The Devil May Dance

don’t seem particularly distraught.”
Charlie stared at Meehan coldly. “I don’t know what that means. I didn’t know her well, but it’s very sad. We’re very upset, Margaret and me. As for my reaction to seeing a dead body, I wish I could tell you Lola’s was the first I’ve seen, but it isn’t. I fought in France.”
“Who do you think killed her?” Meehan asked after taking a long drag from his cigarette. He tilted his chair back on two legs and squinted through smoke at Charlie as if someone were filming them in black-and-white.
“I have no idea,” Charlie said, which was true. “An enemy of mine? An enemy of Frank’s?”
“The Mob?”
Charlie thought about it. “Maybe,” he said. “But why would the Mob want Lola dead? Why would they put her in my car? Seemingly to frame me—but again, why?”
“What have you done to piss them off?” Meehan asked.
Charlie paused. “I can’t really get into it in detail unless DOJ says I can, but I’m out here looking into some matters that might involve organized crime,” he said. “Maybe they figured that out.”
“Offing that chickie seems like pretty harsh retaliation for spying,” Meehan observed. “Unless they were trying to set you up, as you say. But then what? And why her?”
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.”
“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