X

  Toting my key card, I went out into the hall and sat down in one of the two chairs that flanked the credenza. On the off chance a call could be traced to my room, I picked up the house phone and asked the operator to connect me with Christian Satterfield.

  When he picked up, I said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Satterfield, and welcome to the Rodeo-Wilshire Hotel.” I used my most cultured tone, smiling as I spoke, which I felt would lend warmth and sincerity to what was otherwise bullshit.

  “Who’s this?”

  Unruffled, I said, “This is Ms. Calloway in Guest Services. I’m sorry to disturb you, but it would appear that when you checked in, Mr. Putman neglected to enter your credit data in our computer system.”

  “My room’s paid for.”

  “Wonderful. Lovely. Do you have a card on file?”

  “Someone else is paying. I just told you that.”

  “Oh, I see now. You’re traveling with Ms. Bass.”

  “Why is that any of your business?”

  “I wonder if I might ask you to confirm your room number on the fourteenth floor. I show 1424.”

  “You show wrong.”

  “Well, I’m not sure what’s happened here. According to our records, we have you in 1424.”

  I waited, hoping he’d correct me. For six seconds, we breathed in each other’s ears.

  Then Christian Satterfield depressed the plunger, disconnecting us.

  So much for that plan.

  I didn’t dare roam the hotel for fear of running into the pair, so I did the next best thing, which was to post the Privacy Please sign on the outside of my door and nap for an hour. When I rose, refreshed, I brushed my teeth and took a shower. This necessitated my donning the only clean pair of underwear I’d brought. I took a few moments to wash out my step-ins, using the hotel shampoo. I rolled them in a towel to squeeze out excess moisture and hung them on the faucet in the bathtub. I can just about promise you Philip Marlowe was never as dainty as I.

  At six, I pulled out a hotel note card and matching envelope from the desk drawer and slid both into the outside compartment of my shoulder bag. I added my key card, closed the door behind me, and took the stairs down to the lobby. I was operating on the premise that Christian and Kim would descend to the elegantly appointed bar to have drinks at cocktail hour. I sure as hell would. I returned to the gift shop and bought a magazine to use as a prop. Through the glass, I surveyed the foot traffic in the area outside the shop. No sign of them.

  I crossed the lobby to the bar, which was open but dark inside except for a tasteful sconce or two and the lighted rows of liquor bottles behind the bar. No hostess, eight small tables, and a stretch of six leather booths along each side wall. I chose the first booth on the left and slid into the seat, keeping my back to the door. A line of mullioned windows that ran the length of the room afforded me a truncated view of the lobby. Not a perfect vantage point, but it would have to do. A waiter materialized and I asked for a glass of Chardonnay. He handed me a bifold drink menu in which six were listed. I chose the Cakebread, which seemed to meet with his approval, as well it should have at the price listed.

  Five minutes later he returned, bearing the wine bottle and an empty glass on a tray. He placed the glass on the table. He held the bottle so I could read the label and then poured half an inch for my approval. I tasted it, nodded, and he filled my glass with a flourish. He set down a bowl of cashews along with the bar tab, which he’d tucked in a leather folio with the hotel logo on the front. As he turned to go, I caught sight of Hallie Bettancourt in the doorway.

  I rested my hand lightly against the right side of my face. She took no notice of me. She paused, apparently searching for sight of Kim and Christian. I opened my magazine and leafed through the first twenty pages, which were all glossy advertisements for items I couldn’t afford. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Hallie cross to the bar. She removed her jacket and placed it over the back of a tall swivel stool and then took her seat. Her back was turned, which allowed me to breathe. I kept my focus on the magazine in front of me, knowing if I looked at her fully, she’d sense my gaze and turn to look at me.

  The bartender approached and she ordered a drink. Within four minutes, Kim and Christian appeared in the doorway, pausing as she had. When they spotted her, they crossed to the bar and took a stool on either side of her. Kim was wedged into the same tight black skirt, but she’d swapped her white blouse for a silver tunic, over which she wore a long black jacket. Christian looked exactly as he had earlier, except that he’d removed his white crew socks and now wore his deck shoes without.

