Gone (31 page)

At Mulholland Highway we crossed over the Ventura County line. Sped past the beach house I’d rented with Robin years ago. The 8:15 call I’d walked out on last night had been from her. No message other than to phone. I’d tried. Not home.

The road compressed to two lanes and continued through miles of cliff-bordered state parkland and oceanfront campgrounds. At Sycamore Creek, the hills were pillowed by wet-year vegetation. Lupine and poppies and cactus played on the land-side. To the west was crashing Pacific and milkshake breakers. I spotted dolphins leaping twenty yards offshore.

“Glorious.”

Milo said, “All that green stuff, when the fires take hold it’s a barbecue. Remember a few years ago when this was charcoal?”

“Good morning to you, too.”

An eastward turn on Las Posas Road took us through miles of vegetable fields. Green leafy rows in some of the acreage, the rest was brown and flat and dormant. U-pick sheds and produce stands were shuttered for the off season. Combines and other metal monsters perched out past the furrows, awaiting the signal to chew and churn and inseminate. At Camarillo’s western edge, a southerly cruise on Factory Stores Drive led us to a peach-pink village of commerce.

A hundred twenty stores divided into north and south sections. Barneys New York occupied the western tip of the southern wing, a compact, well-lit space, attractively laid out, staffed well, nearly empty.

We’d walked three steps when a spike-haired young man in all black came up to us. “Can I help you?” He had sunken cheeks and mascaraed eyes, wore a cologne full of citrus. The platinum soul patch under his lip right-angled with each syllable, like a tiny diving board.

Milo said, “You carry Stefano Ricci ties? The five-hundred-buck deals with the real gold thread?”

“No, sir, I’m afraid we—”

“Just kidding, friend.” Fingering the skinny, wrinkled polyester thing that hung down his paunch.

The young man was still working on a smile when Milo flashed the badge. Off to one side a pair of Persian saleswomen looked us over and spoke in low tones.

“Police?”

“We’re here about a theft that occurred four days ago. A customer got her purse stolen.”

“Sure. Ms. Wasserman.”

“She’s a regular?”

“Every month like clockwork. I find her purse for her all the time. This time I guess it really did get stolen.”

“Absentminded lady?”

“I’ll say,” said the young man. “They’re beautiful pieces, you’d think she’d… I don’t want to gossip, she’s a nice lady. This time it was a snakeskin Badge-Mish. She’s got Missoni and Cavallo, vintage Judith Leiber day bags, Hermès, Chanel.”

“You’d think,” said Milo.

“I’m not putting her down, she’s a really nice person. Perfect size zero and she tries to tip the staff even though it’s not allowed. Did you find it?”

“Not yet. Those other times, where did she leave them, Mr… .”

“Topher Lembell. I’m a designer so I’m always noticing details. The Badge was sweet. Anaconda, this you-better-notice-me pattern, the dye job was so good you could almost think a snake could really be mauve—”

“Where’s Ms. Wasserman tend to leave her purses?”

“The dressing room. That’s where I always find them. You know, under a pile of clothes? This time she claimed she last saw it over there.” Pointing to a display counter in the middle of the store. Shiny things arrayed neatly under glass. Nearby was a display of last season’s men’s linen suits in earth tones, canvas shoes, straw hats, fifty-dollar T-shirts.

Milo said, “You doubt that.”

“I guess she’d know,” said Topher Lembell. “Though if she left it out in the open, you’d think someone would’ve noticed, what with it being so gorgeous. And everyone knowing about Ms. Wasserman’s forgetfulness.”

“Maybe someone did,” said Milo.

“I meant
us,
Officer. We had a full staff that day because it was real busy, lots of stock came in, including stuff that didn’t move at the warehouse sale and was deep-deep-discounted. The company advertised, plus preferred customers get e-mails.”

“Like Ms. Wasserman.”

“She’s definitely preferred.”

“A busy day could make it harder to notice things,” said Milo.

“You’d think so but on super-heavy days we’re super-
careful.
So, actually, theft rates go down. It’s the medium days that are worse, enough people so we’re outnumbered, you turn your back and someone’s boosted something.”

“Still, Ms. Wasserman’s purse did get stolen.”

Topher Lembell pouted. “No one’s perfect. My bet’s still on the dressing room. She was in and out all morning, trying on stuff, tossing it on the floor. When she’s in that mode she can create a real mess —
don’t tell her I said that, okay? I’m one of her favorites. It’s like she uses me for a personal shopper.”

