Dietz smiled. "I understand that," he said pleasantly. "This is purely precautionary on our part. We don't anticipate any problems, but it's wise to tag a few bases just to ensure that everything goes smoothly."

Abbott said, "Of course."

Dietz was on his best behavior, casual, relaxed. He must have really needed this man's help.

Abbott's expression was bemused. He looked like the kind of man who'd use a cigarette holder and a small gold Dunhill. "How else can I help? I can make one of my security staff available."

"I don't think that'll be necessary, but thanks. We do have a California Fidelity employee, Vera Lipton, registered here for the night. I'd like to have her room number and the names of guests occupying the rooms on either side of her. Is that something you can do?"

Abbott considered the request. Under the smooth and easygoing manner, there was ice and flint. "I don't see why not." He excused himself and moved over to the front desk. After a short conversation with the desk clerk, he jotted a note in a small leather notebook he'd taken from his right pocket. He returned, tore the leaf off, and handed it to Dietz.

"You know either of these couples?" Dietz asked.

"I know both. The Clarks have stayed here many times. Mr. and Mrs. Thiederman happen to be my aunt and uncle."

Dietz tucked the paper away and shook Abbott's hand. "Thanks. We appreciate this."

"Happy to be of help," the man said.

We moved down a carpeted hallway to the right, following the room numbers in descending order. Dietz kept an eye on the corridor behind us, the ever-present hand on my elbow for leverage. At any unexpected occurrence, he had a modicum of control.

Vera's room was located in the same wing as the banquet room. "Did you set this up?" I asked him when I saw how close it was.

"I didn't want you hiking the length of the hotel, getting there and back." He knocked once. There was a pause. My guess was that Vera was peering through the tiny fish-eye porthole in the door. We heard a bolt turn, and there she was, squinting at us from behind the burglar chain. She was in a green silk kimono with a lot of cleavage visible where the fabric gaped in front.

She glanced down and pulled the yawning lapels together with one hand. "I kept the chain on. Wasn't that smart?"

Dietz said, "You're a peach, Vera. Now let us in."

She tilted her head, gazed angling down the hall. "How do I know somebody's not holding you at gunpoint?"

Dietz laughed. I looked at him quizzically. I'd only heard him laugh once. "Good point," he said.

I personally didn't think the point was that good, but nobody was asking me, right?

Vera closed the door so she could slide the chain off and then let us in. The room was enormous: king-size bed, king-size antique armoire housing a king-size television set. The dominant color was pale yellow: thick pale yellow carpet, wallpaper strewn with delicate white Japanese irises. The pattern of the wallpaper had been repeated in the polished cotton bedspread and matching polished cotton drapes, pulled back on brass rods. The sheers were closed, lights outside indicating that the room faced the entrance drive. The two upholstered chairs were done in pale green with white latticework cut on the diagonal. Through a doorway, I spied a bathroom that continued the color scheme: a vase of white silk flowers, fat yellow hand towels rolled up in a willow basket on the sink.

Vera had her personal effects on every conceivable surface: discarded clothing tossed on the bed, hanging clothes hooked on the closet door, which stood open to the room. There were cosmetics on the chest of drawers, hot rollers and a curling iron on the bathroom counter, a damp towel on the toilet seat. A suitcase open on the luggage rack revealed a frothy tumble of soft chiffon lingerie. A pair of panty hose had been flung on one of the upholstered chairs, sprawling there with the legs spread and the diamond-shaped cotton crotch looking like an arrow, pointing up. Dietz headed straight for the door to the adjoining room, making sure it was locked. Then he closed the drapes.

Vera crossed to the coffee table. She'd had a bottle of champagne delivered, resting in a frosted silver ice bucket with four champagne flutes on a tray. She picked the bottle up by the neck and began to loosen the foil. "Grab a seat. We can have a drink."

"Not for me, thanks. I have to work," he said. And then to me, "Keep the door locked. If the phone rings, you can answer it, but don't identify yourself. If it's someone you know, keep the conversation brief. Don't give out information of any sort to anyone. If you get a wrong number, let me know. It's probably someone checking to see if the room is still occupied." He glanced at his watch. "I'll be back at seven, straight up, to walk you over to the banquet room."

Once Dietz left the room, she held her arms up and shimmied. "Let's get down!" she said and then did a little bump and grind, accompanied by a whoop. She twisted the wire off the champagne bottle and draped a towel across the top, working the cork back and forth with both thumbs until it popped. She filled two flutes and handed me one. "I've already done my makeup," she said. "Why don't you hop in the shower while I get dressed. Then we'll do your hair."

"I've already showered. All I have to do is put on the jumpsuit and I'm done."

She gave me a look to let me know how wrong I was.

Under her critical gaze, I slipped out of my jeans and into the jumpsuit. She only winced a little bit at the sight of my bruises. Meanwhile, my facial expression was probably the equivalent of an ailing dog on its way to the vet's. Ugh. Makeup. I pulled the suit on and started tucking the pants up at the waist.

She smacked at my hand. "Don't do that," she said. She knelt and turned my pant legs under to a length that suited her and then secured them with fabric tape she'd brought in her purse.

"You think of everything," I said.

" 'Prepared' is my middle name, honeybun."

Then she went to work on the rest of me.

I sat on the closed toilet lid with a towel around my neck, Vera's body inserted between me and the wall-to-wall mirror that ran along the countertop. "What are you going to do about the bruises on my face?"

"Trust me, kid."

She had bottles and powders, lotions, creams, goo in jars, brushes, applicators, sponges, Q-tips. She worked with her face very close to mine, issuing instructions. "Close your eyes. Now look up… God, quit blinking! You're making a mess." She painted on lipstick with a brush, her own lips forming the shape she wanted me to form with mine.

Forty minutes later, she stepped back, scrutinizing her handiwork. She twisted the lipstick back down in the tube. "Yeah. I like it," she said. "What do you think?" She moved aside so I could see my reflection in the mirror.

I looked at myself. Suddenly, I had these dramatic eyes, all the color of a maiden in the first blush of youth, dewy mouth, hair standing out in a dark windblown tumble. I cracked up.

"Go ahead and laugh," she said acidly. "You look damn good."

Dietz returned to the room at seven, glancing at us both without remark. Vera had done herself up in six minutes flat, her personal best she said. She was wearing a black dress with a low-cut top filled to the brim with bulging breasts, black hose with a seam up the back, black spike heels. She stopped dead in her tracks and put her hands on her hips. "What do you say, Dietz? Come on. Cough it out."

"You look great. No shit. Both of you look swell."

" 'Swell' doesn't even come close." And then to me, "I'll bet he still calls women 'gals.' "

"Not so far," I said.

Dietz smiled to himself, but refused to engage. He propelled us across the hall and down three doors into the safety of the banquet room, which was small and elegant: chandelier, white woodwork, walls padded in cream-colored silk. Six tables for six had been laid out with a spray of orchids as the centerpiece. Each table was numbered and I could see that place cards were set out, names in script.