I tried the knob and the kitchen door swung open with the sort of creak reserved for horror movies. Technically speaking, this wasn’t breaking and entering since I hadn’t broken anything. I made a few “yoo-hoo” noises just to satisfy myself that I was the only one on the premises. I’d seen this same floor plan in countless California cottages. Kitchen, living room, dining area, and two bedrooms with a bathroom between. I moved down the hall to the living room and looked out the front window toward the house at 401, which was hard to my right. I couldn’t see much. I unlocked the dead bolt on the front door and stuck my head out. The front porch was small, surrounded on three sides by a half wall, bisected by a short flight of steps. White latticework trellises extended from the top of the low porch wall to the roofline. The vines that had originally climbed up the trellises were long since dead, and the brown leaves created a cozy retreat. The angle of the view was sharp, but it did encompass Geraldine Satterfield’s front door and part of the driveway to the left.

I closed the front door, which I left unlocked as I continued my walk-about. In the bathroom, I tried the taps and was delighted to find running water. I opened the toilet lid and discovered the little present left by the former tenant. I pushed the lever and was rewarded with a vigorous flushing. Despite the absence of toilet paper, a working commode is always an asset to a hard-boiled private eye.

I left by way of the back door and went out to the street. I strolled to the corner, where I turned right and returned to my car. I opened the trunk and hauled out a folding camp stool suitable for golf or tennis matches if I were the sort who attended sporting events. I opened the driver’s-side door, leaned across the seat, and flipped open the glove compartment. I removed my binoculars, locked the car, and then checked the parking signs to make sure the Honda wouldn’t be towed away while I was on the job.

Before I returned to the empty house, I went into the convenience store and picked up a turkey sandwich sealed in cellophane. The sell-by date wasn’t coming up for another two days, so I figured I was safe. I opened the glass-fronted refrigerated case and chose a bottle of lemon-flavored iced tea. I added a two-pack of one-ply toilet paper and paid for the items at the cash register in front.

I entered the empty house a second time by way of the back door, tested the toilet, which was still in good working order, then went out onto the front porch and assembled my temporary campsite. I opened the folding canvas stool and positioned it close to the trellis, set my bag of supper items to one side, and then trained my binoculars on the house at 401. I cursed myself when I realized I’d neglected to bring anything to read, which was probably just as well. This left me with no choice but to sit and stare through the X’s of the trellis until I spotted my subject or gave up my quest for the day. As time passed, to amuse myself, I divided the total hours on the job into the two hundred dollars I’d been paid. In calculating my hourly rate, I couldn’t help but notice a steep decline as time went on.

This is what I saw: a woman I took to be Pauline Fawbush fetched the mail from the box and then settled on the porch in the floral upholstered chair and read her People magazine. Pauline appeared to be in her late seventies, and I was guessing she was Geraldine’s mother and Christian’s grandmother. She was occupied for forty-five minutes, after which she returned to the house and came out moments later with her manicure kit. Oh, boy. I watched her paint her fingernails with a shade of polish called Love’s Flame, the label clearly visible through my binoculars.

At 5:00, a glossy black limousine appeared from my right, turned the corner onto Trace, and pulled into the Satterfield driveway. The driver was a middle-aged woman in a black pantsuit with a white dress shirt and a black bow tie. The rim on the license plate read PRESTIGE TRANSPORTATION SERVICES INC. From that, I surmised she was a driver for a limousine company, a guess I later verified through other sources.

She went into the house. I spotted her moments later in the kitchen, which was on the Dave Levine side of the street at the rear. Pauline joined her, and the two occupied themselves with preparing the evening meal. As they chopped at waist level, I couldn’t identify any of the foodstuffs. I was about to pass out from boredom. Not that carrots would have been exciting. I ate my sandwich, which was better than I had any reason to expect. My neck hurt, I was cold, my butt was sore, and I was cranky. My right leg had fallen asleep. My hourly rate continued to drop precipitously. Ninety-two cents an hour isn’t even close to minimum wage. I saw the porch light go on.

It was fully dark when I saw a fellow approach from the right on foot. He went into the house. In the murky light, I’d only caught a flash of him, but I recognized Christian Satterfield from his photograph. I waited another thirty minutes before I packed up my gear and decamped.