Wild Instinct

9

At the bottom of blue tile steps leading to the front door of the Grove, Gale’s fellow sheriff’s deputy — fingers laced at his beltline, dressed in a navy suit, white shirt, and red tie — notes Gale and Mendez with a curt but respectful nod.

“Detectives,” he says. “What a nice surprise.”

“Thought we’d ask around about Bennet Tarlow,” says Gale.

“This is the right place.”

“But what we’d really like is a drink in that bar.”

“Of course. The mood around here has been subdued since what happened.”

The young deputy nods again and the detectives set out on the long steep rise of steps. Before them stands the former hacienda manor house, now the Grove Club, bathed in the outdoor mission-bell lamps, its interior alive behind white curtains. Two elderly men in tuxedos descend from above, escorting two much younger women in evening wear.

Standing at the immense front door, a second OCSD deputy, gray buzz cut and a mustache, and dressed almost exactly like the first, gives Gale and Mendez a stony look and pulls on the wrought-iron handle.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” says Mendez. “You look sharp in that suit.”

“Shucks, Dani.”

Gale leads them into a dark brassy bar just off the balconied, two-floor dining room. Black leather booths with privacy curtains along two walls. Another wall is a floor-to-ceiling triptych oil painting of Mission San Juan Capistrano, beautifully lit: the mission proper in the center panel, flanked by a pastoral scene of Indians at labor in an abundant cornfield, and a third panel table depicting Father Junípero Serra pouring water over the head of a full-grown man on his knees in the mission baptistry.

Two television screens are discretely hung over the busy bar, high enough up that the drinkers have to crane their necks a bit to watch.

Gale notes that CBS Channel 2 out of LA is showing Sheriff Kersey’s press conference, and he’s just now stating the cause of death of the celebrity businessman Bennet Tarlow III.

Two young patrons move down for them and the detectives squeeze in. There are three bartenders — a sleek, silver-haired man; a beefy, bald Black guy; and a pretty Vietnamese woman — all in black slacks, white shirts, black bow ties, and red vests.

With an assessing look, the sleek one sets coasters in front of them and takes their orders.

Gale holds out his badge wallet and the barman peers at the shield, then at its owner. Mendez next.

“What can I do for you, Deputies?”

“John Velasquez?”

A nod.

“Grant Hudson says he was here the night that Bennet Tarlow died,” says Gale. “He said you might talk to us.”

The bartender gives Gale a flat look. He’s thin-faced and elegant as a snake, thinks Gale.

Takes their drink orders, then goes through a swinging door near the mirrored shelves of liquor. Gale figures he’s getting permission to either talk to them or ask them to leave. He’s back in five minutes with a bourbon on the rocks for Gale and a beer for Mendez.

“Hudson was here,” says John Velasquez. “With his boss, the Supervisor Kevin Elder, and two Tesla guys, one of whom picked up the tab. They had drinks and dinner, and stayed late. Ten, ten-thirty.”

“Seen them here before?” asks Mendez.

“First time Tesla.”

“Do Hudson and Elder come here often?”

“Oh yeah. Usually guests of the Tarlow Company. Elder is Seventh District supervisor. The Tarlow Company is a big donor. I’ll be back.”

The detectives drink.

“Excuse me,” says Mendez, working her phone with both hands. “Just have to message Jesse.”

Gale takes another sip of bourbon, tastes that wonderful power and promise. He listens to the tap-tap of Daniela’s thumbs. Which reminds him of Patti DiMeo’s fingers. Which remind him of Tarlow’s companion for fight night in Las Vegas, Norris something, the Laguna Beach by way of Fort Worth redhead. Beautiful, intelligent young women.

Hudson has “bimbo” Patti wrong, he thinks. Norris had a soft laugh but a sharp tongue. Of course, they can’t help but remind him of his ex-wife, Marilyn, a blond beauty he’d met in high school in San Juan Capistrano. Danced exotically with grace and resentful aggression, and was proud of her IQ. Wanted more. Now, five years gone to Las Vegas, an actual showgirl.

“Sorry,” says Mendez.

Who reminds him not at all of Marilyn, who back then didn’t want children anyway. And certainly not later, not with a ruined, post-traumatic Marine with a taste for liquor and no desire to talk about what he’d been through in Sangin. It half amazes him now that they lasted as long as they did. They haven’t talked since. When the phone doesn’t ring, it’s Marilyn.

“No, it’s good, Daniela.”

Velasquez sets down two more drinks. “On us.”

