Wild Instinct

37

Gale takes the bone shards from his pocket and lays them on Bachstein’s stainless-steel examination table. It’s got a basin on one end, faucets with hand-held sprayers on the other, a swing-out magnifier and strong LED lights overhead.

Mendez upends an evidence bag and adds more pieces of bone to the table.

“What happened to you?” asks the coroner, eyeing Gale’s bandaged nose.

“Hit a tree. It hit back.”

Gale pictures Geronima, nursing his ragged little wound in the bright light of her bathroom.

Bachstein is tall, slender, and pale, with a domed forehead, thinning brown hair, and heavy glasses. A UCLA PhD in chemistry. He spreads the bones with an index finger, taking his time. Finally picks one with a round edge, rinses it off, and sets it on the table.

“Where’d you get this?”

“Out at the Wildcoast site.”

“Underground?”

“Two hundred feet down,” says Gale. “In a beach-sand slurry of some kind, in a cavern full of gigantic crystals.”

Bachstein gives him a skeptical look.

“You must have felt like Indiana Jones.”

“No snakes or monkeys.”

“Adventurous, attractive women?”

“Two, actually.”

Eyes bugging behind thick lenses, Bachstein looks to Mendez, waits for clarification, gets none, then swings the magnifier, turns on the circular light, and lowers his big forehead.

“Definitely a bone,” he says. “Mammal, probably vertebral. Maybe human. Maybe deer or cow. Given the depth underground and undersea seismic activity, maybe a very young whale. Although, as they say, the contents may have shifted. Maybe a dog or coyote or a big cat. Were these pieces near each other or spread out?”

“I saw them in the beachy-looking sand,” says Gale. “I kneeled down and picked up two or three, then ran my fingers through and came up with a couple more. So, yeah, near each other.”

“A possible burial site. I’ll carbon-date this, but to the eye, I’d say five hundred to seven hundred years old, maybe more. That liquid slurry has smoothed it. Buffed out the venous grooves and the superficial pores, which has helped preserve it. Cleaned off the burn marks, if any. Animal bones are less porous and greater density than ours. Here, take a look.”

Gale steps up to the magnifier, peers down at the brightly lit shard.

“Lunar,” he says.

“Let’s run it through the electron scope. See if we can humanize this thing.”

In the crime lab, Bachstein greets the techs with a wave of his hand, introduces Gale to them.

“We’re going to get this Tarlow guy,” says one of the coroner assistants, a petite Chinese woman. “I looked at what the lion did to his face and almost fainted. I’ve never fainted in my life.”

“That was a rough scene,” says Gale.

“Here’s an open scope,” says Bachstein.

He puts the specimen in the glass tray and turns on the microscope. Gale and Bachstein both watch the magnified image appear on the monitor.

“Oh, yes,” says Bachstein. “Trabecular microstructure, not cortical. Osteons scattered and evenly placed. Not so in nonhuman animals. I’d say we have a human vertebrae here, based on that and its shape. Eyeballing the wear and tear, micro and macro, I’d put this partial vertebrae at roughly a thousand years old. I can radiocarbon-date it, but it’ll take some hours.”

Gale stares at the scattered osteons, evenly placed.

Has no idea what an “osteon” is, but they confirm what he has suspected, that this cavern of light in an underground sea is a resting place for spirits on their way to the afterlife.

What Chinigchinich created, and Luis Verdad wrote about.

What else could it be?

“Let me know as soon as you do,” he says. “What’s this?”

Gale fishes his pocket collection for the small crystal he was able to cleave off from its gigantic parent.

In the good LED light of the crime lab, it has that faint, white, almost powdery glow.

“The crystals luminesce in direct light and smell kind of like mildew and metal,” says Gale.

Bachstein holds it up like a prospector assaying a sample, then places it in the electron microscope.

A strangely abstract image blips to the monitor. Gale considers the perfectly joined parallelograms, stacked layer after layer after layer. A wall of them.

“Lithium,” says Bachstein.

“As in batteries?” asks Gale.

Bachstein gives him a sorrowful look.

“Yes, Detective, one of the most valuable chemical elements on the planet now. Every bit as precious as water. It’s going to power the future. Businessmen and politicians call it white gold. Every electric car from now to forever is going to run on it. Every energy sold by every utility — renewable or not — is going to store their energy in lithium. It’s very expensive to find and mine it.”

Mendez shows the coroner her pictures of the crystalline cavern. Two of them are selfies for comparison, with the fifty-foot crystals behind her.

“Holy smokes,” says Bachstein. “Most large lithium crystals are one one-hundredth that size. The whole cavern is lined with them?”

“Scroll,” says Mendez.

The coroner holds the phone close and waves a finger across the screen.

“I’m not qualified to assess this economically,” he says. “But even a lowly coroner can tell you that the lithium in these crystals is extremely valuable when isolated electrolytically into lithium chloride. The ‘beach-sand slurry’ you were walking on will be dense-packed with lithium chloride. This is the future of energy storage here, Detectives. This cavern and its crystals and walls and brine slurry will be worth billions of dollars over the years. Many billions.”

