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Rivera told me, over a beer in his dressing room, that he had been fired from ABC’s 20/20 because of the major Marilyn Monroe news program that was canceled.
    On the air, Zolotow stated that he believed Marilyn had committed suicide. He was entitled to his opinion. Then after the program, Maurice and I traveled together to the airport on our way back to Los Angeles. (Bob had decided to spend another day in the Big Apple.) He surprised me with a statement I never expected to hear: “I questioned the cause of death for many years, but you convinced me she was a victim of foul play.” The noted author said he could not go on record with this statement since it might affect sales of his book. Then this man who was very close to Marilyn for many years let me in on some secrets his pen never revealed. And he removed from his briefcase a copy of Marilyn and signed it: “To Milo, the Sherlock Holmes of the Marilyn Mystery.”
    Some persons who gave me incredible information cannot be acknowledged by name here, in particular those informants who helped identify Marilyn’s assassins. Others who will remain nameless are those persons who gave testimony about Monroe’s death—former members of the Secret Service, FBI, Los Angeles Police Department, CIA, and other law enforcement and investigative agencies.
    I want to thank actress Lana Wood, Natalie Wood’s sister, for her insight into Marilyn; Ed Pitts for his documents; and former Los Angeles mayor Sam Yorty.
    Allan J. Wilson, our editor, proved his reputation by treating us, as he treats all his authors, famous or obscure, with respect, helping to lighten the labors of writing and publishing this book.
    To the hundreds of others who contributed, whether by talking to me or by assisting my coauthor, Adela Gregory, I thank you one and all.

E LEGY IX. The Autumnal
    No spring, nor summer beauty hath such grace,
As I have seen in one autumnal face.
Young beauties force our love, and that’s a rape,
This doth but counsel, yet you cannot ’scape.
If ‘twere a shame to love, here ’twere no shame,
Affection here takes reverence’s name.
Were her first years the Golden Age? That’s true,
But now she’s gold oft tried, and ever new.
That was her torrid and inflaming time,
This is her tolerable tropic clime.
Fair eyes, who asks more heat than comes from hence,
He in a fever wishes pestilence.
    â€” JOHN DONNE
 (1572-1631)
 (Excerpt)

1
    The Waif
    H ollywood’s Sunset Boulevard winds lavishly through the pulse of broken dreams. On this Saturday night, on one small forgotten street in Brentwood, Rudy, a chauffeur, wrestled with the Herald Examiner ’s sports section. The radio blasted romantic tunes. Three hours of waiting on the dead-end street, even for Marilyn Monroe, was testing his professionalism. Once again, Rudy warily eyed Marilyn’s front door. It was always a wait fraught with disappointment until the moment she appeared. Then the radiant Monroe would satisfy even the most seasoned admirer and employee. The driver could then expect her profuse apologies and promises never to be late again. Rudy was handsomely paid his standard $125 regardless of the waiting time, so he didn’t seem to mind that much. Besides, there was always the leftover champagne and caviar she would customarily offer him, adding, “Save it for later.” Marilyn was quite cognizant of the need for a clear-headed driver.
    Even though it was small and sparsely furnished, Marilyn Monroe was proud of her newly purchased Spanish-style bungalow, something she could finally call her own. Years before, her mother, Gladys Baker, had made gallant efforts but failed to create a comfortable home for her illegitimate daughter. Gladys had been abandoned by Marilyn’s father when he had learned of her pregnancy.
    Elvis Presley’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love With You” was blaring on the radio, John F. Kennedy was the