I tapped my pen against my lower lip. If Christian was taking the Airbus to LAX, why hadn’t his mother simply dropped him off and reported for work? Maybe her intent was to drive him the hundred-plus miles, in which case, why was she still sitting there with the engine running? I checked my rearview mirror.
On the street behind me, as though on cue, a beige VW Bug appeared, slowed, and turned right into the hotel drive. The Shores had provided a portico to shelter guests from the sort of inclement weather we hadn’t seen for years. I noted the woman at the wheel, returned my attention to my notes, and then did a double take.
I could have sworn I’d caught sight of Kim Bass, the receptionist at Montebello Luxury Properties. I leaned forward, hoping to bring her into focus as she got out of the car. Most of what I saw were the masses of hair and her bare, deeply tanned arms. She opened the rear car door and reached into the back seat for her luggage. The abundance of red hair, white silk blouse, short black skirt, trim hips. Her calves looked muscular above her very high black patent leather heels. Kim Bass in the flesh. She hauled out her overnight case and then turned to the parking valet, who handed her a ticket. She proceeded to the outside desk, heels clicking audibly on the pavement. She chatted with a fellow in uniform who was apparently in charge of the valet services. Much nodding and gesturing, with questions and answers that seemed to satisfy both. He handed her a receipt. She slid the stub into her purse, picked up her overnight bag, and crossed the street, moving in my direction.
Geraldine was already out of the limousine. I leaned down and busied myself with the floor mat, averting my face on the off chance Kim would turn to look. By the time I peered over the dashboard, Geraldine had opened the rear passenger-side door. Kim Bass handed her the overnight case and slipped into the backseat. I watched Geraldine pass the overnight case into the vehicle after her. She closed the car door and returned to the driver’s seat.
I turned the ignition key and waited briefly until the stretch limousine pulled into the street and took a slow and stately right-hand turn. The stoplight changed from red to green and the limousine turned left. I had time enough to ease into the street and turn left on Cabana before the light turned red again. There was sufficient traffic on Cabana that my Honda wasn’t conspicuous. Not that anyone would notice it in any event. I allowed a two-car margin, keeping a close watch on the limousine ahead. I concentrated on careful driving while my brain buzzed with this latest revelation. Christian Satterfield and Kim Bass? What was that about? If I’d expected to see him with anyone, it was his faux bio-mom: professional liar Hallie Bettancourt. Detective Nash had said just enough to allow me hope of running into her again.
What was Kim Bass doing in the car with him? As an employee of Montebello Luxury Properties, she’d certainly know the combination to the lockbox at the Clipper estate. She had to be the confederate who’d given Hallie access the night I met with her. I wondered what Kim thought when I appeared at the office, asking for the agent who represented the estate. Must have put her in a white-hot sweat. No wonder she’d abandoned her desk by the time I left.
Ahead of me, the limousine sailed on, passing the Santa Teresa Bird Refuge on our left. I saw the brake lights flash briefly as the vehicle approached the southbound freeway on-ramp and slowed in preparation for merging.
Shit.
While I’d flirted with the notion that Christian’s mom was driving him to the Los Angeles International Airport, I’d hoped I was wrong. I took another anxious peek at my gas gauge. I was probably okay for the drive, but the bladder issue was more pressing, so to speak. The limo cruised south at a leisurely pace. Most commercial drivers are scrupulous about traffic laws, and Geraldine was no exception. That’s because a ticket for a moving violation could result in her getting her ass fired.
We passed the off-ramps for Cottonwood, Perdido, Olvidado, and points beyond. I devoted thirty-two seconds to the idea of abandoning the pursuit, but I knew better. I pictured myself presenting Detective Nash with some startling revelation about where the pair was headed and what they were up to. Ego puffery will get you into trouble every time, but what else was I to do? It was 1:15. There were few cars on the road at this hour and the day was clear. No accidents. No construction delays. I reserved the right to cut out, turn around, and drive home. In the meantime, I kept my eyes pinned to the rear end of the stretch—close enough, but not too close.
