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.

I pulled forward just far enough to see what was going on. A bellman in gray livery stepped forward, opened the rear door of the limousine, and offered Kim a hand as she emerged. Christian followed, carrying her overnight bag and a Dopp kit that I assumed contained his personal toiletries. The two disappeared into the lobby through the hotel’s revolving glass doors. The bellman shut the door to the limousine, and I watched as it pulled away and exited onto the street at the far end of the passage. Farewell, Geraldine. I wondered if she’d be coming back for them. Like a good mom, she’d dropped off the kids for a sleepover date.

I thought it best to park and proceed on foot until I’d settled on a course of action. I found an available meter and parallel-parked my way into a spot. Four quarters, two dimes, and a nickel netted me twenty minutes. I double-timed it back to the hotel, passed the motor plaza, and proceeded to Wilshire Boulevard, where I hung a left and entered the hotel lobby through the main street entrance.

Natural light flooded through tall arched windows overlooking Wilshire on the east side and the motor plaza to the west. Classical music was audible at an almost subliminal level, as though a symphony orchestra was toiling away nearby. At the level of the third floor, I could see a dimly lighted loggia that circled the lobby.

Dead ahead, Kim Bass and Christian Satterfield waited in a short line at the registration desk. So far, neither seemed to sense they were being observed, but I didn’t want to push my luck. To my left, directly across from the hotel bar, I spotted a glass-enclosed gift shop that offered newspapers, magazines, books, and a smattering of health and beauty products. I went in, grateful for protective cover.