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.”