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?”