“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.
Diamond did just that, entering the backyard area of the Simpson house, which was striped with yellow ticker tape that read LAPD - NO TRESPASSING. She approached what appeared to be a small garden shed and opened it. Diamond looked inside. Various power tools and gardening equipment hung willy-nilly from hooks and fixtures but that was not what interested him—what caught his eye was the trapdoor on the floor.
“It leads to the cellar,” Mrs. Hutchinson said. “If I would have known it was extremely important for the police to have seen Don, I would have come over and told them where he spends most of his time. But I usually just mind my own business.”
Diamond accepted the explanation without comment. Most likely the old bird kept constant surveillance on Don and his wife for lack of anything better to do in her lonely life. A not uncommon practice of old people in general. He opened the doors and descended the stairs, removing a pocket flashlight to light the way.
The descent was brief. The cellar was surprisingly spacious. It was strewn with bottles of Jack, cigarettes, TV dinners and baseball paraphernalia like bats, mitts, balls and caps. Mrs. Hutchinson followed him down. A small distasteful sound of disgust passed through her lips.
“Iissh,” she muttered, waving at clouds of dust motes.
“How could you tell he was here all night, ma’am?” Diamond asked. “After all, he could have sneaked out at anytime. Unless you had your eye peeled out here until morning.”
“I knew he was here,” she said. “Same way I know every time he’s here when he’s drunk. He does the same thing over and over again.”
“What same thing?” he asked.
“He sings,” she said, a wrenched look of disgust crossed her face as she lashed out at more motes of swirling dust. “God awful voice. Just loud and drunk enough to keep me awake.”
The Singing Wife-Killer.
Diamond could imagine the headlines now.
An hour later he was in his brother’s office tossing the evidence bag holding the Beretta onto the desk.
Marshall regarded the gun as if it were a new form of bacillus, backing up in his chair, staring at it with mute horror.
“Is—is that what I think it is?” he croaked.
“We found it in Don Simpson’s house. Just after we finished trading potshots at each other an hour ago. He went a bit nuts, hurt some cops, raised some hell.”
Marshall nodded sagaciously, as if all the mysteries of the universe were beginning to coalesce into one crystalline meaning, free of doubt and conjecture. “Well. I guess it would make sense. Marianne was leaving him. He must have gotten wind of Jason. Then he made his move.”
Diamond followed the train of thought up to a point. “Except Don Simpson never left his house last night.”
Marshall just stared. “What?
“I think our shooter is still around. It wasn’t Don Simpson.”
Marshall stood, shoved his hands in his pockets. Diamond noticed they quickly turned to fists within the fine Armani fabric.
“Didn’t you question Simpson?” he asked tightly.
“He’s unconscious at the moment,” Diamond said. “He was deeply agitated, fucked up on a major pop of PCP and god knows what else. He’ll come out of it in a few hours, I’m told.” Diamond watched his brother pace. “This is beginning to stink.”
Marshall turned on him suddenly. “Look, you just said Simpson went ape-fuck. For my money, and with this kind of evidence,” he said, jabbing at the evidence bag containing the .16 mil as if it were some kind of venomous grub, “he’s our man. Let’s close this up now.”
Diamond took a breath, trying to quell the irritation that was vulcanizing within him against his brother. “You aren’t listening. Don Simpson never left his house last night. We have a witness that corroborates that fact.”
“Alright,” Marshall snapped, exasperated. “If it’s not Simpson, then who?”
A knock on the door, and then Linda Baylor stepped in. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything?”
She was dressed in an exquisitely tailored business skirt and jacket. The skirt was perhaps a tad high by most standards, but what the hell, no one would complain the way she was wearing it, Lou thought.
She smiled obliquely at him.
“I thought you weren’t coming into the office today,” he said.
Linda shrugged. Her trademark response to most everything worthy of her dismissal. “I was curious to see how the investigation was coming along since I’m a prime suspect.”
This time Lou shrugged. “Unless you have a confession for us, nothing is written in stone. And I wouldn’t exactly call you a prime suspect.”
“Buy me a drink and there’s no telling what you’ll get out of me,” she said neutrally. “Better yet, I’ll provide the cocktails.”
Lou stepped closer to her. “Where and when?”
Linda looked at Marshall, who turned to glance out the window. “You forget my open door policy, Lou. How about seven?”