From the outskirts of Santa Teresa to the San Fernando Valley, travel time was approximately sixty minutes. When the southbound 405 loomed into view, Geraldine eased into the right-hand lane and I followed suit. This route was still consistent with a trip to LAX, which suggested another set of problems. What if the pair boarded a domestic flight to who-knows-where? I was capable of impulse travel, but it ran contrary to my conservative nature. Determining where they were headed would be tricky enough. The purchase of same-day plane tickets would cost an arm and a leg, even assuming there were seats available. It would also be an extremely risky move if I had to slow-walk, single-file, onto an airplane where seated passengers had nothing better to do than watch those still traipsing down the aisle. While Christian didn’t know me by sight, Kim Bass did. If their flight was international, I had no hope of pursuing them.
I considered surrendering to the Zen of “living in the moment,” but I knew my bladder would be right there living in the moment with me and clamoring for relief. To distract myself, I thought about all the cusswords I knew and arranged them in alphabetical order.
Once we merged onto the southbound 405, traffic picked up. The freeway climbed the hill that crosses a stretch of the Santa Monica Mountains. To my relief, as we neared Sunset Boulevard, the limousine eased into the right lane again and exited. I was by now six cars back, but I could see the long black stretch slide through the green light and turn left onto Sunset. I got caught at the same light, and by the time I made the turn, the limo was nowhere in sight.
Sunset Boulevard, eastbound, rolls out in a series of blind curves, each concealing the fast-moving vehicles ahead. I had to take it on faith that the limousine would remain steady on its course. If Geraldine turned off on one of the intervening side streets, I could easily miss the maneuver altogether.
I sped up, keeping an eye out for the Beverly Hills Police. It was helpful that everyone else on Sunset was barreling along at the same merry clip. Within a mile, I caught sight of the limousine again. I closed the gap and stayed within a four-car range from that point on. Mansions and gated homes materialized on either side of Sunset. At the intersection of Sunset and Beverly Glen, Geraldine turned right. I tagged along as far as Wilshire Boulevard and turned left in concert with the limousine, still keeping a few cars back. We proceeded east and remained on Wilshire when it crossed Santa Monica Boulevard. The limousine passed the Rodeo-Wilshire Hotel, slowed, and turned right at the next corner.
I slowed and waited briefly before I eased forward and turned right as well. Ahead, I spotted the limousine doing a wide turn into a steel-and-glass-covered entrance that ran the width of the hotel. At the mouth of this avenue was a sign:
This is a private motor plaza
intended for guests of the Rodeo-Wilshire Hotel.
Use is restricted and enforced by municipal code.
No public access.
I pulled forward just far enough to see what was going on. A bellman in gray livery stepped forward, opened the rear door of the limousine, and offered Kim a hand as she emerged. Christian followed, carrying her overnight bag and a Dopp kit that I assumed contained his personal toiletries. The two disappeared into the lobby through the hotel’s revolving glass doors. The bellman shut the door to the limousine, and I watched as it pulled away and exited onto the street at the far end of the passage. Farewell, Geraldine. I wondered if she’d be coming back for them. Like a good mom, she’d dropped off the kids for a sleepover date.
I thought it best to park and proceed on foot until I
’d settled on a course of action. I found an available meter and parallel-parked my way into a spot. Four quarters, two dimes, and a nickel netted me twenty minutes. I double-timed it back to the hotel, passed the motor plaza, and proceeded to Wilshire Boulevard, where I hung a left and entered the hotel lobby through the main street entrance.
Natural light flooded through tall arched windows overlooking Wilshire on the east side and the motor plaza to the west. Classical music was audible at an almost subliminal level, as though a symphony orchestra was toiling away nearby. At the level of the third floor, I could see a dimly lighted loggia that circled the lobby.
Dead ahead, Kim Bass and Christian Satterfield waited in a short line at the registration desk. So far, neither seemed to sense they were being observed, but I didn’t want to push my luck. To my left, directly across from the hotel bar, I spotted a glass-enclosed gift shop that offered newspapers, magazines, books, and a smattering of health and beauty products. I went in, grateful for protective cover.
