Sami and Osbourn searched for a parking spot in the filled-to-capacity ramp garage at Fashion Valley Mall. It seemed as though it were Christmas Eve and half the city scrambled to finish their last-minute shopping. Sami had always believed that San Diego was immune to the ebb and flow of the economy. No matter how grim the economic forecast, San Diego seemed to thrive. Crowds of people mobbed every restaurant in the county, especially on Friday and Saturday evenings. A crowded parking lot at a shopping mall in the middle of the week seemed like proof positive that her theory was valid. San Diegans had deep pockets and they loved their upscale cars, posh homes, designer clothes, and gourmet restaurants.

After circling for ten minutes up and down the ramp garage, hoping to find someone piling shopping bags in their trunks, Osbourn spotted someone leaving, and eased the Taurus into a tight spot designated Compacts Only. Sami could barely squeeze out her door, which reminded her that it was time to tighten the belt and get back to her daily runs around Balboa Park.

Osbourn, watching Sami struggle to wiggle her hips out the door, stood there with a big grin painted across his face.

“One smart-alecky remark,” she warned, “and you’ll be walking a beat in South San Diego with the pit bulls and drug dealers.” She slammed the door and brushed off her slacks. “I know low people in high places.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

They weaved through the crowd and found the entrance to Saks Fifth Avenue. Osbourn had already contacted the store manager to set up a meeting with the salesperson.

“Who are we looking for?” Sami asked.

Osbourn referred to his notes. “The manager’s name is Katherine Levy and the salesperson is Robin Westcott.”

“Where are we meeting them?”

“Ms. Levy asked me to have her paged as soon as we arrived.”

Once inside, the detectives headed for the first available salesperson. Sami had never been in this store. It was way out of her league. From the impeccably polished black marble floors to the outrageous chandeliers, the place was unmistakably a playground for the affluent.

While Sami craned her neck, perusing the decadence of the store, wondering if she’d ever have enough money to buy even a pair of pantyhose here, Osbourn approached a salesperson and explained the situation. The salesperson pointed to a door on the other side of the store, and they found their way, through racks of leather and linen, to Levy’s office. Before they had a chance to knock, Katherine Levy opened the door and invited them inside the cramped and cluttered space. Already seated in the office was Robin Westcott, the salesperson who’d sold the perp the expensive cocktail dress.

“Thanks for meeting us on such short notice,” Sami said. “We appreciate your cooperation.”

“I hope we can help,” Levy said.

Sami opened a brown folder and handed Robin Westcott a copy of the composite sketch along with seventeen photographs. “I understand that Detective Diaz already spoke to you,” Sami said. “But at that time we didn’t have this drawing, or possible matches. Does the sketch or any of the seventeen photos look like the guy who bought the dress?”

Robin Westcott studied the sketch for at least a minute, cocking her head from left to right. Then she pointed to the sketch. “The features of his face are close, but not totally accurate. But what’s completely wrong is the hair. He wore a Chargers baseball cap but took it off a few times. And believe me, this guy was as clean-cut as they come. Hair parted on the side like a kid making his communion. He certainly didn’t have spiked hair.”

Sami remembered that Tiny, the bouncer from Henry’s Hideaway, had said that the perp was “trying to look gay,” whatever that meant. She could only assume at this juncture that in an effort to blend in with the eclectic crowd, one of the things the perp had done was to change his hairstyle to something more contemporary.

“You said that the features of his face are close,” Osbourn said. “How do they differ from the guy you saw?”

Robin looked at the sketch again. “First off, the guy’s chin was chiseled. In this sketch it’s not nearly as pronounced. Now I’m not talking about a chin like Jay Leno. More like an Armani model.”

Before Sami could ask for clarification, Katherine Levy handed Robin the Saks Fifth Avenue summer catalog and pointed to a particular model. “Is this what his chin was like, Robin?”

Robin vigorously nodded and handed the catalog to Sami. Now she could see exactly what Robin meant.

“Another thing that doesn’t seem quite right is the shape of his face,” Robin said. “It was more triangular than oval.” Robin nervously scratched her head. “I can’t say for sure, but I think his nose was a little more prominent, too. Not big, but…” She paused for a moment and stared at the wall. “Do you remember the actor, John Barrymore, the guy who played Sherlock Holmes?”

“Of course,” Sami said.

“That kind of nose.”

“Do any of the photographs look familiar?” Osbourn asked.

One by one, Robin flipped through the photos, all the while shaking her head.

“I can’t absolutely swear to it, but I don’t think that any of these guys is the one who bought the designer dress.”

Sami sat back in the chair and began reviewing the last forty-eight hours. She and her colleagues had examined thousands of photos and narrowed them down to seventeen possible suspects. But the likeness was based on the sketch that Tiny and the artist had come up with. It was perfectly understandable that Tiny got the hair wrong. How could he know that the perp parted it on the side? But he had gotten other, more important features wrong. Right now, a bunch of detectives were likely interviewing the wrong suspects.

“Robin, would you consider coming to the precinct and meeting with our sketch artist, so we can get a more accurate composite drawing?”

Robin glanced at Katherine Levy as if silently asking for her approval. Levy nodded.

“When would you like me to do this?”

“ASAP.”

“How about first thing in the morning? Around nine?”

“Perfect.” About to leave, Sami had to ask a question to ease her mind. “One more thing, Robin. Is there a reason why you didn’t agree to help us with a sketch when Detective Diaz met with you?”

Robin stared at the floor. “I was scared. When he asked me if I could, my brain went blank. I remembered certain things about the guy, but his face just wouldn’t come into focus. Now that I see this sketch, my memory is starting to come back.”

“But now you can remember what he looks like?”

“Yes.”

Sami gave Robin Westcott directions to the main precinct. “Thanks for all your help. We appreciate you talking to us.” She handed both of the women a business card and glanced at Osbourn. He got the hint and handed each of them his business card as well.

“So what do you think?” Osbourn asked.

The two detectives headed for Saks’s front door.

“Basically, if I can be blunt, I think we’re temporarily screwed.”

“My thought exactly,” Osbourn agreed.

“I thought Tiny was a reliable source, but you can never be sure.”

Like a gentleman, Osbourn opened the door for Sami and they headed for their car.

“All things considered,” Sami said, “it seems that Robin has a more credible snapshot of what our guy looks like. As a bouncer at the front door of a busy bar, Tiny must look at a couple hundred faces and IDs every night. And how long does he see each of them as he screens them at the front door? Maybe ten seconds. Not to mention the limited lighting. But Robin spent some time with our guy. Talking. Listening. And looking at his face under bright lights. Stands to reason that she would have a more reliable memory.”

“Right now,” Osbourn said. “There are a whole lot of detectives on a wild goose chase.”

“Don’t say anything to the captain or anyone else for that matter until we get this sorted out.”

“I won’t breathe a word of it.”

“If the mayor finds out, she’s going to have a shit-fit. And you and I will be eating army-surplus peanut butter.”

“What now?” Osbourn asked.

“Back to the drawing board.”