Gale asks him about the last time he saw Bennet Tarlow.

“The week before he was killed,” says Velasquez. “He had dinner in one of the booths. He preferred the bar to the dining room. Two men with him. Kevin Elder and Kyle McNab of PacWest Mining.”

“Who picked up the check?” asks Mendez.

“McNab. He was pissed off about something. Elder trying to smooth him over. Don’t ask me what.”

“Is McNab a regular?”

“I’ve seen him half a dozen times in the last year. Never, before that.”

“So, what’s cooking with the Tarlow Company and PacWest Mining?” asks Mendez.

Velasquez shrugs. “The Tarlow Company works decades ahead, on three continents. Makes my head spin, all the things they build. I just get bits and pieces of it in here.”

He moves down the line, takes an order from two well-dressed women, midforties, fresh in from Santa Fe, Gale guesses. Lots of suede and turquoise, alert to each other but more alert to the people at the bar.

A few minutes later, the bartender is back.

“Had you seen Bennet Tarlow with any new players recently, except the Tesla guys?” asks Gale.

“New faces, always,” says Velasquez.

“Any of them surprise you? Unusual or out of place?” asks Mendez.

“The USC Engineering Club. Very Bennet to bring them in, wine and dine them, let them pick his brain, give them career advice. Starstruck kids.”

“How did Bennet Tarlow II and III get along?” asks Gale.

Velasquez gives him a sharp look. “Not for me to guess. I hear rumors but I don’t see them together here. Not often.”

“Let’s have a rumor or two,” says Mendez.

Velasquez goes down the bar to welcome a young tech titan and his wife, Oscar and Nora Samuelson. Gale sees them often on the PBS Inside OC weeknight show. The Samuelson Foundation is a sponsor. Oscar wears a brown, Italian-cut suit and a narrow green tie; Nora a sleek green suit that compliments her short red hair.

The bartender leans in for some direct conversation. Laughter and a comment from Nora, then more laughter. Gale puts them in their late thirties, Daniela’s age. The glow of prosperity is upon them. He watches her size them up with her hard dark eyes.

Velasquez makes and serves the power couple their drinks. Gale wonders what he makes in tips for a night. A smiling man, arms wide, comes up on Oscar from behind, claps his hand on Oscar’s shoulder. Gale recognizes him as the owner of the much-maligned Los Angeles Angels, formerly the Anaheim Angels.

Then the bartender is back.

“Okay, the basic plot is, Tarlow III loved the homes he built and doesn’t cut corners,” Velasquez says. “But his father prefers the office towers and warehouses — the monsters, the ‘fulfillment centers’ — out in the Inland Empire. Most of which — again, rumors — Bennet Tarlow II lowballs on cost and highballs on rents. The Tarlow Company owns those towers and commercial centers outright. But the homes that III loved to build, Tarlow Company does not own. They get sold, right? Home ownership. American dream. So, it was Commercial Hardball II versus Softy Home Builder III. These are rumors a bartender picks up, but from what I overhear in my bar, they’re right on. I hope I’ve helped you. I hope you find whoever shot Bennet. I liked him. He was one of the good guys. It’s about to get busy in here. So excuse me, the man who gave the greatest player in the history of baseball to his crosstown rivals needs another drink.”

“Just a couple of long shots,” says Gale.

“Fire away.”

“A white Econoline van. Older and beat up. Rust on the body, down low along the wheel wells.”

Velasquez parts his hands and shakes his head. “Won’t find anything like that in our lot.”

Gale shows Patti DiMeo’s picture on the Lido Estates web page.

Another headshake.

“One more round, and the bill,” Gale says. “And thank you.”

“Coffee here,” says Mendez.

Velasquez gives her a minor smile, raps his knuckles gently on the bar top, and moves away.

Mendez gives Gale a look. “Well,” she says. “End of day one, partner. We should be having a drink. Meet at Tarlow’s home tomorrow morning? I’ve got some family things later.”

“Me, too.”

She raises her eyebrows hopefully.

“Tarlow has a cottage in Laguna and a mansion in Newport,” says Gale. “Gets most of his mail in Laguna, so we’ll start there. We have to know where he left from, bound for Caspers that night. To meet up with his companion in the white van. Or, maybe following him.”

“Walk backwards, starting at the crime scene,” says Mendez. “Just like they taught us in homicide school. Maybe we’ll find a helpful neighbor. Or find his calendar.”

“That would be nice,” says Gale.

“It’s probably on his phone,” she says.

“In the bottom of Irvine Lake or the Pacific.”