Davis wagged his finger. “You can tell Congressman Street, but beyond that, it’s imperative that this remain entre nous, mon ami.”
“Absolument,” Charlie said.
“I still cannot believe we got in and out with no real fuss other than Sammy and me serenading that crowd,” Lawford said sunnily. Charlie frowned to himself at what his coconspirators did not know. All he could hope for now was that whoever was throwing the illicit party would consider the corpse just one more unfortunate item to clean up and make disappear.
Lawford reminded them all that the Academy Awards were that night, and they’d better go home and clean up.
Chapter Twenty-FourSanta Monica, California
April 1962
Street didn’t think it was safe to go back to the Miramar, so they drove to the nearby Georgian Hotel. They took Violet to Street’s suite, where she collapsed onto the couch. Margaret phoned her sister in Ohio to give her the news and tell her to book the next flight to LA. When they hung up, Margaret spoke in hushed tones with her niece. She gave her another warm embrace, after which Violet turned onto her side and fell asleep again. Margaret grabbed a blanket from the closet and laid it gently atop her.
Margaret, Charlie, and Street proceeded to the veranda restaurant, with its glorious view of the Palisades bluff and the Pacific. Over coffee, bacon, and eggs, they recounted the events of their nights. Margaret led with the news that Sheryl Ann had been abducted.
“We started with one damsel in distress,” Charlie said, “and we’ve still got one. We’ve only succeeded in swapping her out.”
“And we don’t know if it’s the same kidnappers,” Margaret added.
“How could it not be?” asked Street. “A group of guys running a sick sex party with underage girls at Disneyland and another group of guys pursuing the documents proving these parties have been going on for years. Have to be one and the same, no?”
Street motioned to the documents, photographs, and film Margaret had uncovered at the Hollywood sign and brought with her. After ensuring no one in the restaurant had any interest in who they were or what they were doing, Charlie and Margaret lined up the bills from costume designers beside checks from studios made out to Marie Antoinette. The amounts being charged matched. Street noted that the Disneyland costume department sent an internal invoice for $87.54 for squaw costumes, presumably the ones Charlie had seen the night before. The same amount, $87.54, was on a Disney Studios invoice to Marie Antoinette.
“So it’s a shell corporation that funds it all?” Street said.
“Not the most sophisticated way of hiding it,” observed Margaret.
“No, but you wouldn’t give it a second thought, would you?” said Street. “It only makes sense as a conspiracy when you see all of these bills at once showing all the studios doing the same thing. Otherwise, who would even notice?”
“I gotta believe there are other charges hidden in the books of the studios for much more than just costumes,” Charlie said. “This is just the one that someone leaked to the tabloid.”
They grabbed the stack of photographs and tried to make sense of them.
The red-carpet paparazzi snapshot suggested Powell and Lola Bridgewater had dated, as did other photos: Powell and Lola out for lunch at Taylor’s Steakhouse, frolicking in the surf, laughing and drinking at the Daisy.
“This one is a much younger Lola,” Charlie said, turning the photo to show the other two. In the picture Lola was attempting to imitate a grown woman’s flirty glance. She was in bed, likely naked under the covers, her breasts partly exposed.
“Jeez, she can’t be more than fourteen,” Margaret said.
“You think this means she was caught up with the same folks from last night?” Street asked Charlie.
“Could be,” Charlie said. “I don’t know. I mean, it seems likely, but…”
Margaret frowned. “I appreciate my husband’s healthy skepticism,” she said, “truly I do, and let me add it’s about time. But that said, let’s at least concede that these groups are so secretive, it’s highly unlikely the two of us would independently and separately stumble on two different grand conspiracies, right?”
“I so concede,” Charlie said.
“So it’s the same gang, the same bad guys from Disneyland,” Street said, grabbing the invoices in the pile in front of them. “These receipts are for the costumes for these poor young girls, for these sick parties.”
“And people at the studios are footing the bills,” Charlie said. “And hiding the costs.”
“And that would mean the guy who killed Charlotte and tried to kill me and who snatched Sheryl Ann is also part of this,” Margaret said.
“And theoretically,” added Street, lifting up the red-carpet photograph, “so is whoever killed Lola and Powell.”
“Remember, Fontaine and Meehan both told us that Powell was a Mob hit, shot through the eyes,” Charlie said.
“The Mob certainly has its hands in human trafficking, prostitution,” Street said. “But the timing doesn’t make sense.”
“What do you mean?” Charlie asked.
“He means that whoever is hunting us was onto us even before we began poking our noses into these files and the parties,” Margaret said.
“Exactly,” said Street.
“So they began targeting us when?” Margaret asked. “With Lola in the trunk?”
“What about before that,” Street said, “when you were fleeing those Scientology creeps?”
“How did you know about that?” Margaret asked.
“Who do you think T-boned their Galaxie?” Street asked.
Margaret smiled.
“I told you, Ike asked me to keep an eye on you two,” Street said.
“Would the church thugs do this?” Margaret asked. “Just because we came to them and asked about Chris Powell? That makes no sense.”
“Not if that’s the reason,” agreed Charlie, “but what if there’s something we don’t know about?”
Street was staring into his coffee.
“What, Isaiah?” Margaret asked.
“Is it hard to imagine that wholesome church crew involved in murder and prostitution?” Street asked.
“I don’t have any problem imagining any group of men, clerical or not, involved in the unimaginable,” she said.
“I’m just trying to picture what those clean-cut missionary-looking freaks and the skinny guy