Jesus, she’s a piece of work, Lou thought. “Front door or terrace?”
“Surprise me,” she said, then turned and left.
Lou watched her walk down the hall, turn the corner and disappear from sight. When he looked back Marshal was staring at him, a tired frown crossing his brow.
“I’ll need a place to set up shop,” Lou said, ignoring the frown, and pulling his attention back to the moment.
“You can use Randall’s office. He won’t be needing it,” Marshall said acerbically. “Don’t get involved with her, Lou.”
“I wasn’t planning on it, Marshall.”
“She enjoys being a bitch. She’s a damn smart attorney but she’s got a few kinks in the personal department.”
“I noticed that,” Lou said.
“She’ll use you to bug me. She likes to do that, too.”
“Marshall, I’d sooner book her for murder than fuck her. Besides, she’s not my type.”
Marshall smiled at this. “Yeah, she is. She’s crazy. Just like you.”
FIFTEEN
Julie Westover was the Division’s top psychologist and well liked by damn near every agent around. She was smart, to the point, and not hard to look at it.
Diamond decided he would take his good friend and superior’s advice, just so he could say he did, and drop by for an informal chat about his admittedly fucked-up mental condition of late.
Julie lived in Huntington Beach, half an hour or so south of Los Angeles on the 405. Diamond was about to knock on the door of her second story condo when he heard the sounds from within. He instinctively reached for his gun but then relaxed as the sounds became more recognizable.
He glanced at his watch and waited until the screams from within crescendoed and then quieted. He waited another minute or two, then knocked.
After yet another minute, the door cracked open.
“Hi, Julie. Does my timing suck?”
Julie brushed a wisp of hair out of her face, glanced quickly around, then grinned at him. “It was never that great.”
“Turner said I could drop by any time,” he continued, playing with her. The first real enjoyment he’d had in god knows when. He’d always liked Julie, in and out of bed. She was good people and was the only person alive who could make him, on those very rare occasions, laugh.
“Maybe I should have called,” he amended, beginning to walk away.
“No,” she said, reaching out to him, holding a sheet next to her body. “Give me five minutes,” she said as she took another look at him, this time a studied one. “You look dreadful, Lou.”
“And yet I feel so fun and frisky, filled with the flowing juices of youth.”
“You don’t need a shrink. You need the latest spectrum of antipsychotic on the market.”
He smiled. She closed the door and he waited for another few minutes before she appeared again and admitted him into her home.
Julie Westover was a year past thirty but looked much younger. Her husband Chuck waved at Diamond as he headed into the back bedroom. They had a passing acquaintance, though Diamond thought he saw a trace of irritation on the other man’s face as he shut the door behind him.
Can’t say I blame him, Diamond mused. My timing truly does suck.
“Sorry about all this,” Diamond said, meaning it.
Julie shrugged and smiled. “Chuck understands. It’s one of the great things about being married to a pilot. We grab what time we have together, but we also know when duty calls.” She was watching him again. “Turner told me about last night. And about the new case. Don’t you think you’re taking on a little too much a little too soon?”
Diamond, suddenly very tired, fell into a seat. “Probably. But if I keep working, I don’t have to remember.”
Julie sat opposite him, pulling over a dining room chair and pulling her robe closer around herself. Their fling, many years before Maria, was brief, strange, and tinged with humor and regret. Of course nothing could have lasted between them—Diamond’s choice from the word go. But it had been pleasant, and Diamond had spent much harder company around women than the likes of Julie Westover.
She had seemed mildly heartbroken about the affair, but had accepted his recalcitrance to the notion, mainly because she had no choice. Julie Westover understood Diamond and his demons. They were demons particular to a special category of man. Lou Diamond was a warrior, from beginning to end. If there was no war to fight, he would have gone out to find one. It’s what he was born to do, had trained to do all of his life. Nothing could change that.
But something had changed for Diamond, long ago, with Maria. For a brief period of time in Diamond’s violent life, there was ... peace. It was short-lived, as was his marriage, as was his poor wife. What little light that had shown in Diamond’s life had quickly dimmed and was snuffed out forever.
“Turner mentioned a girl last night,” Julie said gently. “A girl who looked like Maria.”
“Juanita,” Diamond said. A hideous image of Juanita lying naked on a cold slab down at County made him shiver.
Julie saw the chill pass through him and waited.