“Sealed lips,” said Milo. “Now would you do me a favor and look at these photos and tell me if any of these people were in the store that day?”

“Suspects?” said Topher Lembell. “This is cool. Can I tell my friends about being part of an investigation or is it a big top-secret deal?”

“Tell anyone you want. Is everyone here who was working that day?”

“We had five more people, including one of
their
friends from the Valley.” Eyeing the Persian women. “The others were Larissa, Christy, Andy, and Mo. They all go to college, come in weekends and on heavy days. Larissa and Christy are due in to pick up their check, I could call and see if they can come earlier. And maybe I can get Mo and Andy on the phone, they’re roomies.”

“Thanks for the help,” said Milo.

“Sure, let’s see those suspects. Like I said, I’ve got a great eye for detail.”

As Milo produced the photos, Topher Lembell studied the wrinkled necktie and the wash-and-wear shirt beneath it. “By the way, we’ve still got some good deals on last season’s goods. Lots of loose, comfy stuff.”

Milo smiled and showed him DMV head-shots of Nora Dowd and Dylan Meserve.

“He’s younger and cuter than her.”

The snaps of Cathy and Andy Gaidelas evoked, “Sorry, no. These two look kind of Wisconsin —
I grew up in Kenosha. Are they really criminals?”

“How about this one?”

Lembell studied Reynold Peaty’s arrest shot and stuck out his tongue. “Ugh. The moment
he
stepped inside, we’d be on the lookout. Uh-uh.”

Milo said, “On a busy day, despite the extra staff, couldn’t someone blend in with the crowd?”

“If it was me in charge, never. My eyes are like lasers. On the other hand,
some
people…” Another glance at the saleswomen, now idling silently near a rack of designer dresses.

One of them caught Milo’s eye and waved tentatively.

He said, “Let’s see what your colleagues have to say. And if you could make those calls to the temps right now, I’d appreciate it.”

“I’m on it,” said Topher Lembell, following along as we crossed the room. “By the way, I do custom couture. Men’s suits, jackets, pants, made to precise measure, all I charge is five percent over the cost of fabric, and I’ve got surplus rolls from Dormeuil and Holland & Sherry, some really cool Super 100’s. If you’re a wee bit hard to fit—”

“I’m harder after a big meal,” said Milo.

“No prob, I can create an expandable waistband with tons of stretch.”

“Hmm,” said Milo. “Let me think about it… hello, ladies.”

Forty minutes later, we were parked near the food court at the northern edge of the complex drinking iced tea from twenty-ounce cups.

Milo removed his straw, bent it into segments, created a plastic tapeworm, pulled it tight.

His mood was low. No I.D.s on any of the photos by the staff, including the histrionic Larissa and Christy who arrived giggling and continued to view the process as hilarious. Roommates Andy and Mo were interviewed by phone in Goleta. Same for Fahriza Nourmand of Westlake Village. No one recalled anyone lurking near Angeline Wasserman’s person or purse.

No suspicious characters that day, though someone had boosted a package of men’s briefs.

Topher Lembell gave up Angeline Wasserman’s phone number, scrawling on the back of his own baby-blue business card.

“Call me any time for a fitting but don’t tell anyone here about it. Technically, I’m not allowed to do my own thing on company time but I don’t think God really cares, do you?”

Now, Milo copied Wasserman’s number into his pad, crumpled the card, and tossed it in my ashtray.

I said, “No interest in custom couture?”

“For that I call Omar the Tentmaker.”

“How about Stefano Ricci? Five hundred bucks for a tie’s a bargain.”

“Rick,” he said. “His cravats cost more than my suits. When I’m feeling vindictive, I use it against him.”

He played with the straw, tried to rip the plastic, failed, and jammed it back through the lid of his drink. “Just before I came to your place, I got an I.D. on the phone booth used for the whispering crap. Let’s have a look, it ain’t exactly a trek.”

Gas station at Las Posas and Ventura, a five-minute drive.

Trucks and cars lined up at the pumps, hungry motorists streamed in and out of an adjacent Stop & Shop. The booth was off to the side, near the bathrooms. No police tape or indication anyone had dusted for prints.

I remarked on that and he said, “Ventura PD came by at six a.m., lifted a whole bunch of latents. Even with AFIS it’ll be a while before that’s untangled.”

