“I hate to even bring it up,” Margaret said. “But what about your father? Would Frank have asked him?”

Kennedy stared at her. It wasn’t clear if he was angry.

“I’m sorry for even—”

“No, no, I’m thinking,” Kennedy said. “It’s fine. If he did talk to Father, I never heard anything about it.”

Kennedy looked down at the floor in sorrow; there hadn’t been much coverage in the news about how severe the stroke was, though initial reports suggested the patriarch was partially paralyzed and could not speak.

White jumped in to change the subject. “What did you find out about the other issue, about how mobbed up Sinatra is?” he asked.

Margaret eagerly followed his lead. “He’s got a lot of pals in organized crime,” she said, “and while we don’t know that any of their criminal acts have been done on his behalf, they’re around him quite a bit. In LA, in Vegas, in New Jersey…” She turned to Charlie. “Were they with you in Rancho Mirage?”

“Rat Packers and groupies, but no mafiosi,” Charlie said.

“But that said,” Margaret continued, “as long as you’re serious about prosecuting organized crime, Charlie and I feel strongly that the president should not stay with Sinatra at Rancho Mirage. The association is unseemly.”

“We didn’t see any evidence that Sinatra is part of or knows of any criminal wrongdoing,” Charlie added. “But having the president stay anywhere mobsters have likely also slept…I mean, for your political rivals, it would be like manna from heaven.”

Kennedy looked at White, who nodded.

“So you don’t think Sinatra would have had anyone take care of Chris Powell?” White asked.

“No,” Charlie said. “And not just because Powell wasn’t worth it. Sinatra cares about music, movies, gossip, politics, and women. I can’t imagine him ever actually asking for a hit.”

“Absolutely not,” Margaret agreed. “He’s not a murderer. Not even close.”

“Will you two step out for just a second?” Kennedy asked.

Margaret stood, but Charlie stayed in his chair. “We’re allowed to leave this room?” he asked.

“Congressman, I’m the chief law enforcement officer in the country,” the attorney general reminded him.

“You’re not going to be charged with anything,” White added.

Charlie stood and followed his wife out of the interrogation room and into the police office, which was abuzz with bookings from late-night Los Angeles life—prostitutes, thieves, fleeced tourists, all sitting at desks as weary officers tried to suss out copious claims. To Charlie’s keen nose, the room smelled of coffee, cheap perfume, and sex.