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.
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