We went into the food store where he showed the photos to the clerks. Head shakes, apathy. Back outside, he said, “Any ideas?”

“Whoever stole the purse was careful enough to use the cell for the hang-ups then switch to the pay phone for the whispering. Or, we’re talking two people working as a team. Either way, the caller stuck around in Camarillo, so how about checking over there?” I pointed across Ventura to a mass of other eateries.

“Sure, why not.”

We made it through six restaurants before he said, “Enough. Maybe the absentminded Ms. Wasserman will recognize someone.”

“You didn’t show any shots of Billy Dowd.”

“Couldn’t come up with any,” he said. “Didn’t figure it mattered ’cause I don’t see Billy making his way out here by himself.”

“Even if he managed to, the Barneys staff would’ve noticed him.”

“Not cool enough. Just like junior high.”

“Why’d you bother showing Peaty’s picture? He didn’t call Vasquez and tag himself as dangerous.”

“I wanted to see if he’s ever been out here. Looks like none of our parties of interest have been.”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “Angeline Wasserman is here every month, ‘like clockwork.’ The staff knew her as absentminded so maybe someone else did. Someone stylish enough to blend in, like Dylan Meserve.”

“No one recognized his picture, Alex.”

“Maybe he knows something about special effects.”

“He shops in disguise?”

“A performance,” I said. “That could be the whole point.”

I took the 101 back to the city, making good time as Milo called in for messages. He had to introduce himself three times to whoever answered at the West L.A. station, hung up cursing.

“New receptionist?”

“Idiot nephew of a city councilman, still doesn’t know who I am. For the last three days I’ve gotten no messages, which is fine, except when I’m actually trying to solve a case. Turns out all my slips ended up in someone else’s box —
a D named Sterling who’s out on vacation. Luckily it was all junk.”

He punched Angeline Wasserman’s number. Barely had time to recite his name before he was listening nonstop. Finally, he broke through and set up an appointment to meet in an hour.

“Design Center, she’s at a rug place, doing a ‘high-level multi-level Wilshire Corridor condo.’ The day she got ripped off she thinks some guy was checking her out in the outlet parking lot.”

“Who?”

“All I got was a guy in an SUV, she said she’d work on her recollection. Wanna hypnotize her?” He laughed. “She sounded excited.”

“Just like Topher the designer. You didn’t know you were in a glam profession.”

He showed his teeth to the rearview mirror, scraped an incisor. “Ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille. Time to scare small children and household pets.”

Manoosian Oriental Carpets was a cavernous space on the ground floor of the Design Center’s Blue Building, crammed with hundreds of hand-loomed treasures and smelling of dust and brown paper.

Angeline Wasserman stood in the center of the gallery’s main room, red-haired, cheerfully anorexic, facially tucked so many times her eyes had migrated, fishlike, toward the sides of her head. Lime-green shantung pants fit her stick legs like Saran around chicken bones. Her orange cashmere jacket would’ve flared if she had hips. Bouncing like a Slinky toy among hemp-bound rolls of rugs, she smiled orders at two young Hispanic guys unfurling a waist-high stack of 20 x 20 Sarouks.

As we approached her, she sang out, “I’ll do it!” and launched herself at the rugs. Tossing back dense flaps of woven wool, she passed instantaneous judgment on each. “No. No.
Definitely
no. Maybe. No. No. No on that one, too —
we’ve got to do better, Darius.”

The stocky, bearded fellow she addressed said, “How about some Kashans, Ms. W?”

“If they’re better than these.”

Darius waved to the young guys and they left.

Angeline Wasserman noticed us, inspected a few more piles, finished, and patted her hair and said, “Hello, police people.”

Milo thanked her for cooperating, showed her the photos.

Her index finger tapped. “No. No. No. No. No. So, tell me, how come LAPD’s involved when it happened in Ventura?”

“It might be related to an L.A. crime, ma’am.”

Wasserman’s piscine eyes glowed. “Some sort of big-time crime ring? Figures.”

“Why’s that?”

“Someone who recognizes a Badgley Mischka is clearly a pro.” She waved away the photos. “Think you’ll ever find my little beauty?”

“Hard to say.”

“In other words, no. Okay, that’s life, it was a year old, anyway. But should a miracle come down from above, the one thing I ask is that you only return it if it’s in perfect shape. If it’s not, just donate it to some police charity and let me know so I can write it off. Here today, gone tomorrow, right, Lieutenant?”