Wild Instinct

7

Bennet Tarlow’s new midnight blue Suburban sits in the sheriff’s impound yard in Santa Ana.

It’s already drawn a light coating of dust, which reflects dully off the darkened glass of the windshield.

Mendez stands with her hands on her hips, parsing the big blue beast.

Gale stands aside and lets the impound deputy unlock the driver’s-side door.

“All yours, Detectives. They’ve dusted for prints, used luminol for blood and body fluids. Shot pictures and video. This vehicle was just put into service last week, so it’s pretty clean. They took a leather briefcase off the passenger seat for processing. Left everything else like you see it. Kind of a mess.”

Gale circles the Suburban clockwise. Notes the road dirt on its tires and the heavy blanket of fine dust accumulated on the liftgate window. He notes the High Country model designation on the rear liftgate and the subtle dark blue glitter of its body, subdued by the dust.

Wonders why Tarlow and his companion would come in separate cars to the same place, park near each other, walk side by side from the campsite to the trail, then down into the brushy creek wash where Tarlow was shot in the head and left in the sand to bleed to death.

Gale takes from his jeans pocket a leather-bound notepad, made by a distant nephew of his in San Juan Capistrano, and writes his speculations regarding the separate vehicles used to transport Tarlow to his execution. Wonders if a third party was waiting for them. Possibly. But no third set of footprints in the creek bed. Though a third person might have taken a different exit route from the dying Tarlow. Might have used the wash, but obscured the prints with a leafy tree branch, or even a broom or blanket or garment — an old Native trick that might have been applied by his Acjacheme/Juaneño ancestors on his mother’s side. He’s seen the Taliban do that in the Sangin Valley sand, using the opium poppy stalks uprooted after harvest. Specifically, the old man going to and from the long-abandoned village house, from which he fetched his shotgun, whom Gale later assassinated as the sniper he was not.

Third party in dark? he neatly writes. Cover tracks w/ flashlight or cell phone like Pesco?

Unlikely, he thinks.

Camera, big lens, tripod. Why?

Gale opens the door and retractable steps drop into place, and he climbs into the driver’s seat. Mendez takes the passenger side and they close the doors.

The new-car smell is strong. The black leather looks top-grade. White fingerprint dust marks the dark dash, the computer screen, the black leather steering wheel and shifter, the turn signals, and window controls. The chrome and brushed aluminum accents have been dusted with black.

The console stowage and dashboard glove box have been left open, and their contents appear to be stuffed haphazardly back into place.

“No Good Housekeeping seal of approval,” says Mendez.

“Sure smells good, though.”

“I do love a new car. What do you drive, Lew?”

“An old 4Runner that won’t give up. You?”

“A red Corvette to make me feel young. It’s the only expensive thing I’ve ever bought myself.”

Gale nods. “I’ll bet you’re worth it, Daniela.”

“I’m convincing myself of that.”

Mendez runs the beam of her laser pointer over pale smudges of luminol on the floor mats, in which blood, body fluids, and secretions glow blue in infrared light, but Gale sees no such glow.

“I’m drawing a blank on why Tarlow and his companion took two vehicles to the same destination,” he says. “It suggests that Econoline Man knew he’d ride out alone.”

“Yes, planned,” says Mendez. “Not impulse. I can’t see a third person out there. Two voices heard by Pesco, right? You made sure to confirm that?”

“He said two.”

“Well, then I agree with you,” says Mendez. “Tarlow’s buddy knew he’d need his van. But why not shoot him from the front, or through an ear, wipe down the gun, and put it in Tarlow’s hand? Pretty easy way to throw us off.”

“Because this way it’s a statement,” says Gale. “A warning. Maybe punishment.”

“Sure,” says Mendez. “A guy with that much money and power. You know he’s made enemies. Probably a lot of them. And Tarlow was a social creature. I’ve seen him in the society pages for years — those glossy Orange County magazines. A bachelor. Nice looking. Always with a woman or two. Or three. Plenty of jealous husbands around.”

“Maybe jealous girlfriends of Tarlow’s, too,” says Gale, again remembering Tarlow’s companion at the Las Vegas heavyweight fight that night. Norris.

Gale checks the compartment of the door beside him, running his phone light down into the black recesses.

Then turns down the sun visor and slides open the vanity mirror and light. More black fingerprint dust on the mirror.

Checks the eyeglasses bin, which opens at his touch. Empty, except for a scrap of heavy paper, folded in half, with a faint black line running near the torn top. Gale wonders if the CSIs overlooked it. Would be easy, he thinks, tucked up near the roof by the interior lights that shine in your eyes.

He fingers out and unfolds the scrap. Roughly the shape of Virginia, he sees — a flat bottom with a torn, hilly top. Heavy white stock that’s been quickly or sloppily torn out.

The numbers are written in a neat, forward-slanting, draftsman-like hand that reminds Gale of his own, and of his father’s. Ten digits, spaced and hyphenated like phone numbers.

He holds it out for Mendez to see.

She looks up from the messily repacked glove compartment.

A beat of silence between them, both detectives trying to figure this.

Gale names the number Tarlow Suburban in his contacts, then dials.

His call goes to voicemail:

“Hi, it’s Patti. Leave a message and a callback number please.”

To Gale, Patti sounds assured and pleasant. Professional. Thirtysomething? Hard to tell age from voice.

He leaves his name and work number, which will lead Patti to his own voicemail greeting, which is brief and makes no mention of the Orange County Sheriff’s Department.

He calls Glen Osaka in the crime lab to see if they found a personal calendar/planner in his leather briefcase from the Suburban. No dice, says the Cybercrimes technician.

“And no phone, I take it.”

“No, Detective, no magic bullet like that.”

“CSIs will be bringing you a camera we found here at the kill site,” says Gale.

“How’d we miss it the first time through?”

“Wrong site. Either the cat or the killer moved him. I want to know what’s on it.”

“I’ll hustle it through.”

Gale rings off and hears the low buzz of Mendez’s phone. She opens her door and turns her back to him.

“You know you’re not supposed to—”

Gale catches a few words: “I’m not coming home... tonight... maybe... don’t worry, Mom.”

Then silence as the call ends.

Mendez slams the door shut, turning to Gale. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Jesse. Everything’s fine. His girlfriend leads him around sometimes.”

“Eighteen, I think you said?”

She nods. Stares at her phone like it will get Jesse back on.

“Senior at Tustin High,” she says. “All work experience this semester, with only two classes — auto shop and gaming. Twenty hours a week at Bowl Me Over in Santa Ana. Started out bussing dishes two years ago and he’s up to assistant manager now. Of the kitchen, not the whole alley. Inward and quiet, but basically a good kid. No, a great kid. Never knew his late father but don’t get me started on him. Tell me to shut up, Lew.”

“Shut up, Daniela.”

A look in her hard eyes, half a smile.

Now Lew Gale’s phone throbs, and Tarlow Suburban appears above the number.

“Hello, Patti,” he says.

“How can I help you?”

“My partner and I are investigating the murder of Bennet Tarlow. He had your number in his SUV and that’s where I’m calling from. Can you talk?”

“Are you a private detective or law enforcement?”

“Orange County Sheriff’s deputy.”

She pauses. “I’d rather not talk by phone. I can meet you in half an hour.”

She gives Gale her office address on Coast Highway in Newport Beach and hangs up.