“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?”