Wild Instinct

8

Patti DiMeo is a Realtor with Lido Estates in Newport Beach. Her office is in Lido Marina Village, part of a row of quaint shops looking out on Newport Bay. Good views of the yachts at anchor and those moving slowly along Lido Channel. Some of the vessels look huge. The midafternoon sunlight seems to part for them.

Gale looks out at all this. To his mind, Newport Beach is still true to its roots: white, wealthy, conservative, and proud. Its favorite son is John Wayne. In many ways Newport is the opposite of Gale’s birth town of San Juan Capistrano, seventeen miles southeast, near Caspers Wilderness Park.

Patti is abundantly blond, blue-eyed, slender, and suntanned. A black knit suit, a white blouse, and a pearl-and-emerald choker. Gale guesses midthirties and sees no wedding ring. She’s square-jawed, with a pretty smile, and, to Gale, intelligent-looking hands.

He scans the Lido Estates listings on one wall. A few of the homes for sale look small, slightly Cape Cod — ish, with white picket fences and little green lawns. Some look to have been built in the 1950s and 1960s. Some are extravagant contemporaries of stone and glass. The lots are small and the homes look crowded together. The cheapest one Gale sees is listed for $6.5 million; the most expensive is $27.5 million.

First, some small talk about the south Orange County real estate market, which Patti says is trending up again as the holidays approach. Corona del Mar and the Irvine Coast are quite hot right now. Lots of value down on the peninsula if you don’t mind the traffic. The beach is what you’re really buying.

“When did you last see Mr. Tarlow?” Gale asks.

“The week before they... found him. The Tarlow Company hosted an invite-only preview for a handful of the top OC Realtors. I got the call for Lido Estates. Tarlow was introducing Wildcoast — their proposed development outside of San Juan Capistrano, near Caspers Park. We Realtors were one of his focus groups. Tarlow Company showed artist renderings and videos of other developments from, well, across half the globe, actually.”

“Must have been an impressive show,” says Mendez.

“It really was,” says DiMeo. “Wildcoast isn’t a traditional development at all. It’s designed to be chartered as a full civic entity — a city. Five square miles. That’s half the size of the city of Laguna Beach. Single-family homes, condos, and apartments. Affordable housing. Not token affordable, but one-quarter of all the units, built into the pricing by Tarlow Company and the city of Wildcoast. Schools, churches, two synagogues, two mosques. Two shopping centers, anchored by upscale retailers. A downtown Main Street made of solar-generating cobblestones. With city hall, a monster library, two public pools, shopping and dining with high-ratio pedestrian circulation. An equestrian center and trails into the beautiful mountains near Caspers Park. A small airstrip for private craft only. Every single rooftop — residential and commercial — made with solar tiles. A small wind farm tucked back in the foothills. Parks and big public gardens where people can grow flowers and food to eat. They’re calling them ‘victory gardens.’ Isn’t that all, just, well, the coolest?”

“I know a little about it,” says Gale. “The local governments and environmentalists aren’t happy. The Natives, even less so.”

His mother, for example, one of the official spokespersons for the Acjacheme nation of San Juan Capistrano, isn’t exactly happy about a small utopian city built on land that once belonged to her ancestors. A nation that remains unrecognized by the Bureau of Indian Affairs, on technical grounds. Thus, no sovereign land and mineral rights, no federal aid, no casinos.

“Oh, lots of people are livid,” says Patti DiMeo. “A small group of protestors picket outside the Tarlow building every afternoon, then the Newport cops run them out or arrest them. Natives. Non-Native locals. Everybody wants to hold on to what they have. Not build a new city! Keep the demand high and the supply small and the prices up. To them, Wildcoast’s a NIMBY but not like homeless shelters or halfway houses or fulfillment centers. They’re talking about something that, when you learn about it, sounds more like paradise. Beautiful architecture in a beautiful setting. Tarlow Company has a reputation for high-end excellence. They’re outdoing themselves on this one.”

