Hard to Tell Good Guys From Bad When Crime Hits Home

I count myself as pretty savvy when it comes to taking a bite out of crime. I walk with a purpose. Wear my purse strap on the diagonal. Hermetically seal the house at night. And never, ever leave my car unlocked.

And, still, crime took a bite out of me.

Early last summer, on my way to some seaside exercise, I stopped for a walk-enhancing cup of coffee at the local espresso shop. Before driving the remaining few blocks to the beach, I locked my purse in the trunk.

That way, see, I wouldn’t have to do it at the beach. That way, see, millions of invisible criminal eyes watching my every move wouldn’t even know I had something worth stealing in my trunk. Am I smart or what?

As I pulled away from the curb, I noticed a man staring at me. Was he going to follow me? Nah. I was just being paranoid.

I found a parking spot at the beach and took off. I had nothing to weigh me down--my spare car key was tucked into the pocket of my running shoes. My key chain--carrying enough freight to pass for a janitor’s--was safely stowed in the purse.

About 45 minutes later, I returned to the car, and opened the trunk. Huh? Where was my purse? I closed the trunk in panic. I wanted to rub my eyes and start over. There was no damage to the lock. But there was also no purse.

I felt a little nutty as I ran around digging through trash cans. I was only carrying a few bucks, so maybe they’d just take the money and toss the rest. I mean, what was the point in hanging onto it? Credit cards can be canceled immediately. Ditto, checking accounts. Maybe there’s a scam to be pulled with blank checks and ID, but that wouldn’t come back to haunt me , since I was canceling accounts left and right.

Still, it was unsettling. The creep had gotten my address and all my keys, my mother’s house key, my father’s house key.

Shoot, even my best tube of Mac Viva Glam was gone!

And-- oh no --the cellular phone too--the slim little number my husband had given me for Christmas, the one I was furious with him for spending so much money on, the one I’d become positively addicted to, calling home from the freeway to let the baby-sitter know I’d be late. And, of course, the purse itself, a fancy birthday gift from my husband.

The pulse of the police, as you might assume, did not exactly quicken when I burst into the station.

The desk officer told me he’d heard that people can buy master keys for different makes of cars through mail-order companies that advertise in the back of magazines, and they just try different car locks until they find one that opens.

“How about taking prints?” I suggested.

How about getting a life, his expression seemed to say.

It cost about $300 to change the house and car locks. I was too ticked off to buy a new purse, so I dragged out an old one. As for the phone, I mourned it briefly, then decided this was God’s way of telling me not to work late. Or maybe God just wants to keep the baby-sitter guessing. Anyway, I got over it.

I was out about $1,000--coincidentally the same amount of the deductible on our property insurance.

Life went on.

Two weeks later, I came home from a brief trip to the Bay Area to find several messages on the phone machine. A couple who were crashing at a friend’s pad in Venice had found my purse stashed in some bushes almost a mile from where it was stolen.

Turned out they had spotted my purse in some bushes while walking near the Rose Cafe in Venice. I got a little nervous when they insisted on coming over instead of meeting me somewhere. But I needn’t have worried. They were just being full-service Good Samaritans.

What was the protocol here? Obviously, you offer some kind of reward, right? Before they arrived, I jotted a thank-you note, and enclosed two $20 bills, all that I had on me, in the envelope before sealing it. I thought it would be tacky to hand them the money. And this way, they’d have that rush of anticipation reserved for times when you know there’s cash in your future.

I opened the door. This slightly thrashed pair looked like they were plenty accustomed to, perhaps even in need of a good rush. But who cares? I could have kissed them in gratitude.

Almost everything was in the purse--keys, checkbook, credit cards--and yesssss --lipstick! All that was missing were the small red leather credit card holder in which I keep my driver’s license, and, alas, my little phone.

A week later, Santa Monica Place security called. They had discovered my little red wallet--with the license--in a trash can in the middle of the mall.

*

I had almost forgotten about the incident when an account executive at LA Cellular phoned last week. Someone had brought her a friend’s phone to activate. The friend--who works in a Superior Court (!)--bought it used from someone who “couldn’t remember” the four-digit security code. She became suspicious, discovered it had been reported stolen and tracked me down.

And the guy who bought my phone? Poor thing. He’s out a couple hundred bucks.

Maybe he should call the police.