On what was once Acjacheme land, thinks Gale. And much better than a casino.

“More valuable than a city?” he asks.

“Well, in terms of dollars, I would think many times,” says Bachstein. “I’m no futurist but we need lithium in large amounts. Another city? Well, who’s to say if we need one or not?”

“Who owns the mineral rights under Wildcoast?” asks Gale.

“I would assume the Tarlow Company,” says the coroner. “Kevin Elder would certainly know.”

Gale and Mendez wait an hour to see Kevin Elder, who has been in a meeting since noon and not returned their calls. The Orange County magazines on the lobby tables glossily promote the “OC lifestyle.” Gale notes the holy trinity of high-end real estate in golden beach towns, luxury electric vehicles, and plastic surgery.

Elder, navy suited and vested, white shirt rolled up to his elbows and red necktie askew, stands and gestures to the two handsome leather chairs in front of his desk.

He shakes their hands across the table, sits, and links his hands behind his head. “Sorry,” he says. “One crazy day here. What’s with your nose?”

“I ran into a tree.”

“Poor tree.”

He gives Gale a doubtful look and Mendez an underpowered smile. Gale notes that the dashing silver widow’s peak in the supervisor’s otherwise black hair has been freshly trimmed.

“Good news?” asks the supervisor.

“Who owns the mineral rights to Wildcoast?” says Mendez.

To Gale, she seems curt and uncomfortable in her chair.

Elder unlinks his fingers and leans forward.

“Tarlow Company,” he says. “But it depends on what minerals you’re talking about.”

“Lithium,” says Gale.

Elder nods and purses his lips. “White gold. Let’s find out.”

The supervisor taps his desktop keyboard, sits back.

“We’ll go straight to the tax assessor for this,” he says. “Cassie Staples runs the place, great lady. Ancient and wise. Don’t tell her I said ancient.”

An awkward moment later, as he stares at Daniela Mendez, his phone rings.

Elder puts it on speaker: “Cass, thanks for being quick. Hey, who owns the mineral rights to the Wildcoast property?”

“Why, of course the Tarlow Company, Mr. Elder.”

An aging voice, thinks Gale, thin and crackling, like old paper.

“Cass, do those rights include lithium? I’ve got some detectives here, need to know.”

“Give me just a second.”

Gale can hear Cassie’s fingers on her keyboard. “Okay... back in 1915, when the TC gave us the land for Caspers, the surrounding Wildcoast parcel was reassessed — of course — minus Caspers. The mineral rights beneath the Wildcoast parcel include lithium. This is interesting: Tarlow Company retained all mineral rights under Caspers, too. You know, that is not a surprise. Back then, lithium was being mined and synthesized into the antidepressant lithium. The one they took off the market because it had so many bad side effects. No one was thinking of batteries then, not that I remember.”

“Ms. Staples, I’m Detective Lew Gale. I’m here in Mr. Elder’s office with my partner, Daniela Mendez. We’re investigating the murder of Bennet Tarlow III.”

“I am pleased to meet you,” she says, with a trace of warmth in her voice. “Mr. Tarlow was a gracious and generous man. A kind man. I sincerely hope you arrest the killer.”

“There’s no doubt we will,” says Mendez. “Ms. Staples, did the Tarlow Company ever mine lithium under the Wildcoast parcel or the section of Wildcoast that became the park?”

“One moment, please. Hall of Records for that.”

Again, the sound of Cass Staples’s fingers on her keyboard. They sound fast and strong.

Kevin Elder looks intently at Mendez as Cass Staples’s voice comes through his phone speaker.

“No, Ms. Mendez, there is no record of lithium exploration or extraction from the Wildcoast parcel. Why, have you found some?”

“Yes, but only a trace,” says Gale.

“Well, we’re all aware of how valuable it has become, with all these Teslas and electric everythings. I bought one myself.”

“White gold,” Elder says again, this time with a laugh. “Thank you, Cass. Detectives, anything else for our wonderful county assessor?”

“Thank you, Ms. Staples,” says Daniela.

“Very much,” says Gale.

Elder punches off and leans forward, elbows on his desktop. “Talk to me. You found lithium at Wildcoast?”

“Just the trace Daniela mentioned.”

“Why is trace lithium important to your investigation?”

“Mr. Elder,” says Gale. “I’ll be honest with you, there’s more than trace lithium under Wildcoast and Caspers. A lot more. The Tarlow Company knows it. Apparently, it was discovered during a perc test commissioned for Wildcoast.”

Gale sees an odd loss on Elder’s face. “Wildcoast is my district. My people. Bennet Tarlow III was my friend. I’ve been shepherding Wildcoast through since it was a dream of his. I don’t believe he knew anything at all about lithium. He would have told me.”

“I’m only speculating,” says Gale.

“How much lithium, would you guess?”

“Have you been down in that pit, Mr. Elder?” asks Mendez. “It’s really something.”

“No, Daniela, I certainly... what pit?”

“The so-called percolation test pit,” says Gale. “Now it’s two hundred feet deep and a hundred feet across.”

