that day two years back. 

Diamond could give two shits if Burke still held a grudge. 

“In any case, the picture thus far is no perps, no witnesses,
zipperino.  Front entrance doesn’t know fuck-all as to how anyone got to
this floor without recorded access.  Great post-9/11 security, huh? 
Even money says they came through the loading dock and up the freight
elevator.  Cleaning crew uses it twenty-four hours a day.”

“Have we talked to them yet?” Diamond asked.

“We’re rounding them up.  Most don’t even speak English.  So
far, hear no evil, see no evil.”

Diamond squatted down and examined the body of Jason Randall, then
glanced over at Marianne. 

“Two shots.  Good caliber.”

Burke nodded.  “Letter fucking perfect.  The bullet boys dug
out the caps.  Looks like some kind of Colt.  One of the APC’s.”

“Who made the call?”

“I did,” a voice said from behind Diamond. 

Diamond turned and looked at a tall, handsome man in his early
forties.  It was his brother, Marshall.  “Hello, Lou,” he said.

Lou stood and faced Marshall.  Their eyes locked for a long moment
before Marshall again spoke.  “You look like hell.”

“That’s the consensus.”

“Who are you?” Burke looked to Marshall.

Marshall extended his hand to Burke.  “Marshall Diamond.  I’m
the Managing Partner of this company.  And you?”

“Burke, Homicide.  Marshall Diamond.  At the risk of sounding
completely numb-nuts obvious, let me guess:  you and super cop here are
brothers.”

Marshall cleared his throat, then looked to Lou.  “Yes.  That
we are.  In any case, I came in tonight just before two to work on a case
that goes to trial tomorrow.  I found Jason and Marianne, just like
that.”  Marshall nodded distastefully toward the corpses.

Burke took out a pad and pencil.  “Mr. Diamond, do you know of
anyone who would have had a motive for killing these people?”

Marshall shrugged.  “Marianne was married.  Maybe—” he
hesitated, glancing at Lou, looking for assistance or guidance.  Lou
stared at him silently, remotely enjoying his brother’s discomfiture.

“Go on, sir,” Burke urged.

“Well, Marianne was going through a separation with her husband. 
Her choice.  If he knew she was involved with Jason, like this,” he
shrugged, letting the innuendo hang for a moment. “And as for Jason, well, he
was always a bit of a fuck-around.  Young, full of come, hot-shot draft
choice.  I recruited him myself.  Talented, but somewhat distracted.”

“Clearly,” Burke agreed, glancing at Marianne.

Marshall took a breath.  “I—was hoping to keep this quiet.”

“Good luck,” Lou said.

“I was hoping you could help, Lou,” Marshall said softly.

“Marshall, this is a double homicide.  It’s not like we have a
suspect, or even a witness.  You’re looking at a full scale
investigation.”

Marshall looked down and took a breath.  The gesture was one of
patient indulgence for a troublesome puppy.  Lou was familiar with the
quirk, and was annoyed by it. 

“I know something of the law, Lou,” his brother said.  “I’m only
concerned about extensive press attention and intrusion.  We have several
clients who solicit the services of this firm based on our deliberate low
profile status.”

“Funny, Marshall,” Lou said, glancing again at the pathetic corpses on
the floor, “I thought your main concern would be finding the killer.”

That shut his brother up for a moment.  Marshall didn’t look down
this time. 

“I can give you even money that the killer was Marianne’s husband. 
He had provocation.” 

“Thank you for that, Mr. Diamond,” Burke interjected, weary of the
simmering emotion between the two brothers.  “We’ll look into that
possibility.”

Lou wandered off and pulled a book from one of the shelves.  But
Burke wasn’t finished with him. 

“This isn’t your turf, Diamond.  I understand why your brother would
call you, but you’re not needed here.  Don’t make me get territorial.”

Lou shrugged, not even bothering to make eye contact with his
brother.  “I’m not pushing, Burke.  It’s your gig.”

Marshall stepped forward, both hands up in protest.

“Wait a minute, Lou.  That’s why I called you.  Aren’t you on
this case?  I mean, you’re a cop—”

“I’m SRT, bro.  Not Homicide.  I chase drug runners, gangsters,
and dirty cops.”  He let that hang for a moment, just for Burke. 
Then:  “This is not my jurisdiction.  Thanks for the courtesy call,
though, and good luck.”  He turned and started to walk away.