The Saga of Misty: Con Game That Dogged Pet Owners

Mimi Vestal remembers well the spring day last year when her husband, John, went to a Newport Beach pet store to buy a pooper scooper for the cats’ box and came home instead with a Dalmatian puppy.

“John was always bringing other people’s animals in to say, ‘Isn’t he cute?’ ” she said. “He came in with this one in his arms and I asked, ‘Whose is he?’ He said, ‘She’s ours. I can’t take her back because she was on sale. What shall we call her?’

“I just glared at him and said, ‘Mistake,’ ” she recalled--and so the new puppy was named. For short, she would be called Misty.

The puppy, 4 months old, succeeded McBean, a Gordon setter mix the Vestals had reluctantly given to friends in rural Northern California when they decided to sell their Brentwood house and divide their time between a yardless Santa Monica condo and a beach house in Newport.

Over the next year, Misty stole their hearts--and she also became the object of the kind of scams pulled by con artists who know that the owners of lost dogs are easy marks.

In fact, the Los Angeles Police Department says the story of John, Mimi and Misty--about to unfold--is an all too familiar one to police bunco investigators.

Misty was a house dog, pampered and protected. She rode with John in the passenger seat of his car, her head on his shoulder. She played ball with Mimi in the underground parking garage at the condo. She went obediently to obedience classes.

“The prettiest Dalmatian I’ve ever seen,” John said, “very sweet, quiet and loving.” She was even civil to the Vestals’ two adopted Himalayan cats, Megan and Mischa.

Then, late on the afternoon of Feb. 26, John and Misty drove to the Nine O’Clock Players, a theater for children in Hollywood, to pick up Mimi, one of the volunteer actors opening that day in “Snow White.” Fearing that Misty might be a bit disruptive inside, John secured her by her woven fabric leash to a rail near the backstage entrance.

About 20 minutes later, one of the other women came running backstage to tell him--”Your leash has been burned and your dog is gone!”

As he tells the story, John holds up a leash remnant and says, “This was still burning when we were alerted.”

Immediately, the Vestals began a search. She went one way, he another. Friends in cars fanned out in the neighborhood. But there was no sign of Misty.

That night, the Vestals reported the stolen dog to police. The next day they placed an ad in The Times, promising a generous but unspecified cash reward, “no questions asked.” The ad started on a Saturday; on Monday the saga of John and Mimi and Misty began.

A call came from a man calling himself Tom, who claimed that Misty had been stolen by a “dognaper” and was confined in the thief’s backyard. The dognaper, Tom added, was away until mid-afternoon so, if he acted quickly, he could free the dog.

‘Just an Animal Lover’

“Tom was just an animal lover,” John said, remembering the tone of the conversation, “a sympathizer who would like to see this dog back with her family. He wanted no reward.” He asked only for $48 to cover the costs of adopting a Rottweiler to replace his daughter’s dog that had died.

Meeting With a Stranger

Tom was more than solicitous. He understood how tough it was to lose a pet. Oh, yes, and they should bring a leash and choke collar.

The Vestals agreed to meet Tom at the intersection of Vermont and Jefferson avenues, near USC, at 12:30.

“We were there on the nose,” John said, “and, sure enough, a clean-cut man hailed us down. He gave me a handshake and an embrace and he was very cordial to Mimi. He asked if he could get in the back seat and, foolishly, we allowed him to do so.”

Tom directed them around the block and into an alley and, explaining that he would have to take off in a hurry once he had retrieved their dog, he asked for the $48 in advance. He instructed John to leave his engine running, just in case of trouble.

The Vestals waited an hour. John explained: “We rationalized that this man had been seen. That was before we became wiser to the ways of the world. We couldn’t believe this nice man could be this nasty.”

The next day, John tried to telephone Tom at the number he had given them. No one there had heard of such a person.

Slightly sadder and wiser, the Vestals continued their search. They circulated about 150 flyers with Misty’s photograph and an appeal for return of the perro perdido (lost dog) in the largely Latino neighborhood where she had disappeared.

They extended the Times ad and placed classifieds in the Recycler and in La Opinion. “Please!” they appealed. “With the reward, you can buy your own dog.”

Meanwhile, John, a self-employed property manager, was networking with animal shelters countywide, visiting 11, calling an additional 38.

“I even went to the UCLA animal lab,” he said. He contacted Petfinders and paid its $65 fee; this turned up a black and white dog, but it was not a Dalmatian.

On a Monday two weeks after Misty was stolen, John said: “We had a call from a gentleman who identified himself as Don someone. He said he did not have the dog but he had found her and his, quote, partner had agreed to let her stay in the backyard of his Beverly Hills home.” Don was definitely interested in the reward money.