“When do they propose to break ground?” Gale asks.

“This was all just concept. They say construction will begin in two, maybe three years. Which seems early to me. You wouldn’t believe the design reviews, regulations, permits. Federal, state, county, city. Imagine the financing. I think five years is more realistic.”

“Sounds like you’d love to sell some homes out there when Wildcoast is up and running,” says Mendez.

“I’d love to have one. Either way, I’ll be first in line.”

She nods and looks out the window.

“Had you met Bennet before this preview?” asks Gale.

“No.”

“Did you give him your personal number?”

“I did. He asked for it.”

“Did you write it down for him?”

“Yes.”

“Why not just text it to him?”

“We were talking about how intrusive phones have become and he made a joke about doing things the old-fashioned way. So I got my Montblanc out of my clutch and wrote the number near the bottom of the complimentary Tarlow Company notepad in the swag bag. Tore it off and gave it to him and asked him if that was old-fashioned enough.”

With a slender, intelligent finger, Patti DiMeo wipes a tear away from one eye. Then the other.

“Is it true that he was partially eaten by the Killer Cat?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” says Gale.

“But the animal didn’t kill him?”

“Some other animal did,” says Mendez. “He died of gunshot wounds.”

DiMeo stares out the window and Gale sees the shine of her cheeks in the sunlight. Wipes them again.

“Such a nice guy. A famous man and all that, but you know, he was just easy to talk to and not full of himself. No arrogance, or even pride. Humble, almost. I thought, smooth-talking dude. Thought of Indira Gandhi’s famous, ‘Don’t be humble, you’re not that great.’ But I believed him. He was aware of himself but not impressed by himself. I was so tickled to tear off that number and give it to him. I remember both of us thinking it was kind of funny.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Well, Wildcoast and more Wildcoast. After the formal presentation and all the Q and A, Mr. Tarlow came up to me on the deck of the Tarlow Company building. It’s fifteen stories up, in Newport Center. Views of the entire universe. That black ocean heaving away, out there. We yapped about where we grew up and school and sports, and about big families, which I come from. He seemed almost regretful, being an only child.”

“How old are you?” asks Mendez. “And where did you grow up?”

“Thirty-five and Newport Beach.”

“Married?”

“Never.”

“Did Mr. Tarlow tell you why he wanted your personal number?” asks Mendez.

“At first I thought, wow, Bennet Tarlow wants to talk to me about a job. But he didn’t want to call at work, leave his name with a receptionist or voicemail. He gave me a raised-eyebrow kind of look and I gave him one back. We were both aware of what asking for a personal phone number implies.”

A young man comes through the office door and hands a folder to DiMeo without looking at either detective. He closes the door behind him and the room goes quiet.

Gale watches her set the folder on the desk in front of her and stare down at it, sighing.

“Something unusual happened last week,” she says. “Three days after the Wildcoast concept focus and two days before Mr. Tarlow died. A staffer from Kevin Elder’s office made a morning appointment to discuss properties for sale here on Lido. Elder is the Seventh District Orange County supervisor, as I’m sure you know. This man identified himself as Grant Hudson. Young guy, a navy suit and a white straw fedora. I assumed he was scouting real estate possibilities for his boss, because it’s not likely that a thirtysomething man on the county payroll would be looking to buy a home for himself in Newport Beach. Of course I didn’t ask. He was interested in four bedrooms and two baths, something with ‘some character,’ he said. I invited him to look at the pictures on the wall there, and he did. He didn’t spend much time on any of them. I figured he was deep into sticker shock. He sat back down across from me and asked a few questions about schools and boat slip leases. He was interested in joining a yacht club. Then, right out of the blue, he said he saw me out on the Tarlow Company building deck, talking with Bennet Tarlow at the Wildcoast concept preview, and asked what we had talked about. I told him we talked about Wildcoast — what else would we have talked about? He said he saw me write something on a notepad and tear off the bottom and hand it to ‘Bennet Tarlow III.’ He assumed it was my personal line and asked me if Mr. Tarlow had called. I told him no and asked him to leave my office. Said I’d introduce him to another agent if he was even remotely interested in buying a home through us.”

