“Was there any follow-up?”

“Not that I’m aware. I filed a report, but nothing’s come of it. The police officer was nice about it. He said it was probably nothing to worry about and I should be sure to let him know if I heard from her, which I have not. What did you want with her?”

“Just making sure she’s okay, I guess.”

“No way to know how she is unless she calls me one of these days. I look for her picture in the fashion magazines, but I haven’t seen her yet. I always told her hard work was required if you wanted to be a success. I guess she’s finding that out.”

“I suppose she is,” I said. “Well, I thank you for your time. I appreciate your courtesy.”

“You’re entirely welcome.”

I made a note beside the number. I drew a line under her name. For some reason Pete had thought she was of interest, but I didn’t see a link.

The phone rang. I picked up the handset, saying, “Millhone Investigations.”

“Kinsey? Spencer Nash. I’ve got a plane to catch, but I thought I’d give you an update on your pal Satterfield. You have a sec?”

“Absolutely. What now?”

“I got word last night he was huddled with a gal in a bar off Dave Levine Street. Place called Lou’s. The two had their heads together and the talk was intense. No description of the woman, but it could have been your Hallie Bettancourt. Timing’s right if she found him on the basis of information you provided her.”

“Nice. I’d about given up on her.”

“Well, don’t give up yet, because there’s more. For the past twenty minutes, Satterfield’s been sitting in a limousine idling outside the Santa Teresa Shores Hotel. You know the area where the shuttle to LAX picks up?”

“Sure.”

“Well, the next run leaves at three twenty this afternoon. If she’s the one he’s waiting for, you’ve got time enough to get down here. Long shot, but I’m giving you the heads-up. You want to check it out, she’s yours.”

“Why are you suddenly so interested?”

“I mentioned your encounter with her to a pal in vice. Hallie he doesn’t care about, but he thinks Satterfield is promising. He likes the idea of grooming him as a confidential informant.”

“In what context?”

“Money laundering’s my guess. At Lompoc, he was tight with guys who run a gambling syndicate on the outside.”

“I won’t be stepping on toes?”

“Get results and I’ll take care of any flack you generate.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“Lobby at the Shores, which is where I sign off. I’d pursue this myself, but I’m out of here.”

“How long?”

“Two days max. I’ll call when I get back. Meantime, you interested?”

“I’m on it.”

“Great.” He clicked off.

I grabbed my shoulder bag, locked the office, scooted out to the Honda, and slid under the wheel. As I backed out of the drive, I glanced at the dashboard and realized I’d committed the two cardinal sins in the catechism of a private eye: