Split Second (22 page)

T
HE PRIVATE PLANE LANDED
in Philadelphia, and thirty minutes later King and Joan were nearing the home of John and Catherine Bruno in an affluent suburb, along the city’s famed Main Line. As they passed the brick-and-ivy-clad homes and stately grounds, King looked over at Joan. “So, old money here?”

“Strictly from the wife’s side. John Bruno grew up poor in Queens, and then his family moved to Washington, D.C. He went to law school at Georgetown and started working as a prosecutor in D.C. right after graduation.”

“Have you met Mrs. Bruno?”

“No. I wanted you with me. First impressions, you know.”

A Hispanic maid in a starched uniform complete with frilly apron and subservient demeanor showed them into the large living room. The woman almost curtsied as she left. King shook his head at this antiquated spectacle and then refocused when the small woman entered the room.

Catherine Bruno would have made an excellent first lady, was his preliminary opinion. In her mid-forties she was petite, refined, dignified, sophisticated, the very essence of blue blood and good manners. His second opinion was that she was far too full of herself. This was bolstered by the woman’s habit of looking over your shoulder when she spoke to you. As though she couldn’t waste her precious eyesight on anything below aristocracy. She never even asked King why his head was bandaged.

Joan, however, made the woman focus very quickly. She’d always had that way about her, sort of like a tornado in a can. King had to suppress a smile as his partner bored in.

Joan said, “Time is not on our side, Mrs. Bruno. The police and the FBI have done all the right things, but their results have been negligible. The longer your husband remains missing, the less chance there is of getting him back alive.”

The haughty eyes came back to terra firma. “Well, that’s why you were hired by John’s people, wasn’t it? To get him back safe?”

“Precisely. I have a number of inquiries going, but I need your help.”

“I’ve told the police all I know. Ask them.”

“I’d prefer to hear it from you.”

“Why?”

“Because depending on your answers, I might have follow-up questions that the police didn’t think to ask.”

And, King thought to himself, we want to see for ourselves if you’re lying your little stuck-up ass off.

“All right, go ahead.” She looked so put off by the whole process that King suddenly suspected her of having an affair, the recovery of her husband being the last thing she wanted.

“Did you support your husband’s political campaign?” Joan asked.

“What kind of question is that?”

“The kind we’d like an answer to,” Joan said pleasantly. “You see, what we’re trying to narrow down are motives, potential suspects and promising lines of investigation.”

“And what does my support of John’s political career have to do with that?”

“Well, if you were supporting his political ambitions, then you might have access to names, private discussions with your husband, things that might have concerned him from that part of his life. If, however, you weren’t in the loop, we’ll have to look elsewhere.”

“Oh, well, I can’t say I was delighted that John was pursuing
a political career. I mean he had no chance; we all knew that. And my family…”

“Didn’t approve?” coaxed King.

“We’re not a
political
family. We have a spotless reputation. It practically gave my mother a heart attack when I married a criminal prosecutor who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks and was over ten years my senior. But I love John. Still, you have to balance things and it hasn’t been easy. These sorts of things aren’t exactly looked upon with favor among my circle. So I can’t say I was his political intimate. However, he had a sterling reputation as a lawyer. He prosecuted some of the toughest cases in Washington and later in Philadelphia, where we met. That gave him a national reputation. Being around all those politicians in D.C., I suppose he got the itch to jump into the fray, even after we moved to Philadelphia. I didn’t agree with his political ambition, but I’m his wife, so I supported him publicly.”

Joan and King posed the standard questions, to which Catherine Bruno gave standard and mostly unhelpful answers.

“So you can think of no one who’d wish to harm your husband?” Joan asked.

“Aside from those he prosecuted, no. He’s had death threats and the like but nothing recently. After he left the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Philadelphia, he spent a few years in private practice before plunging into the political arena.”

Joan stopped writing notes. “What firm was he with?”

“The Philadelphia office of a Washington-based firm, Dobson, Tyler and Reed. They’re in downtown Philadelphia on Market Street. A very well respected establishment.”

“What sort of work did he do there?”

“John didn’t talk about business with me. And I never encouraged it. It didn’t interest me.”

“But presumably it was trial work.”

“My husband was happiest when he had a stage to perform on. So, yes, I’d say trial work.”

“And he voiced no special concerns to you?”

“He thought the campaign was going reasonably well. He had no delusions of winning. He was only making a statement.”

“After the election what was he going to do?”

“We never really discussed it. I always assumed he’d go back to Dobson, Tyler.”

“Can you tell us anything about his relationship with Bill Martin?”

“He mentioned his name every now and then, but that was really before my time.”

“And you have no idea why Bill Martin’s widow would want to meet with your husband?”

“None. As I said, that relationship was really before our marriage.”

“First marriages for you both?”

“His first, not mine,” was all she offered.

“And you have children?”

“Three. It’s been very hard on them. And me. I just want John back.” She started to sniffle, as though on cue, and Joan pulled out a tissue and handed it to her.

“We all do,” said Joan, doubtlessly thinking of the millions of dollars it would earn her. “And I won’t stop until I accomplish that goal. Thank you. We’ll be in touch.”

They left and headed back to the airport.

“So what do you think?” asked Joan while they were in the car. “Is your nose twitching?”

“First impression: a snobby wench who knows more than she’s telling us. But what she’s
not
telling could have nothing to do with Bruno’s kidnapping.”

“Or it could have everything to do with it.”

“She doesn’t seem thrilled with this political gig, but what spouse really is? She’s got three children, and we have no reason to believe she doesn’t love them or her husband. She’s got all the money. She gains nothing by having him kidnapped. She’d be paying part of the ransom.”

“But if there’s no ransom, she pays nothing. She’s single again
and free to marry someone of her own class who’s not in the dirty world of politics.”

“That’s true,” he agreed. “We just don’t know enough yet.”

“We’ll get there.” Joan opened her file and looked at it. As she was reading, she said, “The attack on you and Maxwell took place around two in the morning. Here I was thinking I was special, only to find that you invite all sorts of women to spend the night.”

“Just like you, she slept in the guest room.”

“And where did
you
sleep?”

He ignored her. “Who’s next on the list?”

Joan closed her file. “I’d like to hit this law firm—Dobson, Tyler—while we’re in town, but we’ll need time to check it out first. So it’s on to Mildred Martin.”

“What do we have on her?”

“Devoted to her husband, who worked with Bruno in D.C. Some of my preliminary digging
suggested
that the young John Bruno played fast and loose as a prosecutor in D.C. and left Martin holding the bag.”

“So the widow Martin would be no fan of Bruno’s?”

“Right. Bill Martin had terminal lung cancer. It had also spread to his bones. He had, at most, a month. But that didn’t work in somebody’s timetable, so they had to help him along.” She flipped open a file. “I was able to get the autopsy results on Martin. The embalming fluid had spread everywhere, even to the vitreous fluid, which otherwise is a pretty good place to spot poison because it doesn’t turn to jelly like blood does upon death.”

“Vitreous? That’s eyeball fluid?” asked King.

She nodded. “There
was
a spike in the methanol level in the midbrain sample they took.”

“Well, if the guy was a heavy drinker, that’s not unusual. Methanol is in whiskey and wine.”

“Right again. I just note it because the M.E. did. However, methanol is also a component of embalming fluid.”

“And if they knew there wouldn’t be an autopsy and the body gets embalmed…”

Joan finished for him. “The embalming process could mask the methanol presence or at least confuse the M.E. when an autopsy is actually performed.”

“Perfect murder?”

“No such thing with us on the case,” said Joan with a smile.

“So what do you think Mildred can tell us?”

“If Bruno changed his schedule to meet with someone calling herself Mildred Martin, then he must have thought the real Mildred had something important to tell him. From what I know of John Bruno, he does nothing that doesn’t help him.”

“Or maybe hurt him. And what makes you think she’ll tell
us
?”

“Because after checking her out, I’ve found she’s also a hard drinker and a sucker for a handsome man who shows her some attention. I hope you get the hint. And if you can manage it, take off the bandage—you have such nice hair.”

“And what’s your part?”

She smiled sweetly. “The heartless bitch. A role I’ve perfected.”

A
FTER THEY LANDED,
King and Joan rented a car and drove to Mildred Martin’s house, arriving in the early evening. It was a modest place and in the sort of neighborhood that people who didn’t have a lot of money retired to. It was about five miles from the funeral home where Bruno had been kidnapped.

They rang the bell and knocked on the door, but no one answered.

“I don’t understand. I called ahead,” said Joan.