  I was not crazy about this scenario. I didn’t dare leave for fear of calling attention to myself. Hiding in plain sight is a nerve-racking game. I sat where I was and willed myself invisible. Casually, I sipped my wine and made a leisurely meal of the salted cashews. I went ahead and signed the bar bill in case I’d need to depart in haste. I added a five-dollar tip to the eighteen-dollar glass of wine, which I charged to my room. The nuts were free as far as I could tell. Under ordinary circumstances, given my cheap nature and limited experience of the finer things in life, I’d have sat and fretted about all the money I was coughing up. On this occasion, I was focused on blending into my surroundings. In point of fact, I had money in the bank, so why sweat it?

  Over the next forty-five minutes, time crept by. Pretending to do something when you’re doing nothing is an art form in itself. Finally, I saw movement. Hallie gestured for the bill and the bartender slid the leather folio in her direction. She did a quick tabulation, added a tip, and then scribbled her name across the bottom of the check. When she got up, Christian helped her into her jacket. I reached to my left, searching in the depths of my shoulder bag for an important item that required all of my concentration. The three moved past me and ambled out of the bar. I leaned forward and strained, peering out the window to my left as the trio reached the doors that opened onto Wilshire Boulevard. Christian stood back and allowed the two women to walk out ahead of him before he followed.

  I waited a beat and eased out of the booth. The bartender was at the far end of the bar, and the waiter was taking an order from a couple across the room. I let my gaze return to the leather folio, still resting on the bar near Hallie’s now-empty stool. I could even see the white paper cash register receipt extending from the fold. I picked up my bill in its leather folio and slid out of the booth. I carried it with me, keeping my mind blank, as I moved to the bar. When I reached Hallie’s seat, I placed my bill on the bar and picked up hers.

  I opened it and let my gaze skim the receipt from top to bottom, where she’d neatly printed her name, Theodora Xanakis. In the line below, she’d scrawled her signature, shortening the Theodora to Teddy. According to the cash register tally, she’d charged two martinis, a cosmopolitan, one glass of champagne (shit, $24 for that?), and two Miller Lites to her room, which was 1825. The total was $134, including a tip in the same amount I’d left. Seemed stingy to me, but then I had a flash of insecurity wondering if I’d overpaid.

  I closed the folio and placed it on the bar beside mine, then strolled into the lobby. Glancing upward, I found myself looking at the third-floor loggia, still in shadow. I crossed to the registration desk.

  Todd Putman, my favorite hotel desk clerk, was still on duty, and he smiled at my approach. To my astonishment, he remembered me by name. “Good evening, Ms. Millhone. I hope you’re enjoying your stay.”

  “I am, thanks.” I leaned my elbows on the counter and lowered my voice. “I have a favor to ask.”

  “Certainly. How may I help?”

  “I just found out my friend Kim Bass is staying here and I’d like to surprise her with a bottle of champagne. I’m worried if I order it through room service, my name will appear on the bill.”

  “I can handle that for you. I take it you’d like to charge it to your room?”

  “I would. I’d al
so appreciate having it delivered in the next hour so she’ll find it waiting when she gets back from dinner. Is that something you can arrange?”

  “Absolutely. No problem at all. Do you have a label in mind?”

  “Actually, I don’t. What would you suggest?”

  He reached under the counter and presented me with the same wine list I’d seen in the bar, only his was opened to sparkling wines and champagnes by the bottle. I sincerely hoped my eyes didn’t bulge, cartoonlike, when I saw the prices. The least expensive “label” was $175.

  He was saying, “The Veuve Clicquot is popular, though my personal preference would be the Taittinger.”

  “Wonderful. Let’s do that,” I said. “You promise she won’t find out the gift is from me?”

  “You have my word. We’ll take care of it right away.”

  “One more question.” I pointed upward to the loggia balcony. “What am I looking at up there?”

  “The mezzanine, which has conference and banquet rooms. To reach the mezzanine, use one of the guest elevators. You’ll see the M before the numbered floors pick up.”