John smiled and added: “There was just one catch. I would have to go see his partner in county jail.” The partner was serving time, allegedly for a drunk driving conviction.

Before embarking on another wild goose chase, Vestal verified that such a man, Stephen R., was in jail. An inquiry by Vestal’s attorney turned up the information that Stephen R. was, in fact, not there on a DUI conviction but for receiving stolen goods. Still, Vestal thought, “Maybe this man could be the link. At least I knew I was dealing with the name of a real human being.”

Visited Jail

Accompanied by his nephew, Vestal paid a jail visit, spending 20 minutes with Stephen, who had been alerted by Don. Stephen told Vestal his teen-age son would be at the family’s Beverly Hills home after 2 p.m. and was authorized to release the dog.

Mimi said, “No, he didn’t want any reward money, but . . . .”

But-- he needed $40 for incidentals in jail, and would John mind giving it to him and subtracting it from his partner’s reward? Stephen R., in turn, gave Vestal his Beverly Hills phone number, a home address on North Roxbury Drive and a description of the house--”White, French, two stories, staffed by Italian servants.” For his $40, Vestal also got the phone number of Stephen R.’s office in West Los Angeles.

The home phone number, it turned out, was that of a bank. The office number was that of an attorney who knew of Stephen R., who had once asked the attorney to represent him in a stolen property case.

So, John said, “another dead-end street.”

Then the wee small hour phone calls began. Mimi fielded the first from a man with a low, sexy voice asking, “May I speak to Misty?”

“I said just a minute, you may speak to my husband,” Mimi said. “He hung up.”

Then came calls from “Suzy Retriever” and “Eileen Doberman,” both of whom were ready to put their psychic powers to work to find Misty. The price, one said, would be $2,000 or more.

Others, With High Fees

“I told them we weren’t hiring at that level,” John said. There were answering machine messages from “Barbara Dachshund” and “Kathy Terrier,” both available for a substantial fee.

There was a private detective who wanted $1,500 up front, plus $100 a day, to track down Misty.

And then there was “Claudia,” who was calling from West 83rd Street.

“She’d lassoed this Dalmatian in a neighbor’s yard,” John said. He asked for a phone number; when he called back a woman told him angrily, “I want that dog out of my yard.” Vestal allowed himself to be guardedly optimistic--”I thought, ‘This has to be something good.”’

But when he got to the house, his heart sank--”It was, in fact, a male Dalmatian.” Nevertheless, Claudia pleaded with him to take the dog off her hands. Protesting that he wanted his dog, he drove off. But he couldn’t bear the thought that Claudia might make good on her vow to put the dog back on the street, and he returned.

‘Ended Up Costing $50’

Then came the hard sell. The woman wanted to be reimbursed for the money she’d spent for dog food.

“I felt sorry for her,” Vestal said. “It ended up costing me $50.”

Back in Santa Monica, Mimi and John gave the dog a bath and a grooming, then took him to the West L.A. animal shelter.

“I didn’t want to get attached,” John said. “He was a very nice dog. He was cuddling up to me on the way home.” He made an agreement with the shelter that the dog would not be put to sleep.

Vestal placed “dog found” ads in The Times and the Evening Outlook and soon Sparky was reunited with his owner. The owner said his son, responding to an earlier call from Claudia, had gone to get his dog, but the woman had demanded $100 before turning him over--”She was just trying to make money out of our dog.”

The Scams Continued

There would be more disappointments. A call came from a man in Fountain Valley who identified himself as Don and said he had Misty. It seemed his girlfriend had witnessed a hit-and-run in Hollywood and had taken the injured dog to a vet.

He explained, “She has grown very attached to the dog, and doesn’t want to give her up.” Now, he didn’t want to ruin a relationship over a dog, but dogs weren’t allowed at the condo where they lived. . . .

Don had a plan: He would let the dog loose, recapture her and turn her over to Vestal. No, he wished no reward--only reimbursement for the $320 his girlfriend had spent for vet bills and licensing. He and John agreed to meet at a liquor store near an Alpha Beta in Fountain Valley that night. Vestal said he had no cash on hand; Don said a check would be OK.

Don gave John a physical description of himself; Vestal, in turn, described the car he would be driving. Vestal was to park in the lot in front of the liquor store and wait.

Not the Only Victim

But Vestal, impatient and eager, arrived early and approached a man inside the store, asking, “Is your name Don?” He was not Don, the man said; his name was Troy and he was a construction worker.

But when Vestal explained his mission, Troy said: “That’s odd. I’m looking for a guy about a golden retriever I’ve lost.” His story was almost identical; his appointment was 30 minutes earlier and the man who called him had given a different name.