Gale sees the embarrassed blush on Patti DiMeo’s face.

“That was more than rude,” says Mendez.

“It was really weird.”

“What did he do?”

“Put on his hat and walked out.”

“And Bennet Tarlow called, didn’t he?” asks Mendez.

“Yes. The morning of the day he was killed. He asked me for coffee the next day at nine, my choice where. We were set for the Moulin in Laguna. At first, when he didn’t show, I thought he’d stood me up. Not surprised. Look, I know I should have called the police but I was just too blown away to think straight. Still am. But I’ll come in and make statements or depositions or whatever it is you detectives do. I’m sick to death about this and I’ll do what I can to help you, and put Bennet Tarlow’s killer on death row. Maybe I shouldn’t say that. I’m supposed to be a liberal Californian but I’m not. I believe in the death penalty.”

“This interview is enough for now,” says Gale. “Thank you.”

She wipes the corner of one eye with a balled fist. “I’ve got a four o’clock.”

“Yes, thank you, Ms. DiMeo,” says Mendez. “We’ll put his ass on death row for you. Or hers. Done deal.”

Sitting in his small office in the Orange County Building, Grant Hudson says his conversation with Patti DiMeo in her office was pretty dull.

“Kind of a bimbo I’d say.”

Admits he asked her about writing something on a complimentary Tarlow Company notepad they all got in their swag bags. And tearing a strip off the bottom of the pad and handing it to one of the most powerful men in the United States.

“I thought that was more than a little interesting.”

“Why did you want to talk to her about it?” asks Mendez.

“Wouldn’t you? The Tarlow Company’s Wildcoast lies smack-dab within the Seventh District. Kevin Elder — my boss and esteemed supervisor — has his concerns with a megalopic development paving over five square miles of pretty much pristine, genuine wilderness. Will this multibillion-dollar profit center truly serve the citizens of Orange County? So I thought I’d confront Ms. DiMeo about giving Tarlow her personal phone number. I assumed that’s what it was. Maybe Bennet Tarlow confided something to her that he has not confided to us. He was incommunicative with government at all levels. And famously popular with the ladies, so...”

“I can tell you’re truly devastated by his murder,” says Mendez.

Hudson shrugs. “I feel bad for him. Sure. A life cut that short. I’ll bet he called her, didn’t he?”

“Not that we know,” says Gale.

“Can a cop perjure himself?”

“Only in court,” says Gale. “Not to a midlevel government cockroach like you.”

“Oh, that stings, but not that much! I’ve got a five o’clock if you don’t mind.”

“Where were you on the evening and night that Bennet Tarlow was murdered in Caspers Wilderness Park?” asks Mendez.

Grant Hudson leans forward, taps the desktop computer keyboard, raises his eyes to the monitor, and slides his mouse. “Aha! Dinner at the Grove with the boss and a Tesla factory relocation team. Food was fantastic. Sorry you guys didn’t get an invite.”

“No Tarlow there, I take it,” says Daniela. “Maybe heading out after an early cocktail.”

Hudson shakes his head. Gale’s been to the Grove Club just once, as the guest of his boss, Sheriff Kersey, and Bennet Tarlow. It’s where Gale and Tarlow first met, and what led to Gale moonlighting as security for the developer. Insiders call it the Grove, never the Grove Club. The Grove is a late 1800s mission-era hacienda main house, repurchased, restored, and converted to a private club by the secretive Paladin Society — conservative businessmen and women, politicians and right-wing Hollywood movers and celebrities.

As Gale got to know Tarlow through his bodyguarding, he began to see him as an affable libertine not fully synchronized with the Grove at all.

“Where do they want to build the factory?” asks Gale.

