Toting my key card, I went out into the hall and sat down in one of the two chairs that flanked the credenza. On the off chance a call could be traced to my room, I picked up the house phone and asked the operator to connect me with Christian Satterfield.

When he picked up, I said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Satterfield, and welcome to the Rodeo-Wilshire Hotel.” I used my most cultured tone, smiling as I spoke, which I felt would lend warmth and sincerity to what was otherwise bullshit.

“Who’s this?”

Unruffled, I said, “This is Ms. Calloway in Guest Services. I’m sorry to disturb you, but it would appear that when you checked in, Mr. Putman neglected to enter your credit data in our computer system.”

“My room’s paid for.”

“Wonderful. Lovely. Do you have a card on file?”

“Someone else is paying. I just told you that.”

“Oh, I see now. You’re traveling with Ms. Bass.”

“Why is that any of your business?”

“I wonder if I might ask you to confirm your room number on the fourteenth floor. I show 1424.”

“You show wrong.”

“Well, I’m not sure what’s happened here. According to our records, we have you in 1424.”

I waited, hoping he’d correct me. For six seconds, we breathed in each other’s ears.

Then Christian Satterfield depressed the plunger, disconnecting us.

So much for that plan.

I didn’t dare roam the hotel for fear of running into the pair, so I did the next best thing, which was to post the Privacy Please sign on the outside of my door and nap for an hour. When I rose, refreshed, I brushed my teeth and took a shower. This necessitated my donning the only clean pair of underwear I’d brought. I took a few moments to wash out my step-ins, using the hotel shampoo. I rolled them in a towel to squeeze out excess moisture and hung them on the faucet in the bathtub. I can just about promise you Philip Marlowe was never as dainty as I.

At six, I pulled out a hotel note card and matching envelope from the desk drawer and slid both into the outside compartment of my shoulder bag. I added my key card, closed the door behind me, and took the stairs down to the lobby. I was operating on the premise that Christian and Kim would descend to the elegantly appointed bar to have drinks at cocktail hour. I sure as hell would. I returned to the gift shop and bought a magazine to use as a prop. Through the glass, I surveyed the foot traffic in the area outside the shop. No sign of them.

I crossed the lobby to the bar, which was open but dark inside except for a tasteful sconce or two and the lighted rows of liquor bottles behind the bar. No hostess, eight small tables, and a stretch of six leather booths along each side wall. I chose the first booth on the left and slid into the seat, keeping my back to the door. A line of mullioned windows that ran the length of the room afforded me a truncated view of the lobby. Not a perfect vantage point, but it would have to do. A waiter materialized and I asked for a glass of Chardonnay. He handed me a bifold drink menu in which six were listed. I chose the Cakebread, which seemed to meet with his approval, as well it should have at the price listed.