Another store patron smiled and said, “The same thing happened at the same place last week.” Vestal still doesn’t know how Don hoped to pull off the ruse without producing the dogs.

(Not long afterward, Fountain Valley police arrested a man they identified as John Anthony Williams, 27, of New York, on suspicion of grand theft. Alerted by a West Los Angeles woman who had agreed to meet a stranger in a Fountain Valley parking lot where he was to turn over her lost dog in return for $300 cash reimbursement for dog care, police sent a plainclothes detective with her. Williams is the leading suspect in 17 similar frauds, each involving pet owners who advertised in The Times or the Orange County Register.)

“We’d about given up,” Vestal said. They let the newspaper ads expire. And then one Saturday a call came from a Seal Beach woman who said she’d seen a beautiful female Dalmatian at a Long Beach animal shelter.

So they were off to Long Beach.

“She wasn’t, of course, Misty,” Vestal said, “but close enough to be her sister. Except she had blue eyes.” Nor did she have Misty’s placid disposition. This dog was visibly upset by the presence of other animals; she was a barker.

Agreed to Take Her

And she was under a death sentence. If not adopted, she would be put to death the following Tuesday morning.

“I was really upset,” Vestal said. “I told them before they put the dog to sleep I’d take her as ours.” No one claimed her so, on Wednesday, he returned to the shelter to pick up his new dog.

“She immediately adopted me,” he said, but she growled at everyone else and took a questionably friendly nip at Mimi. She was also a cat chaser, which did not sit well with Megan and Mischa.

Vestal knew nothing of the dog’s background and, concerned that she might be vicious, decided reluctantly they could not keep her. Just then the Long Beach shelter called. The dog’s owners had come forth. The dog’s name was Nikki and she belonged to a family with four children.

A rendezvous was arranged. The owners gave Vestal a check for $49.49, the amount he had spent for the adoption fee, and asked that he hold it until they could cover it. He decided instead to tear it up.

“I doubt seriously we’ll ever get Misty back,” Vestal said. “She wasn’t street-wise at all.” He tries not to think about the dog horror stories, of people who steal dogs for food. Maybe, he reasons, one of the street people took the dog to try to keep warm, and for protection. He hopes whoever has her doesn’t realize her value (on sale, she was $350) but just loves her and will be good to her.

Mimi is not so optimistic, figuring “anybody who loves dogs is not going to steal her for pleasure. Anyone who loves dogs isn’t going to light a torch to a collar.”

Police Know the Story

The Vestals’ story is a familiar one to Los Angeles police.

Currently under investigation by the bunco section is a similar dognaping scheme. Said a spokesman, “These people prey on people who are a little gullible and emotional and will do anything to get their animal back.”

“Most of the bunco scams rely on gaining the other person’s confidence,” said Det. Chayo Reyes. “They realize these people are attached to the animal and they rely on that to get them hooked.”

He does not know how widespread dognaping for profit is, but he speculates that many victims make no report “simply because they’re embarrassed or ashamed to call us.”

(The proper procedure is to call their local police department and ask for the detectives who handle theft cases.)

Caller’s Ploy

In the case now under investigation, the con artist calls parties who have advertised the loss of a pet and, after expertly extracting the information about where and when the animal was lost, indicates that he works in that area, perhaps as a gardener, and that he recovered the animal about that time.

Typically, the caller will say that the dog is being kept at a friend’s home. And he will ask for money--usually less than $200--in addition to whatever reward money is being offered, to cover his out-of-pocket expenses for food, collar and possibly vet bills. A meeting is arranged.

“He wants his money up front,” before fetching the dog, Reyes said, “and he’s never seen again.”

His advice to potential victims: Don’t turn over any money without seeing the animal first, “no matter what they say. Anybody who says, ‘We’ve spent all this money and, oh God, we didn’t know it was your dog . . .’ and they’re coming up with all kinds of reasons why you can’t see the dog, I would be 85% sure that you’re being conned.

See the Animal First

“And I would not give any money if I saw a picture of my animal. I’d want to see the animal. It might be Sparky (in the photograph) but they have no intentions of returning Sparky to you. Maybe they’ve (sold) the dog to somebody else and now they’re going to have your money and that of the person they sold the dog to.”

John and Mimi Vestal are sadder, but wiser. He has become a volunteer at the West L.A. animal shelter, hoping to help others who have lost pets.

Nikki’s owners hope to breed her and have offered the Vestals the pick of the litter.

“Maybe,” Vestal said, “one day I’ll go by and pick up Nikki and take her to the beach for a day.”

Mimi added, “They said he has baby-sitting privileges.”