I returned to the description of the neck lesion. “ ‘Surface exploration.’ Playing around with the vein?”
“Maybe a special type of play,” said Milo. “Yee wouldn’t put it in writing but he said the cut reminded him of what an embalmer might do at the start of a body prep. The location was exactly what you’d choose if you wanted to expose the jugular and the carotid artery for drainage. After that, you spread the wound to expose the vessels and insert cannulas in both of ’em. Blood drains out of the vein while preservative’s pumped into the artery.”
“But that didn’t happen here,” I said.
“No, only a scratch on the vein.”
“A would-be embalmer who lost his nerve?”
“Or changed his mind. Or lacked the equipment and knowledge to follow through. Yee said there was an ‘immature’ quality to the murder. The neck stuff and the chest lacerations he called dinky and ambivalent. He wouldn’t put that in writing, either. Said it was for a shrink to decide.”
He extended a palm.
I said, “Better find yourself a decisive shrink.”
“Fear of commitment?”
“So I’ve been told.”
He laughed and drank and ate. “Anyway, that’s the extent of the weird stuff. There was no sexual penetration or fooling with the genitalia or overt sadism. Not much blood loss either, most of it settled, and the lividity showed the body was on its back for a while.”
“Manual strangulation,” I said. “Look in her eyes and choke the life out of her. It takes time. Maybe it’s enough to get you off.”
“Watching,” he said. “Peaty’s thing. With him and Billy being a couple of arrested-development losers— immature— I can see them fooling with a body but being afraid to dig too deep. Now you’re telling me ol’ Billy’s got a temper.”
“He does.”
“But?”
“But what?”
“You’re not convinced.”
“I don’t see Billy and Peaty being clever enough. More important, I don’t see Billy setting up Peaty with that call.”
“Maybe he’s not as stupid as he comes across. The real actor in the family.”
“Brad can obviously be fooled,” I said, “but he and Billy lived together so I doubt to that extent. Learn anything new about the stolen cell phone?”
He flipped the attaché case open, got his notepad. “Motorola V551, Cingular wireless account, registered to Ms. Angeline Wasserman, Bundy Drive, Brentwood. Interior designer, married to an investment banker. The phone was in her purse when it got stolen the day of the call— nine hours before. Ms. Wasserman was shopping, got distracted, turned her head, and poof. Her big concern was the whole identity theft thing. The purse, too— four-figure Badgley-something number.”
“Badgley Mischka.”
“Your brand?”
“I’ve known a few women.”
“Ha! Wanna guess where she was shopping?”
“Camarillo outlets,” I said.
“The Barneys outlet, specifically. Tomorrow, when it opens at ten, I’ll be there showing around pictures of Peaty and Billy, the Gaidelases, Nora and Meserve, Judge Crater, Amelia Earhart, anyone else you wanna suggest.”
“Nora and Meserve may be cavorting as we speak.” I told him about the travel brochures, my calls to the private jet outfits.
“Another subpoena called for, if I had grounds,” he said. “The paper for Ms. Wasserman’s cell came in fast because it’d been reported stolen but I’m still waiting on the phone booth trace. Hopefully I’ll have it in hand tonight.”
“Night owl judge?”
His smile was weary. “I’ve known a few jurists.”
I said, “Meserve’s hoax conviction won’t help with the passenger logs?”
“Misdemeanor offense pled down to community service? Not hardly. You’re liking him and Nora better now? Nor more Andy and Cathy as psychos?”
“Their leaving town puts them in my radar.”
“Nora and Mr. Snow Globe. He hid his own car in Brad’s treasured space, just like Brad assumed, left the globe there for a screw-you.”
“If he and Nora targeted Peaty, they could’ve learned about Peaty’s unregistered van. Left the second globe as a misdirection.”
“Rape kit too?”
“Why not?” I said. “Or it was Peaty’s. Everyone at the PlayHouse seems to have known about Peaty’s staring and Brad knew about Peaty’s arrest record, so it’s not a big stretch to assume Nora could’ve found out. If Nora and Dylan wanted a scapegoat, they had a perfect candidate.”
“Years of picking off the weak ones and then they just decide to leave for the tropics?”
“Been there, done it. Time to explore new vistas,” I suggested.
“Brad told you that Nora would have to come to him for serious dough.”
“Brad’s been wrong about lots of things.”
He took the coroner’s file back, leafed through it absently.
I said, “Dylan had Michaela bind him tight around the neck. He pretended to be dead so effectively it scared the hell out of her. She also said pain didn’t seem to be an issue for him.”
“The old psychopath numbness,” he said.
A young, black, cornrowed waitress came over and asked if we were okay.
Milo said, “Please wrap this to go, and I’ll try that brownie sundae.”
Closing the file. The waitress caught the Coroner label.
“You guys in TV?” she said. “C.S.I. or something like that?”
“Something like that,” said Milo.
Deft fingering of cornrows. Eyelid flutter. “I’m an actor.” Big smile. “Shock of shocks.”
“Really?” said Milo.
“Extremely really. I’ve done a ton of regional theater in Santa Cruz and San Diego— including the Old Globe, where I was a main fairy in Midsummer. I’ve also done improv at the Groundlings and a nonunion commercial in San Francisco, but you’ll never see that. It was for Amtrak and they never ran it.”
She pouted.
I said, “It happens.”
“It sure does. But, hey, it’s all good. I’ve only been in L.A. for a few months and an agent at Starlight is just about ready to sign me.”
“Good for you.”
“D’Mitra,” she said, extending her hand.
“Alex. This is Milo. He’s the boss.”
Milo glared at me, smiled at her. She sidled closer to him. “That’s a great name, Milo. Pleased to meet you. Can I leave you my name and number?”
Milo said, “Sure.”
“Cool. Thanks.” Leaning in, she rested a breast on his shoulder and scrawled on her order book. “I’ll bring your brownie sundae right now. Totally on the house.”
CHAPTER 32
We set out for the outlets at nine a.m.
Taking the Seville because “you’ve got leather seats.”
Beautiful day, sixty-five, sunny— if you had nothing on your mind you could pretend 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 from the gas pedal.
“Keep going.” Slouching, but his eyes had fixed on the odometer. Imagining the trip from a killer’s perspective.
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.”
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