“It’s dusk but the sun isn’t setting over the ocean,” said Margaret. “This isn’t Los Angeles. This isn’t even the West Coast.”

“But the palm trees,” said Charlie.

“It’s Florida, Charlie,” said Evans.

“Miami!” exclaimed Frankenheimer.

“Darn it!” said Street. “I should have recognized it. That’s the Fontainebleau.”

“Which means what, though?” asked Evans.

“Which means the mobsters were meeting with other people too, and it had nothing to do with Hollywood,” said Margaret.

Downstairs, the doorbell rang.

“I’ll be right back,” Evans said, leaving the room.

“Cuba,” said Charlie. He looked at Margaret, who was staring back at him. Each reached over to touch the other’s nose.

“What’s that?” Street asked.

“‘To see what is in front of one’s nose needs a constant struggle,’” Margaret said.

“Orwell,” said Frankenheimer. “This is going to be one hell of a story when you finally tell me.”

“We’re still figuring it out,” Charlie said.

“Mobsters,” Margaret said. “Miami.”

“It’s only slightly less plausible than the Chinese brainwashing an American war hero,” Charlie said.

“Charlotte wanted us to see all of this,” Margaret said. “Not just Chris Powell at United and at the church, but Miami too.”

Frankenheimer smiled and stood. “I’m going to see who’s at the door,” he said just as Evans reappeared with Manny Fontaine.

“Manny, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Frankenheimer asked, shaking the publicist’s hand. Fontaine was impeccably dressed in a casual Sunday-brunch outfit—blazer and pocket square, open blue oxford shirt, dark sunglasses, and loafers—but he seemed nervous.

“I need to talk to Charlie and Margaret,” he said.

“How did you know we were here?” Charlie asked. He and Margaret were sitting on the back porch with Manny, the finches chirping and the salty sea air potent.

“You got a call through the studio switchboard; you weren’t at your hotel,” Fontaine said. “The guy on the other end of the line insisted that the operator patch him through to someone who would convey the message.” Fontaine patted his forehead with a white handkerchief he withdrew from his pocket. “That job fell to me.”

Charlie looked at Margaret. “That doesn’t really explain how you knew we—”

“Right,” Fontaine interrupted. “I was calling around to see if anyone knew where you were, and I called here.”

The explanation seemed unlikely, but Margaret put her hand on Charlie’s, a way to urge Manny to move on to why he was here. Surely, she thought, this had to do with the previous night’s events and Sheryl Ann. Fontaine reached into his left jacket pocket and took out a pack of Marlboros.

“So what was his message?” Margaret asked.

Fontaine lit the cigarette, took a deep drag, and exhaled. “The man said: ‘If you want your friend, bring the file tonight, including the film.’” He looked at Charlie. “What friend?” he asked. “What file? What film?”