I picked up a paperback mystery and read the blurbs on the back while I watched through the window. The two approached the desk clerk in his navy blazer and pearl gray vest, signature attire for hotel employees not in livery. Kim was accustomed to interfacing with wealthy real estate clients, so she looked right at home, comfortable with the deference accorded guests in five-star hotels. There was a brief exchange and the desk clerk tapped on his keyboard and then checked his computer screen. He must have found her reservation because the two conferred. She handed over a credit card as the two continued to chat. The young man’s manner was polite, polished, and attentive. I watched Christian flick the occasional uneasy glance at his surroundings.
The lobby was elegantly furnished with antique chairs and love seats upholstered in pale green silk and arranged in conversational groupings. An indoor forest of potted palms and ficus trees dotted the vast space, effectively breaking the whole of it into smaller areas. The floral arrangements were oversize and dramatic, exotic blooms mixed with gilded branches in grand proportions.
While Christian bore no visible prison tattoos, he looked scruffy, unshaven, and out of place. His dark, shoulder-length hair had separated into strands, some of which he’d tucked behind his ears. His gray sweatshirt was pulled out of shape, his jeans bagged, and his deck shoes, which he wore with white crew socks, looked like something a bum might pick out of a garbage can. Surely he hadn’t robbed banks in such a state of dishevelment. In the black-and-white photograph taken in the courtroom while he was on the witness stand, he’d had an air of easy confidence. Now that was gone. Then again, USP Lompoc wasn’t known for its emphasis on charm and social etiquette. Whatever he’d learned there—and I was guessing it was plenty—tasteful dressing wasn’t part of the curriculum. He must have been unnerved by the power structure in play. Here class and courtesy dominated and aggression represented no coin at all.
In the gift shop, I moved to the counter and studied a display of candy bars and high-priced fatty snacks. I chose a granola bar and paid for it along with the paperback, barely netting change from my twenty-dollar bill. Meanwhile, at the registration desk, the desk clerk summoned a bellman and handed him a key card. The bellman in turn gestured for Kim and Christian to accompany him. The trio proceeded to a short corridor on the left where I could see a bank of elevators. The trio paused near the last of these, waiting for the doors to open. There was some incidental chitchat, the bellman probably asking if they’d stayed at the Rodeo-Wilshire on prior occasions. I left the shop and crossed the lobby to a spot from which I had a better view.
The second elevator was stationary on the twenty-third floor. As I watched, the number dropped to twenty-two, then twenty-one, while the first elevator moved from the eighth floor to the ninth. The numbers above the third elevator dropped from three to two to one in rapid succession, and then the doors opened. The threesome stepped in, and as soon as the doors closed again, I moved closer. I kept an eye on elevator three as the numbers climbed to the fourteenth floor and hung there. I pictured their exiting, though the stop might have been for another hotel guest. No way to know if the two had separate rooms on the fourteenth floor or if they were sharing. I’d have to find out because the answer to that question seemed loaded with significance. Until a scant two hours before, I’d had no idea the two were even acquainted. Now I was not only curious about their relationship, but puzzled about their connection to Hallie Bettancourt.
I spotted the ladies’ room in one corner of the lobby and took the blessed opportunity to avail myself of the facilities. On my return, I headed for the registration desk, noting that the same desk agent who’d assisted Kim and Christian was now free to assist me. His name, according to the tag he wore, was Todd Putman. Up close, he was fresh-faced and had perfect white teeth—always a plus in my book. I asked if a room was available, sheepishly confessing I had no reservation. I half expected an expression of fake regret, followed by a smug announcement that I was shit out of luck. Instead, young Putman couldn’t have been more accommodating. I requested a low floor, which I was given, no explanation required. My credit card was swiped and approved without incident. Once I had my key card in hand, he asked if I needed help with my luggage. I thanked him, but said I could handle it myself. I glanced down at the desk, where a series of business cards had been arranged on one of a line of small acrylic easels. On the first of these, I saw the name Bernard Trask, Guest Services Manager. I plucked one from the stack. “May I keep this?”