  “Thanks.”

  He was already on the phone as I moved away from the desk.

  Having seen Kim and Christian depart the hotel in Teddy Xanakis’s company, I had no qualms about taking the elevator to the fourteenth floor.

  Once in the corridor on fourteen, I paused at the credenza and selected a magazine called Beverly Hills Exclusive from those on display. I tucked it under one arm and then did another quick walk-about to verify that the freight elevators on this floor were located where I’d seen them on floors seven, eight, and nine. Sure enough, the Staff Only door opened onto an identical utility area. I closed the door and wandered back to a point in the corridor where I could see anyone who might pass. I leaned against the wall and leafed through my magazine.

  Another hotel guest, a gentleman, walked by and flicked a look at me.

  “Maid’s in my room,” I remarked.

  He nodded and smiled briefly. Maybe the same thing had happened to him.

  Ten minutes later, the Staff Only door opened and a room service waiter rolled a cart into the corridor. There was a crisp white cloth over the top and the bottle of Taittinger was nestled in a silver ice bucket, beaded with condensation. Also included were two champagne glasses, a nosegay of yellow roses in a crystal vase, and a cut-glass bowl of fresh strawberries with a side of whipped cream. Nice touch, that, and I would surely be charged accordingly. The waiter checked his order pad and proceeded to a room halfway down the hall. I remained where I was, but kept an eye on him.

  He knocked. No answer. He knocked a second time, and after a brief wait, he used his pass key to open the door. He reached down for the door stop that he used to keep the door ajar as he pushed the cart inside.

  I took a seat in one of the two comfy chairs provided on either side of the credenza. From my shoulder bag, I removed a pen and the hotel note card, scribbled “With our compliments” on the inside, and dashed off an illegible signature. I slipped the card into the matching envelope along with the business card for the guest services manager I’d collected from the registration desk.

  Two minutes later, the room service waiter crossed my field of vision, this time without his cart. I waited until I heard the Staff Only door open and close. Then I tiptoed to the main corridor and looked both ways. No one. I turned left and scampered the short distance to the room he’d just left, which turned out to be 1418. I slid the note under the door.

  That done, I had another piece of business to take care of. I went down to the lobby and out to the motor plaza. I fished out my valet parking ticket and passed it to the valet car parker, along with a five-dollar bill. When my car swept into view, I got in and headed for Wilshire Boulevard. Seven blocks later, I found a gas station and filled my tank. I drove back to the hotel motor plaza, where I left my car for the night. My clean underwear was still damp, so I set up the ironing board and iron and sizzled them dry.

  20

  As I had time on my hands, I amused myself by perusing the room service menu, which boasted no food item with a price of less than fifteen bucks. Well, coffee was ten, but that wasn’t saying much. I finally scarfed down the granola bar I’d bought earlier, chiding myself once again for my nutritional failings. At 9:00, armed with my paperback and my key card, I sallied forth. I took the elevator down to the mezzanine, where I got off and had a look around. The corridors were dimly lit, and I seemed to have the entire floor to myself. I peered over the balcony railing at the lobby below. While I couldn’t see the motor plaza entrance, the doors that opened onto Wilshire Boulevard were easily in view.

  Behind me, chairs were arranged in twos and threes outside the empty meeting rooms. I dragged one closer to the railing and sat down. I read my mystery novel, glancing up often for fear I’d miss Teddy, Kim, and Christian passing through the lobby. At 10:45, they returned, not drunk by any stretch, but relaxed and laughing. They paused just inside the revolving doors and there seemed to be a discussion of whether to share a nightcap. I was praying they would not. It was irksome enough that I’d had to hang around waiting as long as I had. Finally, they disappeared from sight, moving toward the lobby elevators.

  I scooted over to the elevators on the mezzanine, keeping a close eye on the call pattern. I saw elevator two descend from the fifth floor to the lobby and then watched it go up again, passing the eighth, ninth, and tenth floors and stopping finally on fourteen. I pictured Kim and Christian getting off. When the elevator continued, the numbers climbed as high as eighteen, where it paused again: Teddy Xanakis heading for 1825.