“Let’s check around back. You said she’s a drinker. She could be back there getting wasted.”

In the small backyard they found Mildred Martin sitting at a wicker table on a lumpy, moss-covered brick patio, having a drink, smoking a cigarette and admiring her garden. She was about seventy-five, had the heavily wrinkled face of a lifelong smoker and sun worshiper and wore a lightweight print dress and sandals in the warm, breezy air. Her hair was dyed. Other than the gray roots, the primary color was a sort of orange. The smell of citronella filled the air from a bucket of the substance that sat lighted under the table.

After introductions were made, Mildred said, “I like sitting back here. Even with the damn mosquitoes. This time of year the garden can really shine.”

“We appreciate your seeing us,” said King politely. He’d followed Joan’s instructions and removed his head bandage.

Mildred waved them to seats at the table and held up her glass. “I’m a gin girl and hate to drink alone. What can I get
you?” Her voice was deep and gravelly, permanently engraved with decades of liquor and cigarettes.

“Screwdriver,” said Joan with a quick glance at King. “I just love those.”

“Scotch and soda,” said King. “Can I help you?”

She laughed heartily. “Oh, if I were forty years younger, yes you could.” With an impish smile she walked a little unsteadily to the house.

“She seems to have finished her mourning period,” commented King.

“They were married forty-six years and by all accounts had a good relationship. Her husband was about eighty, in poor health and suffering great pain. Maybe there’s not much to grieve about.”

“Bill Martin was Bruno’s mentor. How so?”

“Bruno worked for Martin when he first started as a criminal prosecutor in Washington. Martin taught Bruno the ropes.”

“At the U.S. Attorney’s Office?” asked King.

“That’s right,” she said.

King looked around. “Well, the Martins don’t seem to be all that well off.”

“Public service doesn’t pay very well, we all know that. And Bill Martin didn’t marry an heiress. They moved down here after he retired. Mildred grew up here.”

“Well, nostalgia aside, it’s not the sort of place I’d want to come rushing back to.”

Mildred returned with their drinks on a tray and sat down. “Now, I guess you want to get down to brass tacks. I’ve already talked to the police. I really know nothing about any of this.”

“We understand, Mrs. Martin,” said King, “but we wanted to meet and talk with you personally.”

“Lucky me. And please call me Millie. Mrs. Martin is my mother-in-law, and she’s been dead for thirty years.”

“Okay, Millie, we know you’ve talked to the police, and we know that they did an autopsy on your husband’s body.”

“God, that was a complete waste of time.”

“Why’s that?” Joan said sharply.

Mildred eyed her keenly. “Because no one poisoned him. He was an old man with terminal cancer who died peacefully in his own bed. If I can’t drop in my garden, I’d prefer to go that way too.”

“You know about the phone call to Bruno?”

“Yes, and I’ve already told the police I didn’t place it. They checked my phone records. I guess they didn’t believe me.”

Joan leaned forward. “Yes, but the point is that Bruno was reportedly very agitated after getting the call. Can you explain why?”

“If I didn’t make the call, how should I know? Unfortunately mind reading isn’t among my repertoire. If it were, I’d be rich.”

Joan persisted. “Look at it this way, Millie. Bruno and your husband were once close but no longer really were. Yet he gets a phone call, which he thinks is from you, asking to meet, and he gets agitated. The person calling would have had to say something plausible for that to happen, something that Bruno would logically associate with you or your husband.”

“Well, perhaps it’s as simple as the person’s having told him Bill was dead. I hope that would have upset him. After all, they were friends.”

Joan shook her head. “No. Bruno already knew. That’s been confirmed. He wasn’t planning on coming to the funeral home until he got the phone call.”

Martin rolled her eyes. “Well, that’s not surprising.”

“Why do you say that?” asked King.

“I won’t beat around the bush. I wasn’t John Bruno’s biggest fan, although Bill worshiped the ground he walked on. Bill was almost twenty-five years older and acted as a mentor. Now, I’m not saying Bruno wasn’t good at what he did, but let’s put it this way: John Bruno always did what was in the best interests of John Bruno and everybody else be damned. As an example, he’s twenty minutes from the body of his
mentor
and doesn’t have the decency to stop his campaigning to come and pay his
respects. Until, that is, he gets a phone call, allegedly from me? Well, that’s all you need to know about John Bruno.”

“I take it you wouldn’t have voted for him for president,” said King, smiling.

