“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 definitely wasn’t enough.”

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.”