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.