“We weren’t sure we could trust you,” Kennedy said.

“Well, now you know,” Charlie said. A couple weeks before, back in Washington, Charlie had given Addington White a debrief of their Los Angeles misadventures, leaving out only a few incriminating details. He was surprised to hear the evident mistrust, which he’d seen no evidence of in DC, expressed so clearly.

“Either way, now you have more leads than you thought you’d have,” Margaret added. “I guess there’s nothing criminal about Sinatra and his friends partly controlling Hollywood Nightlife, but at the very least you should be able to launch an investigation into Les Wolff.”

“Not much to investigate,” Kennedy said. “He hanged himself earlier today.”

An uncomfortable silence hung in the room now as well.

Unspoken went the inescapable conclusion that there would be no follow-up investigation. Powerful forces had once again reached out from the shadows, killed one of their own for self-preservation, and disappeared.

“What about the Church of Scientology?” Margaret asked. “Hubbard?”

“Nothing directly ties Hubbard or the church as an institution to any of this,” Kennedy said. “It’s a church, so we can’t just raid them. Their desire to have celebrity adherents is not evidence of conspiracy. And both witnesses to alleged wrongdoing—Julius and Wolff—are gone. No one has even seen Julius since April.”

“Speaking of loose ends,” White said, “do you know anything about who might have wanted to kill yet another Hollywood Nightlife reporter? His body was found in his home a few weeks ago.”

Charlie and Margaret shook their heads no.

“What about all that evidence we gave you of the larger conspiracy in the studios for these parties? The photos and the receipts?” Charlie asked.

“And the recording of Les Wolff talking about it all?” added Margaret.

“We have the tapes,” White said. “We will be reviewing. And looping in the appropriate authorities, LAPD, et cetera.”

“What if they’re in on it too?” Charlie asked under his breath.

“What’s that?” White asked.

“You heard me,” said Charlie.

“How’s your niece?” Kennedy asked Margaret, tabling the other discussion.

“She’s okay,” Charlie volunteered after it became clear Margaret wasn’t going to respond. “Back in Ohio with her folks.”

Winston stood up from his wheelchair, shoved it away, and walked over to the table where a decanter of scotch beckoned. He looked surprisingly limber.

“So what’s up with Sinatra?” Winston asked, bemused. “The Irish princes throw the Sicilian jester into the moat?”

Kennedy rolled his eyes at Winston, an opponent whom he could barely control even after he’d imprisoned him.

“We’re going to stop that picture he wants to make about the nukes landing on North Carolina,” White said, slurring a bit, maybe a bit in the bag. “That script you shared with us.”

“Why?” Charlie asked.

“It’s classified,” White said.

“That’s enough, Addington,” Kennedy said.

Charlie and Margaret exchanged looks. What on earth?