“Skinny guy in a Hawaiian shirt?” Charlie repeated.
“What is it, Charlie?” Margaret asked.
“What are you thinking?” asked Street.
Charlie took a sip of coffee. “I ran into a guy at Disneyland who matched that description.”
“Horn-rimmed glasses?” asked Margaret.
Charlie nodded.
“That’s Julius from the church,” Margaret said.
“He was…not pleasant,” Street noted, lighting a cigarette. “To be fair, I’d just plowed my car into his.”
“So the church, or at least Julius—assuming it’s the same man—is part of this too,” Margaret said. “But how and why? This simply can’t be just because Sheryl Ann and I pretended to be Chris Powell’s sisters. There must be more to it than that. And either way, we need to figure out where Sheryl Ann is and find her before…”
Her voice trailed off; she was unwilling to speak the unthinkable.
Charlie picked up the 8-millimeter film canister and stared at it.
“I think,” Charlie said, “we need to see what’s on this film.”
Street had a list of names, numbers, and addresses—all the information he needed for this mission. Charlie perused the names: Frankenheimer, Sinatra, Martin, Davis, Giancana, Janet Leigh, Les Wolff, Manny Fontaine, and more.
He pointed to the paper. “Why is L. Ron Hubbard’s name crossed off?” he asked.
“He flew back to London the day after Margaret and Sheryl Ann paid him that visit,” Street said.
Charlie handed the list back to Street and signaled for the check. They needed to make a phone call.
Thirty minutes later they were knocking on Frankenheimer’s door. The director opened it, squinting as if he hadn’t seen the sun in weeks. He welcomed them into his abode.
Frankenheimer was being sued for divorce by Carolyn, his second wife and mother of their two daughters. While rumors had swirled that he would end up with actress Piper Laurie, whom he had directed on Playhouse 90, he was currently living with the actress Evans Evans, who greeted the group.
“Sorry for how the place looks—John has been editing,” Evans said. “I must look a fright!”
Both she and the house looked lovely, of course, which Charlie and Margaret made clear after they introduced them to Street.
“So what brings you here?” Frankenheimer asked as Evans guided them all into the living room.
“Do you have an eight-millimeter film projector?” asked Margaret, holding up the canister. She was struggling to contain her sense of urgency, knowing that soliciting help would be more easily accomplished if she operated according to LA’s laid-back ways.
“Of course,” he said. “Why?”
Margaret and Street looked at Charlie.
“Uh,” said Charlie, “this is a long and complicated story. There’s probably salacious, maybe even criminal, material in here. I wouldn’t impose if this weren’t incredibly important.”
Frankenheimer mulled that over for a second, then led them to the edit room, a small converted bedroom, its windows covered by black sheets tacked to the wall. A giant framed poster for Birdman of Alcatraz leaned against the back wall next to a couch covered with notebooks and papers. To the side of the edit desk stood a folded-up portable movie screen.
“Now, this is an actual fright,” Margaret said. She was trying to lighten everyone’s mood, but she remained terrified about Sheryl Ann. They needed to figure out who was behind this, then maybe they could save her.
“It’s a Bell and Howell,” Frankenheimer said of the projector, sitting in a rickety chair in front of it. “Wish I could give you your privacy, but I don’t let anyone else operate it. They break easy.” He held out his hand and Charlie gave him the film. The director unspooled an inch or so, then loaded it in the machine. He looked at Evans, standing by the door, and she turned off the lights.
The film flickered on a small screen, roughly eight by ten inches. Charlie and Margaret pulled folding chairs closer, while Street and Evans stood behind them all. Outside the window beyond the black cloth, finches chirped at each other.
The first image was too bright to make out, but soon things came into focus: an industrial area, concrete and palm trees, a sunny day, a man in sunglasses and a light-colored suit walking purposefully.
“Is that Chris Powell?” Charlie asked.
Frankenheimer squinted. “Could be,” he said.
The man walked upstairs into an office building.
“Is that United Artists?” Evans asked, leaning forward.
“Yes, it is,” Frankenheimer said.
The film abruptly cut to another location, shot from inside a car: Chris Powell walking out of a different building and making his way down the sidewalk.
“That’s the Church of Scientology,” Margaret said.
Powell stopped in his tracks; someone had called his name from back at the house. He turned to see a thin man in a floral shirt and horn-rimmed glasses.
“That’s Julius,” Margaret said.
Charlie recognized him from Disneyland. He absorbed the news and was able to keep it clinical, intellectual. Julius had wanted to kill him; Charlie had done what he’d had to do. He had taken life before and knew that the guilt would come for him eventually, but in the thick of their continued battle—now to save Sheryl Ann Gold—he didn’t have time to indulge the anxiety he felt. And oddly, perhaps because he’d been so drunk when he killed Julius, he didn’t want a drink. He would have to soldier through.
The film cut to evening, an outdoor café, maybe at a hotel. Bathers in swim trunks walked by tables and palm trees. The light and the more formal dress of the diners suggested dusk.
“Where is that?” Evans asked.
“It looks kind of like the Miramar,” Charlie said. “What other hotels have a view of the ocean?”
“Too many to name,” said Frankenheimer.
The camera panned to the ocean, then followed a man in a short-sleeved shirt, untucked, as he walked from the direction of the beach into the restaurant.
“That’s that guy, what’s his name…um…Maheu. Remember him, Margaret? From Vegas? He showed up with Rosselli,” Charlie recalled. “Didn’t say much.”
“And speak of the devil,” said Street, pointing to the right corner of the small screen. “Isn’t that Handsome Johnny?”
Everyone squinted at the figure as Rosselli’s profile came into
