I considered scurrying into the hotel lobby in search of the ladies’ room, but worried the limousine would take off while I was gone. Instead, I unearthed my index cards and recorded the content of Detective Nash’s phone call and the bits of information I’d gleaned. I wondered who at the STPD hoped to cultivate Christian as a source. Cheney had worked vice once upon a time, but he was now assigned to homicide. Next time I saw him, I’d quiz him on the subject.
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.