“She didn’t make it,” he said at last.
“Tell me about her,” Julie said, realizing that she was working in highly charged territory.
Only to Julie Westover would Diamond allow some of the fences to come down. He shrugged, as if perhaps they were discussing a new kind of disposal unit in the kitchen. “Not much to tell,” he said.
“Try,” Julie cajoled.
“She was young. Twenty two, maybe. I ended up—” he took a breath, and shook his head, waves of guilt and recrimination flooding through him. “I trusted her. I didn’t think she was that close to Palomito. She blew the whistle on my team, on me. Two men died because of my dick.”
It wasn’t said humorously and Julie remained stone-faced. He looked at her, waiting for the inevitable platitude that he felt certain was coming. But she surprised him. Julie had always surprised him.
“Maybe. Maybe not. Turner said it was a suicide op from the start.”
“Bullshit,” Diamond snarled. “I’ve pulled worst gigs than that. It was a judgment error, plain and simple. Then, last night, something happened. They had us. We were finished. Juanita ... began to do things ...”
He couldn’t go on. He looked down. “I liked it. Christ, I liked it, even when I knew we would all be dead.”
For a long time Diamond just stared at the floor, for the first time thinking about the bizarre sequence of events in the warehouse the night before. He realized that he’d successfully bullied the memories out of his mind. Now, with Julie, more barriers crumbled.
He could feel the sob in his throat and fought against it. “I guess the reason I’m here,” he said slowly, each word a victory of control, “is to have you tell me I’m not fucking nuts.”
Julie reached out and took both of his hands in hers. “You lost a wife five years ago, Lou. You’ve never recovered from that. And you’re in, to put it mildly, a high stress, high risk profession. You’re not nuts. But you’re on the way to a nervous breakdown if you don’t let up.”
Diamond searched her eyes, trying to find something there that might hold the answer to a thousand questions clamoring for answers. “Something in me actually liked what happened. I was getting fucked up in more ways than I care to get into ... and I liked it.”
He stood, shoved his hands into his pocket. He noticed a bottle of vodka, along with some scotch and wine, on a nearby counter.
“Help yourself,” she smiled.
Diamond unscrewed the Absolut, reached for a Dixie cup, and poured long. He killed half the burning vodka in one chug. He nodded to himself. “You should have seen it, Julie,” he muttered. “What she did to me ... what I allowed her to do ... while my men watched. Whi
le they died...”
He finished the vodka. “You don’t call that nuts?” he said to her, contemplating whether or not he should switch from the Absolut to the J&B. Decisions, decisions.
“No. I call it a fairly common syndrome that is symptomatic to individuals who put themselves in life and death situations on a daily basis. There are thousands of feet of documentation on soldiers back from war who failed to psychologically adjust to an environment when their lives weren’t in constant jeopardy. You fit into a very specific category.”
“Wacko,” he said.
“You’re a violent man,” Julie said, not blinking once. “By training and by disposition. You’re addicted to the buzz of ‘kill or be killed,’ and you should look it square in the face.”
“I can look it in the face,” he said softly. “But yesterday ... that was something different.”
“No, it wasn’t. And you better start addressing that as well. Your wife is dead, killed in the streets. Last night was the eighth undercover op you signed on for since her death. You’ve been topside maybe four months total in all that time. You drink too much, your sex life is probably shot or nonexistent and, when you do get laid, it’s probably pretty bizarre.”
He reached for the Chivas, listening intently.
“You’re equating pain with pleasure and your priorities are pretty confused.”
“Aside from that, I’m an okay guy, right?” he said, savoring the burn of the harsher alcohol in his mouth.
“Aside from that, you have to slow down. I read your medicals six months ago, Lou,” she said quietly.
So had he. The doctor had been pretty straightforward with him. Old age would not be a huge problem for him. His body was an inhaling, exhaling pincushion of bullet and stab wounds, multiple contusions, internal injuries to his kidneys, stomach and spleen. Two years ago, his gall bladder and pancreas were removed, courtesy of a fire fight that went down hard in East Los Angeles. His team successfully terminated a bank robbery, but sustained high personal casualties; Diamond sustaining the most critical injuries of all. A dozen hostages had been freed in the operation and Diamond had again won high praise and another Mayoral commendation—along with two bullets to the mid-section. Today, his gut still hurt from that assault.
Gray Area Page 9