There was a knock at the door and Attorney General Robert Kennedy entered, with Addington White and Margaret in tow; Meehan gasped, then tried to pass it off as a cough.

“That’ll be all, Detective,” Kennedy said—Boston Irish trumping LA flatfoot. Meehan scurried out the door without another word. Kennedy’s suit jacket was draped over his arm; his shirtsleeves were rolled up and his tie was loose. White, conversely, was as buttoned up as if he were walking into a baptism. Charlie rose to shake hands with them. They were the rats who’d gotten him into this fix, but he nevertheless was glad to see them.

“Let’s all have a seat, shall we?” Kennedy motioned to the small table. White lit a cigarette as Margaret reached for Charlie’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Glad you went to the police,” Kennedy said.

“We suspect we weren’t supposed to have found her body right then,” Margaret said. “We just happened to need something from the trunk.”

“I was sorry to hear about your father,” Charlie said to the attorney general, an awkward bit of courtesy given his own father’s status. Kennedy nodded.

“Makes more sense that whoever did this would have called in a tip and had the cops find the body,” White said. “Maybe at the hotel.”

“But who would do it?” Kennedy asked. “Who have you crossed out here? Giancana? Rosselli?”

“We haven’t crossed any of them,” Margaret said. “We’ve been as agreeable as a sloe gin fizz on a porch swing on a Sunday afternoon.”

“Giancana has a temper,” Kennedy noted. “He’s into revenge.”

“We were having dinner with Frank and Giancana and all the rest just hours ago,” Margaret told him.

“It’s possible I may have aroused their suspicions when I asked Sinatra’s valet to find out what favor Giancana needed from Frank,” Charlie said suddenly. “But I doubt the valet, George Jacobs, told anyone.”

“And did he tell you?” Kennedy asked.

“He did: Giancana asked Frank to get you to back off,” Charlie said. “Through the president, presumably. He was supposed to do it at Hyannis Port last fall, but George didn’t know if he went through with it. That’s it. That’s the whole scoop.”

Kennedy stared at him.

“Did he pass on the message?” Margaret wondered aloud.

Kennedy eyed her carefully, as if he were trying to figure out her motivation for asking. “Not to me. And the president would have told me.” He paused. “That’s interesting.”

Margaret found it odd that Kennedy called his brother “the president.”

“If I may, sir,” Charlie said, “Sinatra may not be educated, and too often he’s fueled entirely by impulse, but as a general rule, he’s very savvy. I’m sure he knew that asking either you or your brother would be a bridge too far.”