The man walked upstairs into an office building.

“Is that United Artists?” Evans asked, leaning forward.

“Yes, it is,” Frankenheimer said.

The film abruptly cut to another location, shot from inside a car: Chris Powell walking out of a different building and making his way down the sidewalk.

“That’s the Church of Scientology,” Margaret said.

Powell stopped in his tracks; someone had called his name from back at the house. He turned to see a thin man in a floral shirt and horn-rimmed glasses.

“That’s Julius,” Margaret said.

Charlie recognized him from Disneyland. He absorbed the news and was able to keep it clinical, intellectual. Julius had wanted to kill him; Charlie had done what he’d had to do. He had taken life before and knew that the guilt would come for him eventually, but in the thick of their continued battle—now to save Sheryl Ann Gold—he didn’t have time to indulge the anxiety he felt. And oddly, perhaps because he’d been so drunk when he killed Julius, he didn’t want a drink. He would have to soldier through.

The film cut to evening, an outdoor café, maybe at a hotel. Bathers in swim trunks walked by tables and palm trees. The light and the more formal dress of the diners suggested dusk.

“Where is that?” Evans asked.

“It looks kind of like the Miramar,” Charlie said. “What other hotels have a view of the ocean?”

“Too many to name,” said Frankenheimer.

The camera panned to the ocean, then followed a man in a short-sleeved shirt, untucked, as he walked from the direction of the beach into the restaurant.

“That’s that guy, what’s his name…um…Maheu. Remember him, Margaret? From Vegas? He showed up with Rosselli,” Charlie recalled. “Didn’t say much.”

“And speak of the devil,” said Street, pointing to the right corner of the small screen. “Isn’t that Handsome Johnny?”

Everyone squinted at the figure as Rosselli’s profile came into view. Rosselli turned to his left. Another familiar face popped up.

“Giancana,” said Street. The Chicago mobster sported his usual thick glasses and deadpan expression as he followed Rosselli into the hotel.

“So Maheu met up with Rosselli and Momo,” said Margaret. “So what?”

“I agree,” said Charlie. “We know Maheu knows Rosselli, and Rosselli knows Giancana.”

“So what are we missing?” Street asked as the film ran out and the tail end of the strip began clanging about. Frankenheimer turned the machine off.

“Wait, John,” Evans said. “Can you roll that last scene again?”

“Of course, darling,” he replied. He respooled the film and everyone watched Rosselli and Giancana walking backward out of the hotel, followed by Maheu traipsing backward in the opposite direction, toward the ocean. In the background the waves began in the sand and rolled toward the sea; birds flew in reverse.

“Look,” Evans said, pointing at the ocean. “No sunset.”

“I don’t follow,” said Frankenheimer.