Charlie handed the list back to Street and signaled for the check. They needed to make a phone call.

Thirty minutes later they were knocking on Frankenheimer’s door. The director opened it, squinting as if he hadn’t seen the sun in weeks. He welcomed them into his abode.

Frankenheimer was being sued for divorce by Carolyn, his second wife and mother of their two daughters. While rumors had swirled that he would end up with actress Piper Laurie, whom he had directed on Playhouse 90, he was currently living with the actress Evans Evans, who greeted the group.

“Sorry for how the place looks—John has been editing,” Evans said. “I must look a fright!”

Both she and the house looked lovely, of course, which Charlie and Margaret made clear after they introduced them to Street.

“So what brings you here?” Frankenheimer asked as Evans guided them all into the living room.

“Do you have an eight-millimeter film projector?” asked Margaret, holding up the canister. She was struggling to contain her sense of urgency, knowing that soliciting help would be more easily accomplished if she operated according to LA’s laid-back ways.

“Of course,” he said. “Why?”

Margaret and Street looked at Charlie.

“Uh,” said Charlie, “this is a long and complicated story. There’s probably salacious, maybe even criminal, material in here. I wouldn’t impose if this weren’t incredibly important.”

Frankenheimer mulled that over for a second, then led them to the edit room, a small converted bedroom, its windows covered by black sheets tacked to the wall. A giant framed poster for Birdman of Alcatraz leaned against the back wall next to a couch covered with notebooks and papers. To the side of the edit desk stood a folded-up portable movie screen.

“Now, this is an actual fright,” Margaret said. She was trying to lighten everyone’s mood, but she remained terrified about Sheryl Ann. They needed to figure out who was behind this, then maybe they could save her.

“It’s a Bell and Howell,” Frankenheimer said of the projector, sitting in a rickety chair in front of it. “Wish I could give you your privacy, but I don’t let anyone else operate it. They break easy.” He held out his hand and Charlie gave him the film. The director unspooled an inch or so, then loaded it in the machine. He looked at Evans, standing by the door, and she turned off the lights.

The film flickered on a small screen, roughly eight by ten inches. Charlie and Margaret pulled folding chairs closer, while Street and Evans stood behind them all. Outside the window beyond the black cloth, finches chirped at each other.

The first image was too bright to make out, but soon things came into focus: an industrial area, concrete and palm trees, a sunny day, a man in sunglasses and a light-colored suit walking purposefully.

“Is that Chris Powell?” Charlie asked.

Frankenheimer squinted. “Could be,” he said.