The receptionist greeted this news with a blank expression, and just as Margaret was thinking that it was strange if not outright rude not to offer any sort of condolence, a tall man burst through the front door.

“Greetings, all!” he said. His red hair was long on the sides and back, thinning up top, and he wore a safari jacket; apparently, he was trying to look swashbuckling and avuncular simultaneously. He took off his safari jacket and handed it to the wiry, bespectacled young man in a Hawaiian shirt who trailed him, then smiled and approached the receptionist, who gasped when she recognized him. “How can we help these fine ladies?” the man said. He turned to Margaret and Sheryl Ann and greeted them with a flirty wink.

“They’re inquiring about Chris Powell,” she said. “They’re relatives of his.”

“Ah, yes,” he said. “Such a loss. Can you get me his file?”

“Yes, I’ll get it now,” the receptionist said.

“Brilliant!” said the redheaded man with a wide smile. “Ladies, won’t you please follow me?” He motioned toward the conference room to their left. “Oh, goodness me, where are my manners?” the man said. He extended a big beefy hand to Margaret. “Allow me to introduce myself—L. Ron Hubbard.”

Chapter Ten

Rancho Mirage, California

January 1962

At that precise moment, one hundred miles to the east, Charlie was on the patio of Sinatra’s two-and-a-half-acre Rancho Mirage estate, which was located on the seventeenth fairway of the Tamarisk Country Club and most often referred to as the Compound. Charlie, Martin, Davis, and Sinatra were wolfing down pancakes fresh from the griddle courtesy of Sinatra’s valet, a fastidious young Black man named George Jacobs. It was sunny and in the mid-fifties; the cold front hitting Los Angeles remained at a comfortable distance. The day before, they had all been sunbathing by the pool.

“Son of a bitch!” said Sinatra, slamming his Bloody Mary onto the glass breakfast table with enough force to splatter tomato juice across his newspaper.

Dean Martin raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong, Il Duce?”

“These goddamn columnists. They’re obsessed with me,” Sinatra fumed. He grabbed the newspaper, rolled it up into a ball, and threw it onto the ground. “Assholes!” he yelled. He took a gulp of his drink and glared across his vast lawn toward the mountains in the distance. Sammy Davis leaned over to put a comforting hand on Sinatra’s shoulder.