  I found the stairwell and climbed to the eighth floor. I sat in my room for an hour and a half. At midnight, I left my book behind, slid my key card into my jeans pocket, and ventured into the hall again. I took the stairs from eight up to fourteen, where I opened the stairwell door and peered into the corridor. That portion of the hallway was empty, but I heard two women chatting from a point around the corner and I withdrew.

  I climbed from the fourteenth floor to the eighteenth, where I found the corridor empty. All seemed to be quiet. I walked as far as the corner and ventured a peek. Teddy’s room was somewhere along the right-hand side past the transverse corridor where the elevators were located. Beyond that point was the utility hall where I’d seen the freight elevators. To reach her room, I was going to have to brave the journey with no detours, no cover, and no way to disguise my purpose.

  I made my mind a blank and began to walk. The wall-to-wall carpeting muffled my footsteps. When I reached Teddy’s room, I paused. On the knob, along with the Privacy Please sign, was a breakfast order card. I tilted my head against the door, listening. No sound. Then again, the hotel was sturdily constructed and the walls well-insulated. I looked at the bottom of the door, but there was no way to determine if the lights were on in her room. I lifted the breakfast menu from the knob and read her order. She’d circled French press coffee, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and the fresh fruit plate. Included was her last name, her room number, and the time she wanted breakfast delivered, which was between 8:00 and 8:15. I looped the order form back onto the doorknob.

  I went to the fourteenth floor, where I stuck my head into the corridor and listened again. When I determined I was alone, I proceeded to 1418, where I was happy to see Kim Bass had placed her breakfast order on her doorknob, ready to be picked up. Like Teddy, she’d requested room service between 8:00 and 8:15. Diet Pepsi and pancakes.

  I still had no idea if she and Christian were sharing a room. If so, she didn’t intend to feed him. The Pepsi and pancakes could have been his, but he seemed more like a bacon-and-eggs kind of guy. I took a step back and let my gaze travel the entire corridor, eyeballing the doorknobs. I walked as far as the corner and peered at the rooms on the short arm of the hall. No other breakfast orders.

  As I reversed my steps and headed
for the stairwell, a desk clerk emerged from the elevator with a sheaf of papers in hand. He turned into the corridor and proceeded down the hall just ahead of me. At certain designated rooms, he stooped and slid a paper under the door; 1418 was one. Had to be the final bill, which suggested Kim would be checking out. I followed him around the corner and watched him slip a copy under two other doors as well. He turned and walked back along the corridor, this time facing me. I smiled politely and murmured “Good evening” as I continued to the stairwell.

  As I passed room 1402, I spotted a plastic shoe bag that had been hung on the knob in anticipation of the complimentary shoe shine. The name handwritten across the bottom in marker was Satterfield. I opened the bag and verified the presence of the battered pair of deck shoes he’d been wearing earlier. I was tempted to steal them just for the mischief of it, but decided to behave myself.

  I trotted down the stairs to the eighth floor. Safely ensconced in my room, I called the front desk and said I’d be checking out in the morning and I’d appreciate having my bill sent up. Within twenty minutes, it came shooting under the door to me.

  • • •

  In anticipation of the trio’s departure, I got up at 7:00, threw my few belongings into my overnight bag, and called downstairs asking to have the Honda brought around. Bag in hand, I took the stairs down and paid my bill. Then I waited just outside in the glass-covered motor plaza until the parking valet pulled up in my car. I tucked my overnight bag in the trunk and handed him a ten-dollar bill to keep it parked close by until I needed it.

  As is true of most surveillance work, I spent more time avoiding discovery than I did acquiring information. In point of fact, none of my skulking about was productive until close to 10:00 A.M. I was, by then, sitting in the darkened hotel bar. A discreet signpost near the entranceway indicated that the hours were noon to midnight. I had slipped in, attracting no notice whatever, and settled in a booth with the lobby elevators in full view.