“Keep after them, Charles,” Barbara said. She turned to the maid who was unpacking her bags. “Run me a bath.”

—

LATE IN THE afternoon Chico Morales and Stockton Croft got off a flight at San Francisco International that had been somewhat less comfortable than the Grosvenor Gulfstream. They picked up their plain, underpowered rental car and drove to their blank-faced business hotel on an unfashionable block off California Street. There was no valet service or doorman, so they had to park on the street and carry their own luggage, after Croft had extracted a police placard from his briefcase and slipped it over a sun visor. He hoped the meter maid wouldn’t notice that the badge it displayed was from L.A.

“So, what’s your plan?” Morales asked.

“I don’t have a plan,” Croft replied.

“You always have a plan.”

“I have a dinner plan, but not a work plan—until tomorrow morning. I know a good restaurant that won’t shock our cashier when we turn in our expenses.”

“I place myself in your hands,” Morales said.

“Smart move.”

They dined at the bar at the Huntington Hotel, a block away from theirs, and failed to pick up anybody.

Barbara and Charles Grosvenor dined on their terrace, which had a sweeping view of San Francisco Bay.

“We’re having such beautiful weather,” Barbara said. “I thought I’d run up to Napa for a couple of days.” They had a house in the wine country outside St. Helena. “Would you like to come?”

“I really should spend the time at the dealership, my darling,” Charles replied. “It does need my attention after a week away. You go and enjoy yourself.”

—

BILLY BURNETT SAT in the restaurant at the Huntington Hotel and spotted the two Los Angeles detectives immediately as they came into the bar. Billy’s presence was partially screened by a potted plant, and anyway, even people who had met him rarely noticed him in such circumstances, since he was not a noticeable person, and in any case, he had selected a hairpiece and mustache from his makeup case, and he wore glasses he did not need.