“Courtesy of Empire Excavators and Kyle McNab of PacWest Mining,” says Mendez. “You probably remember him from the Grove.”

Gale notes again the solemnity on Elder’s face as he considers Daniela. Wonders if something has transpired between them that he has not seen.

“Sure, I know Kyle,” Elder says softly. “But I can’t see why Benny would know that a metal this valuable is under Wildcoast and not tell me. I’m kind of in shock right now.”

Elder’s young aide-de-camp, Grant Hudson, comes through the door. “Detectives!” he says. “Great to see you guys. Love the nose job, Gale. Boss, we’re on with Mayor Petrie in ten at Il Fornaio. I’ll bring the car around. Detectives, please — do you have a believable suspect by now?”

Mendez rises and slings her bag over her shoulder, turns to Hudson. “Not you again,” she says, then back to the supervisor. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Elder.”

“Anytime, Detective Mendez. And you know I mean that.”

Gale and Mendez sit in the shade outside the county building, watch the employees heading out for lunch.

“What’s between you and Elder?” asks Gale.

“He hit on me and I turned him down. Twice. He was insistent, which leaves me kind of edgy around him.”

“Sorry to pry.”

“I’m not great at hiding things.”

“Me neither,” says Gale. “Marilyn read me like a book, like, the smallest thoughts. She heard them, somehow.”

“Lew, I’ve decided to talk to Jesse myself. He’s pulling some stuff I don’t even understand. With bad people, though. So, thanks for offering to be my proxy. I may take you up on that later but I need to get some things straight with him pretty much right now.”

“I’ll be ready when you need me.”

Gale sees the quiver of a smile on Daniela’s hard, pretty face.

Then the black Lincoln Navigator with government plates pulls into the long concrete porte cochere alongside the county building entrance.

Watches Elder get into the front passenger seat.

When the Navigator swings past them, the driver’s-side window closes, erasing Grant Hudson’s profile on its way up.

Gale feels that funny, lucky bump he gets when something impossible seems to fit.

Or almost fit.

But probably not fit at all.

“Slick and gutless,” says Mendez. “Not real people like us. Although, Steve and Curtis probably don’t exist outside Vern Jeffs’s colorful imagination and his photographic memory.”

“We can’t not see what happens next,” says Gale. Ten minutes later Gale and Mendez sit in Gale’s Explorer near Il Fornaio restaurant. The black Lincoln is parked along a LOADING ONLY curb, a valet ticket on the windshield.

No old white Econoline van in sight.

No black Harley.

But there is a beautiful Harley, in Mary Kay pink, in the DISABLED ONLY space up front.

Looking at the pink bike, Mendez shakes her head.

An hour and a half later, Kevin Elder, Grant Hudson, and skinny, leather-bound Mindy Jeffs step out of the shaded restaurant entrance and into the crisp Orange County sunshine.

“No Vern,” says Mendez. “Maybe he’s home, catching up on his sleep after trying to kill you last night.”

“Letting Mindy negotiate his fee with the big boys.”

Mindy tips a valet at the booth, then climbs aboard her machine. Pulls onto the street and Gale follows, three cars back. Traffic is steady and brisk.

“We can try all we want to put Elder in that white Navigator,” says Mendez. “But I don’t think he’s got the balls to kill his friend and political ally. And he has the brains not to.”

“Agreed,” says Gale.

“Then who?”

“With Bennet Tarlow dead,” says Gale, “Wildcoast can die, too. And the Tarlow Company trades a risky utopian city for billions in lithium.”

“Hal Teller as Steve?” asks Mendez.

“Absolutely,” says Gale. “Or at least the bank.”

A pause as they follow Mindy onto Harbor, headed in the direction of home.

“No, Lew,” says Mendez. “Teller’s too old and rich to kill a business partner he once mentored. Or to bankroll a hit. Bennet was a guy who looked up to him. How much richer does Hal Teller need to be? I’m not seeing Teller in this.”

“He’s the one who said the Tarlow Company is about making money, not homes and buildings,” says Gale. “Imagine how mineral rights to a cache of lithium would light his fire?”

“No, I’m sorry but it’s not adding up, Lew. I still believe Vern was hired to kill Tarlow, and — based on last night — you, too. Who did the hiring? Let’s let this cook.”

Gale nods and smiles; Mendez gives him a prying look.

“My disbelief that Keven Elder isn’t involved has nothing to do with him trying to date me,” she says.

“I’m sure of that,” says Gale. “Just shows he’s got good taste.”

A small smile then from Mendez. “Stop. Enough.”

They follow Mindy onto Yorktown and park down the street from Jeffs’s house. Looks the same as last time, but Gale notes the mail bulging from the curbside box.

Gale watches Mindy rumble onto the driveway on her pink bike, and the garage door rises.

No white Econoline out front.

“No black Harley,” says Mendez.

“No Rivian,” says Gale.

“The mail,” says Gale. “They’re pretending nobody’s home.”

“A staycation,” says Mendez.

The garage door closes.

No Vern at the Bear Cave or the Metro Gym, either.