“Margaret’s niece is in Los Angeles,” Charlie explained. “Violet. She’s underage. A runaway. And we saw her briefly with a much older studio executive. We’ve been asking around about her, to no avail.”

“And you’d like the FBI’s help,” Kennedy surmised.

“Actually, I have some information for you about your niece,” White said, reaching into his briefcase. He opened a folder that held a typed report. “I did follow up on that note from last time we met. We found her last known address,” White said, reviewing the case memo. “Violet isn’t there anymore. Nor is she in the company of Itchy Meyer, or at least, she hasn’t been seen with him in the past few weeks, according to our eyes and ears. Meyer says he met her for the first time that night and hasn’t seen her since. The landlady where Violet briefly had a room says she fell in with a fast crowd of party girls. That’s all we got.” He closed the file.

“It’s not much,” said Margaret. She rubbed her left arm and her body tensed. She was worried about her niece and also irritated that no one other than Charlie seemed to take Violet’s disappearance seriously, as if she were just a feral kitten. Did young women die in Hollywood on a regular basis the way Chicagoans died in the freezing winds off Lake Michigan? She’d begun to think it was a specifically geographical phenomenon, but here was the FBI echoing the indifference. She was grateful for Charlie pushing the attorney general on Violet’s behalf. Her husband might be turning into a drunk, but he was still kind and decent.

“It’s not much, but it’s more than you had,” Kennedy pointed out.

“We need more,” Charlie said. “You need to keep looking. If we’re going to stay in LA, you have to help us find her.”

“She’s a child,” Margaret said.

“Addington will see what he can do,” Kennedy said.

“Just a few other things before you go back to your hotel,” White added. “Your dad has been transferred from the Tombs.”

“Why?” Charlie asked. He looked at his wife, who was frowning.

“To where?” she asked.

“Sing Sing,” White said. “We had to get him out of the city while this is all going on. There were threats on his life. But don’t worry, he’s safe.”

Charlie found himself gasping, he was so stunned. “Why don’t I believe you?”

White looked at Kennedy. Neither one cared. Kennedy put his suit jacket back on. “Find out who the girl was with before she showed up in the trunk of your car,” Kennedy said. “Figure out who killed her.”

“I don’t even know who this Lola Bridgewater is,” Charlie said, about ready to fall apart.

“Well, apparently she was Mary Bechmann, from Minot, North Dakota,” said White.