Margaret gave Meehan a description of her friend and her home address. Meehan nodded, tapped the roof of the squad car twice, and gently shoved the door closed as he turned to leave them. But Margaret subtly stopped the door before the latch locked them in. She turned to Charlie.

“They’re not going to lift a finger to find Sheryl Ann,” she said.

Charlie looked out into the parking lot, which was buzzing with patrolmen, ambulances, and squad cars.

They calmly walked out of the restricted area and, ditching their car, took a back alley to the Georgian Hotel, which was about a ten-minute walk from the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium. Isaiah Street was waiting for them in his suite; he put his finger to his lips when he opened the door and whispered to them that Violet was asleep in the bedroom. Her mom—Margaret’s sister—would be there to take her home the next day.

All three of them went out to the balcony, where chairs and cigarettes awaited and Charlie and Margaret could catch Street up on every last detail of the night. They had to try to figure out where Sheryl Ann was being kept and how to save her. By the time they were done, the dawn light was beginning to illuminate the scenic vista before them.

Street opened his notebook. “I have addresses for both Wolff and Fontaine,” he said. “But…” He paused.

“What?” Margaret asked.

“Well, frankly, neither man is dumb enough to stash a kidnapping victim at his house,” said Street.

“So where would she be?” Charlie asked.

“Where are those documents?” Street asked. “Still in your purse?”

“Those were taken from me,” Margaret said.

“But I have copies,” Charlie said.

Chapter Thirty

Los Angeles, California

April 1962

Locals had feared that the shallow canyon known as Chavez Ravine would be choked with traffic for the first game at the brand-new eighteen-million-dollar Dodger Stadium, but the congestion never materialized. In fact, there were roughly thirty-five hundred unfilled seats for the Dodgers’ face-off against the Cincinnati Reds.

Joey Tarantula cared not a lick about baseball—he was a boxing fan—but he was on hand with his camera to capture any celebrities in attendance. Henry Fonda, Milton Berle, and John Wayne had all been shuttled in right before the opening pitch at one p.m., and Mickey Rooney jumped up and down in the stands, providing Tarantula and the other shutterbugs with goofy photos.

It was a fancy park, the first one in the U.S. in decades to be constructed with private funds. There were rumors of New York strip steak and lobster thermidor in the Stadium Club, though Tarantula wasn’t allowed access to it. But that was okay. The press box on the fifth floor had cigarette girls, not machines, and he was fine with the options of spaghetti or lamb in the press dining room. In fact, he’d had both.