A high-pitched whistle emanated from the living room and the ravens began backing off Tarantula’s bloodied face and body. They flew obediently into the other room, where Symone LeGrue stood holding deer jerky in one hand, a large cage in the other.

“Good job, Archie,” Charlie said to the first bird, which had assumed its rightful place on LeGrue’s shoulder. Charlie proceeded into the study, where Street was using a knife on the ropes constraining Sheryl Ann, whom Margaret was consoling.

Charlie looked down at Tarantula’s face, which had been pecked to shreds. His bulbous throat was a mess of deep red hash. He was gurgling. Minutes left, max.

Charlie noticed the open safe. He turned to Margaret and Street.

“Why don’t you make sure everyone gets home safely,” Charlie said. “I’m going to have a look around.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Los Angeles, California

April 1962

Charlie turned the key in the lock of his Miramar suite but Detective Meehan opened the door from inside.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” the detective said, an irritated expression on his face. “For a day.”

Charlie entered the room and looked at his watch: 4:33 a.m. “You’ve been waiting for us inside our room since yesterday?” he asked.

“We’ve had a presence in the lobby,” Meehan said, walking back to the living room; Margaret was sitting alone on the couch, having returned from Tarantula’s before her husband, who’d stayed behind to sweep the place of their fingerprints and look for anything that might prove useful. Street had dropped off Sheryl Ann Gold, then Margaret, then returned to his hotel. “After your Irish exit from the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium.”

“We had things to do,” Charlie said.

Meehan rolled his eyes, sat down, and asked them to tell him again what had happened at the Oscars, which they did. It took some time because they had to explain events from the night before—Disneyland and the Hollywood sign—though in Margaret’s telling, Sheryl Ann escaped with her. There was no need to add the body of Joey Tarantula to their long list of offenses.

“All for these documents?” Meehan said, holding them up after Charlie had produced them from his inside jacket pocket and handed them to him. “Suggesting that…let me see if I have this straight—”

“Suggesting that, led by Wolff, the studios have been holding parties for VIPs at which they pimp out underage girls,” Margaret said.

“But why?” Meehan asked. “This town is crawling with young girls with stars in their eyes, eager to make any connection. Why pay for it?”

“The money’s for their silence as much as anything else,” Margaret said.

“And Wolff was filming it all,” Charlie said. “For blackmail.”

“You have proof of any of that?” Meehan asked.

“You do,” Margaret said. “You have the wireless-mike recording of Wolff, the files we just gave you, Charlotte Goode’s murder…”