“Deputies, get off the property,” says his son.
“Mr. Tarlow,” says Gale. “I was out at the Wildcoast property not long ago and I talked to one of the men digging the perc test. It seemed awfully soon in the process to be figuring septic or sewer. I mean, with neither the feds, the state, or the county having signed off on the development.”
“Of course it’s early,” says Tarlow II. “You want to build a city, you start early.”
“The shovel man said he was hoping to find crystals. Big crystals worth a lot of money.”
“There are thousands of different crystals found in nature,” says Tarlow.
“But what kind did he mean?”
Tarlow opens his hands in a palms-up, how-the-hell-would-I-know signal. “No idea, none at all. Again, Deputies, time for you to waddle off and write some tickets.”
“I take it that Empire Excavators works for you?”
“And a hundred other subcontractors in California alone.”
“Tell Hal Teller we need to talk to him,” says Gale.
He sees Davis and his ally drawing near, and the elder Tarlow reversing in his wheelchair to watch them approach.
“Detective Gale,” says Tarlow. “I want my son’s killer on death row. Or laid out on a morgue slab, if he resists your arrest.”
“We’d like to see that, too,” says Mendez.
Gale and Mendez huddle at Bamboo restaurant on Coast Highway in Corona del Mar.
The waiter brings them menus and takes their drink orders.
“I get where you were going with Camile, but I don’t see why,” says Gale.
“Because I believe Norris Kennedy.”
“But how does a thirty-nine-year-old stepmother lead us to the killer?” asks Gale.
“Your eyes are wide shut, Lew — Tarlow II.”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Why?” she asks.
“Because a father doesn’t kill his son. Neither does a mother.”
“But you saw his face when I asked if something had turned him against his wife and son. That hit him like an uppercut.”
“I did see that. I also saw his expression when he talked about his boy. He’s either grieving or a good actor.”
“He knows what Camile did,” says Daniela.
“Maybe,” says Gale. “But he still wouldn’t kill Ben. No more than you would kill Jesse. You’d die for him. I think you’re jumping to wrong conclusions.”
The waiter brings the iced teas, extra mint for Mendez.
“That’s all for us,” she says to him, handing back the menus.
“Listen to me, Lew. The father could have helped set the stage indirectly. Or simply did nothing to protect his son — exactly as you said back there. He finally snapped after thirty years. Allowed Camile’s betrayal and the damage to his son finally carry him away. Folded them into a simple business disagreement. Looked the other way.”
“I see Tarlow Company,” says Gale. “Not the Tarlow family.”
“Boardroom coconspirators?” asks Mendez.
“I like it. Why not?”
Mendez looks at him in differing silence, her phone suddenly throbbing on the tabletop. She takes it up and taps the screen with slender, black-polished fingernails.
Frowns, taps again, and sets it down.
“Sorry,” she says.
“Jesse?”
“I track him through TeenShield.”
“Mutual agreement or secret?”
“Secret Agent Dani. Good news: He’s where he’s supposed to be at this moment.”
“How’s the bossy girlfriend working out?”
“I wish she’d go away. Jesse doesn’t.”
“How does Camile know of him?” asks Gale.
“Her ‘sources,’ apparently.”
“Did her knowing about Jesse surprise you?”
“God, yes. It pissed me off, then it kind of scared me.”
“Contacts in our own department?”
“So she says.”
“The Orange County Diocese?”
“I’ve never gone to Mass in Orange County.”
“Azusa?”
Her eyes flicker with menace. “Long ago, Lew. We’re partners, and I like you, but don’t barge in.”
He takes a sip of the tea. “I thought you handled it well. You were calm but you didn’t back down or heat up. Whatever buttons Camile was trying to push, she didn’t faze you.”
“I draw a line at Jesse. And a line around him. He’s safe there and nothing can touch him.”
“That’s good, Daniela. You should do that.”
“I love him so much, Lew. He is so very alone.”
“What does Camile want from you?” asks Gale.
“I don’t know. It infuriates me to be investigated. Especially by an immoral billionaire who doesn’t seem to be grieving the death of her stepson. Using people in our department.”
“We’ve got four thousand eyes and ears,” says Gale. “Some of them know you, or know of you. And Jesse. Tarlow Company’s PAC helped elect Sheriff Kersey, so, favors done and returned.”
The waiter brings the check, and Mendez takes it.
“I don’t see Amanda Cho.”
The waiter looks at Gale with placid suspicion.
“She doesn’t work here anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Didn’t say. Just stopped coming in. Didn’t return calls. People get better jobs and leave with no notice.”
“When did this happen?”
A shrug.
Gale holds up a finger, gets out his phone, and finds Vernon Jeffs’s recent State of California mug shot.
Holds it up to the waiter, who nods without hesitation.
“He was here three days ago.”
“Was Amanda here when he came in?”
“She left through the kitchen door, and that was the last time we saw her.”
“Did he follow her out?”
“He had lunch and left.”
“Did you wait on him?”
“He had two lunches, three beers. Big man.”
No answer on Amanda’s phone, but Gale leaves a voicemail.
No answer on Jeffs’s phone either, nor at the home number of the Huntington Beach home he shares with Mindy Jeffs.
Gale and Mendez wait for the Bear Cave to open at two, when the manager says Jeffs and Mindy are on a two-week ride on their bikes.
Don’t ask me where, he says: no idea.
Now, parked in the quivering shade of the queen palms across the street from the Jeffs house — on a hunch that Vern and Mindy have gone to the mattresses and not on a well-earned vacation — Gale and Mendez lean against Gale’s white SUV.
Gale takes in the warm, salty, oil-rich air of Surf City, watches the oil pump rise and fall, the oblong joint keeping time.
Wordless minutes pass.
Then, “This is when I wish I still smoked,” says Mendez.
“Me, too.”
“I do get the feeling we could be here a long time.”
“I think they’re still in town,” says Gale. “They’ve either run off Amanda Cho, or reported her to ICE, or worse. Then there’s the murder to consider. If they run, they attract attention. Better to hide in plain sight.”
“I like your optimism, Lew.”
“In the war I learned to wait. Hour after hour. Waiting is an art form. It messes up your sense of time, but then you learn to use it. Hours of boredom, then wham, there he is. All those hours brought him to you. Lured him in. He couldn’t resist you.”
“I know exactly what you’re talking about,” says Mendez. “I teach small arms at the LA Academy, Saturday mornings, once a week. And I’m always trying to get them to slow down, control your breath, control your time. Make it yours. Wyatt Earp was right: Fast is good but slow is deadly. In a gunfight, you need to take your time in a hurry.”
“Sweet,” says Gale.
Which is when the rumbling farts of Harleys come up the street, Vernon Jeffs chugging toward them on his chopped black Softail, Mindy abreast of him on her Mary Kay pink Sportster.