We set out for the outlets at nine a.m.
Taking the Sevillebecause “you’ve got leather seats.”
Beautiful day, sixty-five, sunny—if you had nothing on your mind you couldpretend California was Eden.
Milo said, “Let’s do the scenic route.”
That meant Sunset to the coast highway and north through Malibu. When I approached Kanan Dume Road, I lifted my foot fromthe gas pedal.
“Keep going.” Slouching, but his eyes had fixed on the odometer. Imaginingthe trip from a killer’s perspective.
At Mulholland Highwaywe crossed over the Ventura County line. Sped pastthe beach house I’d rented with Robin years ago. The 8:15 call I’d walked outon last night had been from her. No message other than to phone. I’d tried. Nothome.
The road compressed to two lanes and continued through miles ofcliff-bordered state parkland and oceanfront campgrounds. At Sycamore Creek,the hills were pillowed by wet-year vegetation. Lupine and poppies and cactusplayed on the land-side. To the west was crashing Pacific and milkshakebreakers. I spotted dolphins leaping twenty yards offshore.
“Glorious.”
Milo said, “All that green stuff, when thefires take hold it’s a barbecue. Remember a few years ago when this wascharcoal?”
“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 anddormant. U-pick sheds and produce stands were shuttered for the off season.Combines and other metal monsters perched out past the furrows, awaiting thesignal to chew and churn and inseminate. At Camarillo’s western edge, a southerly cruiseon Factory Stores Drive led us to a peach-pink village of commerce.
A hundred twenty stores divided into north and south sections. Barneys NewYork 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 upto us. “Can I help you?” He had sunken cheeks and mascaraed eyes, wore acologne full of citrus. The platinum soul patch under his lip right-angled witheach 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 thathung down his paunch.
The young man was still working on a smile when Miloflashed the badge. Off to one side a pair of Persian saleswomen looked us overand spoke in low tones.
“Police?”
“We’re here about a theft that occurred four days ago. A customer got herpurse stolen.”
“Sure. Ms. Wasserman.”
“She’s a regular?”
“Every month like clockwork. I find her purse for her all the time. Thistime I guess it really did get stolen.”
“Absentminded lady?”
“I’ll say,” said the young man. “They’re beautiful pieces, you’d thinkshe’d…I don’t want to gossip, she’s a nice lady. This time it was a snakeskinBadge-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 andshe 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 soI’m always noticing details. The Badge was sweet. Anaconda, thisyou-better-notice-me pattern, the dye job was so good you could almost think asnake 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 pileof clothes? This time she claimed she last saw it over there.” Pointing to adisplay counter in the middle of the store. Shiny things arrayed neatly underglass. 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 theopen, you’d think someone would’ve noticed, what with it being so gorgeous. Andeveryone 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 saleand was deep-deep-discounted. The company advertised, plus preferred customersget 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 sowe’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 dressingroom. 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 dome a favor and look at these photos and tell me if any of these people were inthe store that day?”
“Suspects?” said Topher Lembell. “This is cool. Can I tell my friends aboutbeing 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 tocollege, come in weekends and on heavy days. Larissa and Christy are due in topick up their check, I could call and see if they can come earlier. And maybe Ican 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 fordetail.”
As Milo produced the photos, Topher Lembellstudied the wrinkled necktie and the wash-and-wear shirt beneath it. “By theway, we’ve still got some good deals on last season’s goods. Lots of loose,comfy stuff.”
Milo smiled and showed him DMV head-shotsof 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 kindof 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 theextra 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 rackof designer dresses.
One of them caught Milo’s eye and wavedtentatively.
He said, “Let’s see what your colleagues have to say. And if you could makethose 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 precisemeasure, all I charge is five percent over the cost of fabric, and I’ve gotsurplus rolls from Dormeuil and Holland & Sherry, some really cool Super100’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 aboutit…hello, ladies.”
 
Forty minutes later, we were parked near the food court at the northern edgeof the complex drinking iced tea from twenty-ounce cups.
Milo removed his straw, bent it intosegments, created a plastic tapeworm, pulled it tight.
His mood was low. No I.D.s on any of the photos by the staff, including thehistrionic Larissa and Christy who arrived giggling and continued to view theprocess as hilarious. Roommates Andy and Mo were interviewed by phone in Goleta. Same for FahrizaNourmand of Westlake Village. No one recalledanyone lurking near Angeline Wasserman’s person or purse.
No suspicious characters that day, though someone had boosted a package ofmen’s briefs.
Topher Lembell gave up Angeline Wasserman’s phone number, scrawling on theback 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’tthink God really cares, do you?”
Now, Milo copied Wasserman’s number intohis 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 feelingvindictive, ............