Connie Longellos nosed her Lexus to the street and turned south. Passing right by us but staring straight ahead.
“Pretty woman,” said Robin. “But kind of grim, from what I could see. If her husband did that to her, being pretty obviously isn’t enough.”
Fourteen minutes later, the BMW exited. Philip Suss sat high at the wheel, lips moving, smiling as he talked.
Robin said, “Nothing grim, there. Whoever he’s chatting with is making him happy.”
Suss headed south, too.
I waited awhile before following.
Robin said, “This isn’t one bit boring.”
When Milo and I had followed Connie Suss, she’d driven east on Ventura Boulevard to Sherman Oaks. Her husband took that same thoroughfare west, avoiding the freeway and slogging through turgid midday traffic. Easy to follow, as he nudged his way toward Encino’s business district. I stayed three car lengths behind, closed the gap occasionally before drifting back, caught glimpses of his still-moving mouth.
He remained on Ventura through Tarzana and crossed into Woodland Hills where he turned left on Canoga Avenue, left again on Celes Street, right onto Alhama Drive. Stopping in front of a yellow, fortiesera one-story cottage, he strode to the front door, rang the bell, was admitted.
Robin said, “Nice white linen shirt, tailored slacks, polished shoes, and his hair’s all shiny. He sure ain’t playing poker with the boys.”
“Nora strikes.”
“Never knew what you were missing, huh? Seriously, Alex, didn’t he look duded up to you? As in hot date? And check out the Mustang in the driveway. That’s a girl-car.”
Pale blue fastback, white interior. A bumper sticker bore what looked to be a Japanese character.
I copied down the tag numbers. Robin took a sheet from my pad and sketched the character.
Driving up the block, I turned around, set up a watch spot to the north. Cutting the engine because Phil Suss might not be interested in a quick drop-in.
Seconds later, he emerged, followed by a woman.
Then another.
Two tall, shapely females in their late twenties or early thirties, each crowned by a mane of long, thick, dark hair that loved the breeze.
Phil Suss walked arm in arm with both of them, laughing and sauntering toward his car.
I was too far to make out ethnicity but both women wore tiny, tight tops—one red, one black—ultraskinny jeans that worshipped forever legs, and spindly heels high enough to turn walking into a balancing act.
Phil Suss held the passenger door open and bent the seat forward to give one of the women access. As she crouched and squeezed herself into the back, he patted her butt. The other woman rolled her hips and did the same for his rear. He kissed her. She returned the favor.
Robin said, “Pretty
I waited until the BMW returned to Celes before following. Reached the intersection with Canoga just in time to spot Phil Suss speed south. After a quick right onto Dumetz, he drove less than a mile before merging onto Topanga. Fifteen minutes later, he veered onto Old Topanga Road and pulled into the gravel lot of a wood-sided restaurant.
Satori.
Robin said, “Well, look at this.”
She and I had eaten here a few times, when we had time to spare and romance on our minds. It had been a while. Too long?
The setup was a loose collection of leaf-sheltered patios and cozy, stone-floored dining rooms. Some of the outdoor areas offered views of Topanga Creek. I remembered the menu as organic minus the self-righteousness, nudges toward vegetarian but some animal protein, good wines, high prices.
Lovely, when you were with the right person and the bees weren’t swarming. The last time Robin and I had been here, a mama raccoon had tended to a litter of mewling pups creekside.
Phil Suss and his women entered under a wooden arch, arms around each other.
Robin and I watched from the Seville, close enough, now, to make out ethnicity. And prevailing mood.
Caucasian.
Happy verging on giddy.
Both women were gorgeous, with the toned voluptuousness of creatures who lived by their looks.
I thought of Tiara Grundy, wondered if she’d ever been here with Mark Suss.
Or either of his sons.
Robin said, “The sandwiches weren’t that big, let’s do lunch.”
“You must be mistaking me for Milo.”
“Being Milo has its advantages, hon. C’mon, let’s go in, I told you I’d provide cover. A single guy spying on them would attract attention. We’re in love, everyone will rejoice.”
She opened the passenger door, paused. “Do we need a plan?”
“Just be unobtrusive and learn what we can.”
“I can do unobtrusive,” she said. “We can hold hands, pretend there’s nothing on our mind but us.”
The restaurant was mostly empty, which worked to our advantage as the hostess consolidated her seating strategy.
Escorting us to a pine-shrouded patio, she led us to a table that offered privacy and a sweet view of babbling water.
Charming. But it put us too close to the rear booth where Phil Suss and the curvy brunettes had settled. Positioned our backs to the festive trio.
Robin said, “How about there?” and pointed to a less favored station with a clear frontal view of Suss’s party.
The hostess’s eyebrows climbed. “Whatever you prefer.”
“Thanks for the first one but that one’s our special table,” said Robin. “We were here on our last anniversary, happened to be driving by and decided to be spontaneous.”
The hostess smiled. “Spontaneous is good.”
Phil Suss ordered two iced teas, one that he drank, the other that he covered with a folded napkin. The women opted for flutes of champagne.
Giddy girls, with all the right moves: hair tosses, lip licks, strategic touches of Phil Suss’s shoulders and arms and cheek.
The one in the red top—a halter that exposed a flawless, velvety back—had dense, wavy black hair artfully streaked with bronze.
Black Top’s ironed-straight locks were bronze-highlighted ebony.
As if the two of them worked as a team, had coordinated a joint pheromone attack.
Both women displayed traces of augmentation at all the strategic spots: chest, eyelashes, cheekbones. I revised my age estimate: midthirties to forty.
Phil glowed, loving the attention.
Robin and I picked up our menus, hid behind the oversized, hemp-bound litany as we continued to sneak peeks.
Refills of champagne, girlish giggles.
Robin said, “Hmm, vegan duck. They didn’t have that before.”
“Didn’t know ducks were that philosophical.”
She laughed. We touched hands, ordered salads, continued to spy.
From the rapt expressions on the brunettes’ flawless faces, Phil Suss was the wittiest man on the planet.
Another man walked past us.
One of the women called out, “Baby!”
