Jonathan Kellerman - Gone

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?”

“Good attitude, ma’am.”

“My husband thinks I’m pathologically insouciant, but guess who looks forward to getting up in the morning and who doesn’t? Anyway, there wasn’t much cash in there, maybe eight, nine hundred dollars and I put a stop on the magic plastic.”

“Had anyone tried to use the cards?”

“Thank God, no. My AmEx Black’s limitless. The phone’s no big deal, either, it was time for an upgrade. Now, let me tell you about that guy who was checking me out. He was already there when I pulled into the lot, so he wasn’t stalking me or anything like that. What probably happened is he was casing the lot for a pigeon- that’s the right term, isn’t it?- and he saw me as a perfect little dove.”

“Because of the purse.”

“The purse, my clothes, my demeanor.” Bony hands traversed bony flanks. “I was dolled out, guys. Even when hunting le grande bargainne, I refuse to dress down.”

“How was this person checking you out?” said Milo.

“Looking at me. Right through his car window.”

“His window was rolled up?”

“All the way. And it was tinted, so I couldn’t get a good look. But I’m sure he had his eye on me.” Curled lashes danced. “I’m not flattering myself, Lieutenant. Believe me, he was looking.”

“What do you remember about him?”

“Caucasian. I couldn’t make out details but the way he was turned I had a full view of his face.” A red-nailed finger touched a collagen lip. “By Caucasian, I mean light skinned. I suppose he could’ve been a pale Latino or some kind of Asian. Not black, that I can tell you for sure.”

“He stayed in the car the whole time?”

“And continued to watch me. I just know he was following me with his eyes.”

“Was the engine idling?”

“Hmm…no, I don’t think so…no, definitely not.”

“Everything you saw was through the glass.”

“Yes, but it wasn’t just what I saw, it was what I felt. You know, that itchy tingle you get on the back of your neck when someone’s watching you?”

“Sure,” said Milo.

“I’m glad you understand because my husband doesn’t. He’s convinced I’m flattering myself.”

“Husbands,” said Milo, grinning.

Wasserman’s return smile tested the outer limits of her skeletal face.

“Could there have been more than one person in the car, Ms. Wasserman?”

“I suppose so, but the feeling I got was one person.”

“The feeling.”

“There was just a…solitary flavor to him.” She touched a concave abdomen. “I trust this. ”