1. Never allow your car to get low on gas. I was looking at a third of a tank at best. Now I was in a hurry and had no time to top it off.

2. Never pass up a chance to pee.

I traveled surface streets. The Shores was on Cabana Boulevard across the street from the turnaround point on my usual morning jog. The location must have seemed perfect to tourists who flocked to our city in June and July, not realizing we’d be socked in by a marine layer that blocked the sun and chilled the summer air. The hotel itself had seen better days. Age and the sea damp had taken their toll, though the facility still played host to small conventions.

I hadn’t had a chance to tell Nash that Christian’s mother, Geraldine, worked for Prestige Transportation Services Inc. I had no doubt she was at the wheel of the limousine, decked out in her stern black suit, white shirt, and black bow tie. I couldn’t imagine why she’d ferried him to a bus stop unless it was a habit left over from his grade school days when his morning dawdling required her to load him in the car and drive him to prevent his being late.

I turned left at Cabana and followed the boulevard as it paralleled the beach. The entrance to the Shores was on a small street that ran behind the hotel. An adjacent parking lot allowed guests the use of valet services. A few hundred yards to the left, a passenger pickup area was designated for the airport shuttle that made the round-trip to Los Angeles eight times a day.

Across the street, the limousine was idling at a length of curb painted red, despite numerous posted signs that forbade parking, stopping, and loitering. One of the Shores’ minivans was parked directly behind the limousine in a spot designated for passenger loading and unloading. I pulled the Honda to the curb behind the minivan, which allowed me a modicum of cover while I kept the stretch in view. Rear and side windows were heavily tinted, creating the impression that someone famous was currently on board. On the street, people would turn and stare, wondering who it was. I saw the front driver’s-side window descend. The driver reached out to adjust the side-view mirror. In the convex oval, I saw a portion of Geraldine’s face reflected before she withdrew her arm and closed the window.

I considered scurrying into the hotel lobby in search of the ladies’ room, but worried the limousine would take off while I was gone. Instead, I unearthed my index cards and recorded the content of Detective Nash’s phone call and the bits of information I’d gleaned. I wondered who at the STPD hoped to cultivate Christian as a source. Cheney had worked vice once upon a time, but he was now assigned to homicide. Next time I saw him, I’d quiz him on the subject.

I tapped my pen against my lower lip. If Christian was taking the Airbus to LAX, why hadn’t his mother simply dropped him off and reported for work? Maybe her intent was to drive him the hundred-plus miles, in which case, why was she still sitting there with the engine running? I checked my rearview mirror.

On the street behind me, as though on cue, a beige VW Bug appeared, slowed, and turned right into the hotel drive. The Shores had provided a portico to shelter guests from the sort of inclement weather we hadn’t seen for years. I noted the woman at the wheel, returned my attention to my notes, and then did a double take.

I could have sworn I’d caught sight of Kim Bass, the receptionist at Montebello Luxury Properties. I leaned forward, hoping to bring her into focus as she got out of the car. Most of what I saw were the masses of hair and her bare, deeply tanned arms. She opened the rear car door and reached into the back seat for her luggage. The abundance of red hair, white silk blouse, short black skirt, trim hips. Her calves looked muscular above her very high black patent leather heels. Kim Bass in the flesh. She hauled out her overnight case and then turned to the parking valet, who handed her a ticket. She proceeded to the outside desk, heels clicking audibly on the pavement. She chatted with a fellow in uniform who was apparently in charge of the valet services. Much nodding and gesturing, with questions and answers that seemed to satisfy both. He handed her a receipt. She slid the stub into her purse, picked up her overnight bag, and crossed the street, moving in my direction.

Geraldine was already out of the limousine. I leaned down and busied myself with the floor mat, averting my face on the off chance Kim would turn to look. By the time I peered over the dashboard, Geraldine had opened the rear passenger-side door. Kim Bass handed her the overnight case and slipped into the backseat. I watched Geraldine pass the overnight case into the vehicle after her. She closed the car door and returned to the driver’s seat.

I turned the ignition key and waited briefly until the stretch limousine pulled into the street and took a slow and stately right-hand turn. The stoplight changed from red to green and the limousine turned left. I had time enough to ease into the street and turn left on Cabana before the light turned red again. There was sufficient traffic on Cabana that my Honda wasn’t conspicuous. Not that anyone would notice it in any event. I allowed a two-car margin, keeping a close watch on the limousine ahead. I concentrated on careful driving while my brain buzzed with this latest revelation. Christian Satterfield and Kim Bass? What was that about? If I’d expected to see him with anyone, it was his faux bio-mom: professional liar Hallie Bettancourt. Detective Nash had said just enough to allow me hope of running into her again.