“Oh, come on, kids! I can’t tell you that. Somewhere in the great County of Orange.”

“Help us with your alibi,” says Mendez. “Two names from your alleged night at the Grove.”

Hudson pushes back with open hands. “I’m not going to sic you mutts on my friends. You want that, charge me with something and take me downtown.”

“We asked you a simple question,” says Mendez. “So why won’t you answer?”

“You are wasting my time. And yours.”

“You called Bennet Tarlow one of the most powerful man in the United States,” says Gale. “Do you know anyone who would want him dead?”

Hudson scoots rearward in his wheeled chair, locking his hands beside his head. “Not a one.”

“Do you think Tarlow was honest?” asks Gale.

“I think the powerful play by different rules than you and me.”

“What about his politics?” asks Mendez.

“Weird enough, a liberal,” says Hudson, pedaling back to his desk. “He always played superior to us. Suspicious of government overreach. Big on personal rights.”

“Abortion, LGBTQ rights?”

“Sure.”

“What about environmentalists, the EPA, Department of the Interior?”

Hudson gives Mendez a look, then Gale. “Lots of disagreement over Wildcoast. Years of it. Some of it hot.”

“Tarlow doesn’t sound like Grove material,” says Gale.

“My dear policeman,” says Hudson. “Everything in this country begins with money and power. Even the Grove.”

“Some names would be nice,” says Gale.

“Nope. No specific individuals that I know. I’m being honest here. Talk to Tarlow’s people if you want names.”

“You called him ‘famously popular with the ladies,’” says Mendez.

“So?”

“Does that reputation follow him into places like the Grove?” she asks.

“It was never a secret.”

“Did Tarlow have an interest in men, in that way?” Mendez asks.

“Not that I know. Kind of doubt it though, with all his female company.”

“Yeah,” says Gale. “Mr. Hudson, what kind of car do you drive?”

Hudson taps his fingers on the desktop. “A Lexus.”

“Do you have a second vehicle?”

“Got a vintage Bronco I take off-road now and then.”

“Know anyone who drives an older Econoline? White?”

Hudson shakes his head and stands. “Look, I didn’t like Bennet Tarlow III. But I really don’t like that he got shot dead. I can’t help you with his enemies. I’m not in a position to know. But any Grove bartender might point you in the right direction, if you can get yourselves in.”

“It’s called a badge,” says Gale.

“Grove security is tough.”

He knows two fellow OCSD deputies who freelance as Grove security.

“Ask for John Velasquez,” says Hudson. “You can use my name if you make it that far, but I’m not sure what it will get you. He’s there most of the time. Sorry, now, but you need to go.”

“Can you pave our way into the Grove as guests?” asks Mendez, with a look to Gale.

“Only members can do that,” says Hudson.

“How many times have they turned down your application?” asks Mendez.

“Once. I’m fattening up the bio before I try again.”

“You’ll get in someday,” says Mendez. “People like you always fail up.”

Back in his Explorer, Gale’s phone rings.

“Owls in a tree,” says Glen Osaka. “An adult and two fluffy owlets. Twenty-six exposures taken at ten o’clock in Caspers Park, the night Tarlow was killed. The mom looks pissed. Next most recent were taken two months ago in Tahiti — a whole lot of exotic birds and a woman with red hair and a pretty smile. The camera’s a digital, so easy to open up and loaded with information. I googled Tarlow and sure enough, one of his hobbies is bird photography. He’s had pictures in the Audubon magazine over the years, some in National Geographic, too.”

“Can you send me the owls?”

“I’ve never seen such big ones. Even the owlets. Bigger than our great horned owls, by a lot. Weird face. On their way, Gale.”

“Any prints on the camera gear that aren’t Tarlow’s?”

“Not a one.”

“Thank you, Glen. You’re more than good.”

Gale looks at the owl pictures, all twenty-six of them.

It’s a weird-looking owl alright, regal and powerful and haunted.

Lit brightly against the darkness, a phantom.