A chorus of cheers arose from Sinatra’s long table—Patricia Lawford, in a rare appearance, was making her way toward the group. Her husband stood to greet her, an expression of cheerful surprise on his face. He glided over to her, kissed her on the cheek, and guided her to the chair that a waiter was wedging in next to his.

“What a sham,” Goode said, rolling her eyes.

Before Charlie or Margaret could react, a dapper figure appeared by Charlie’s side. “Good to see you all,” Detective Ellroy Meehan said. “I trust you’re enjoying our fair city?”

“We’re grand, Detective,” said Margaret, smiling brightly. “How are you?”

“How’s your investigation into the Powell murder?” asked Goode.

“Hello, Charlotte,” Meehan said, a bit warily. He looked over his shoulder, then leaned closer to the table to speak confidentially. “We’ve figured out which mobsters were in town that day, and we’re right now winnowing down the list.”

Margaret furrowed her brow. She had read that exact sentence, attributed to “a police source,” in that morning’s Los Angeles Daily News.

“You’re sure it was a Mob hit?” Goode asked.

“He was in hock to the sharks,” Meehan said. “The way he was killed…I don’t want to be too graphic”—Goode snorted appreciatively—“but it had the signature of a specific button man.”

“We know he was shot in the eyes, Detective,” Margaret said coolly. “Thank you for protecting our delicate sensibilities, though.”

Meehan smiled. “If it shoots people in the eyes like a duck…” he said.

She briefly considered telling Meehan about Powell’s membership in the Church of Scientology and her trip to the Casa de Rosas, but then she thought better of it. For all she knew, they had filed a complaint.

Always on the hunt for someone more powerful to talk to, Meehan stole a look into the mirror on the wall behind Margaret and Goode, spotted a target, patted Charlie on the back in a moment of quick and quiet acknowledgment, and bade them adieu.

“Charlie!” bellowed a familiar voice. Sinatra, at the back table. “Congressman Charlie Marder, grab that gorgeous lady of yours and come back and join us, you little so-and-so!”

Goode winked at Charlie and Margaret and gestured for them to go ahead. They stood obediently; Margaret told Goode she would call her soon, and they made their way to the Chairman’s table in back.

“Come here and revive me, you exquisite creature,” Sinatra barked at Margaret, accidentally spilling valuable whiskey in her direction. “Too much death tonight. We were in the middle of toasting Ernie Kovacs when we heard Lucky Luciano croaked.”

“Oh, I hadn’t heard,” Margaret said, as she smoothed down the back of her maroon dress and sat to Sinatra’s left; Charlie squeezed in between his wife and Sammy Davis.