“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.