“Of course. If you need assistance, please feel free to contact Mr. Trask or anyone here at the desk. We’ll be happy to be of help.”
“Thanks.”
I exited the hotel through the Wilshire Boulevard entrance, scurried around the corner, and retrieved my car. The meter was expired and I’d narrowly missed the meter maid, who was five cars behind me with her chalk-laden tire marker. I shifted my perpetually packed overnight bag from the trunk, where I keep it, and moved it to the passenger seat, drove around the block, passed the entrance to the hotel, took the next right-hand turn, and pulled into the motor plaza.
The same bellman in livery who’d assisted Kim stepped forward and opened my car door. “Checking in?”
“I’m registered,” I said, holding up my key card, neatly tucked in the little folder with the hotel logo. Todd Putman had written my room number across the front. I grabbed my overnight bag and got out of the car.
The bellman handed me a parking receipt, which I slipped in my shoulder bag. I went into the lobby.
By now I was familiar with the expanses of polished marble flooring and the massive framed mirrors that reflected endless smoky images of those crossing the palace-size Oriental carpeting. I drank in the scent in the air, which was light and flowery. Unwilling to risk an elevator encounter with Kim or Christian, I found the stairwell and climbed the intervening flights to the eighth floor.
19
I emerged from the stairwell and did a quick walk-about on the eighth floor. In the transverse corridor where the elevators were located, there was a seating area. In the center was a fruitwood credenza crowned by a large mirror with an upholstered chair on either side. A house phone sat on the credenza along with two potted plants and a row of magazines.
I found room 812 and let myself in. The space was handsomely proportioned and beautifully decorated. The color scheme was neutral—tones of charcoal, beige, and pale gray with textured and small-print fabrics in repetitions of the same shades and hues. King-size bed, desk, large-screen television set, and two comfy reading chairs with a table between. Good lighting, of course. This was a far cry from my usual accommodations, which might best be described as the sort of place where protective footwear is advisable when crossing the room.
My windows overlooked the swimming pool two floors down. The chaise longues were unoccupied. I could see a bar and grill at one end, but it was shuttered.
The directory of hotel services was
sitting on the desk. I leafed through, noting that a hotel guest could order up just about anything, including massages, valet services, and babysitters. The indoor pool, the workout facility, and the spa were located on six. I went into the bathroom, which was done up in pale gray marble with thick white towels and an assortment of Acqua di Parma amenities. These people thought of everything. I could learn to live like this.
I pocketed my key card, left my room, and did a full tour of the eighth floor, noting the location of the ice and vending machines. I spotted a door marked STAFF ONLY that I couldn’t resist. Slipping through, I found myself in a short hallway that housed two freight elevators, a row of cleaning trolleys, and a room service cart waiting to be returned to the kitchen. A secondary door opened into a linen room, where clean sheets, towels, and an array of pillows were shelved in neat rows, along with bins of mini shampoos, conditioners, body lotions, and soaps. This area was strictly no-frills: bare concrete floors and walls painted the chipped, utilitarian gray of a prison set.
I moved back into the corridor, which was U-shaped with a stairwell at either end. The three guest elevators were in a transverse corridor midway between. I counted twenty-four rooms, some doubtless larger than others, a guess I later confirmed by consulting the fire map I found on the back of the closet door in my room. There was an X indicating my location with an arrow directing me to the stairs. I was warned not to use the elevators in case of fire, so I swore solemnly I would not. I went up to the ninth floor to assure myself that the layouts were identical and then checked the seventh floor as well.
When I returned to 812, I sat down at the desk, dialed an outside line, and left a message for Henry, summing up my unexpected journey to Beverly Hills. I told him I had no idea how long I’d be gone, but that I’d call him when I got home. After I hung up, I opened the desk drawer and found a leather binder that contained hotel stationery of two kinds: sheets of five-by-eight notepaper bearing the hotel logo, and five-by-four note cards, also neatly embossed with the hotel name and logo. There were six matching envelopes.