Martin laughed a deep, throaty laugh and put her hand on top of his. “Oh, honey, you’re so damn cute I could just put you on my shelf and look at you all day.” She patted his hand.

“You should get to know him first,” said Joan dryly.

“I can hardly wait.”

Joan said, “Did your dislike for John Bruno start at any particular time?”

Martin picked up her empty glass and crunched on an ice cube. “What do you mean by that?”

Joan looked down at some notes in front of her. “Around the time that your husband headed the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Washington there were some irregularities resulting in a number of convictions being overturned and other prosecutions derailed. It was a pretty nasty business all around.”

She lit another cigarette. “It was a long time ago. I don’t really remember.”

“I’m sure that if you think about it, it’ll come back to you,” suggested Joan firmly. “Perhaps you could refrain from any more drink? This is really very, very important.”

“Hey,” said King, “lay off. She’s doing us a favor. She doesn’t have to tell us anything.”

Martin’s hand returned to King’s. “Thank you, honey.”

Joan rose. “I tell you what: why don’t you finish questioning her while I go have a cigarette and admire the
lovely
garden.” She picked up Mildred’s pack of cigarettes. “Mind if I poach one?”

“Go ahead, honey, why should I die alone?”

“Why indeed,
honey
?”

Joan stalked off, and King looked at Martin in an embarrassed fashion. “She can be a little abrupt.”

“Abrupt? She’s a cobra in heels and lipstick. Do you really work for her?”

“Yes. I’m actually learning a lot.”

Mildred glared at Joan, who was tapping cigarette ash on a rose vine. “Just remember to keep your hand on your zipper when she’s around, or you might wake up one morning missing something really important.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Now, what she was talking about, the things in your husband’s office, I could tell you had some definite thoughts about that, didn’t you? In fact, your husband eventually resigned because of those irregularities, didn’t he?”

Martin held her chin high, though her voice quivered. “He took the blame, because he was the boss and he was honorable. There aren’t many men like Bill Martin anymore. Like old Harry Truman, the buck stopped with him. Either rightly or wrongly.”

“Meaning he shouldered the blame though it really wasn’t his fault?”

“I need another drink before I break another crown with all this damn ice,” she said, starting to rise.

“You thought it was Bruno’s fault, didn’t you? He left D.C. before the hammer fell, ruined your husband’s career and went on to head up the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Philadelphia. And there he garnered a bunch of high-profile convictions and rode that to a lucrative private practice and eventually to a run for the White House.”

“I see you’ve done your homework.”

“But your husband remained an admirer, so he didn’t share your belief, did he?”

She sat back down. “Bill was a good lawyer and an exceptionally bad judge of character. I have to hand it to Bruno; he said and did all the right things. Do you know that he called here to tell Bill he was running for president?”

King looked at her in surprise. “Really? When was that?”

“Couple of months ago. I answered the phone. Could have knocked me over with a stick hearing his voice. I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, but I didn’t. I held my tongue. We chatted like two old friends. He told me all the great things he’d done, his wonderful life in Philadelphia society. It made me
want to throw up. Then I gave the phone to Bill, and they talked for a while. All Bruno wanted to do was gloat and rub it in. Let Bill know he’d risen so much further than Bill ever had.”

“I just assumed Bruno hadn’t had any contact with either of you for years.”

“Well, it was just the one phone call, and a damn irritating one at that.”

“Did Bill say anything on the phone that might have led to Bruno’s coming to see him at the funeral home?”

“No. Bill hardly talked at all. He was pretty weak even at that point. And I certainly didn’t say anything to Bruno that would get him all agitated. Although I wanted to, believe me.”

“About the stuff at the U.S. Attorney’s Office?”

“Among other things.”

“Did you ever have any proof?”

“Bruno was a lawyer, he covered his tracks well. His shit never stunk. He was long gone before it all came out.”

“Well, I guess you’re not really sorry he disappeared.”

“John Bruno can go to hell. In fact, I hope he’s already there.”

King leaned forward, and this time he put his hand on top of hers. “Millie, this is really important. Despite your husband’s autopsy being inconclusive, there is evidence that suggests he might have been poisoned, perhaps with methanol. You see, that method of poisoning would have been disguised in the embalming process. His death and his body’s being at that funeral home started this whole thing rolling. Whoever took Bruno couldn’t have left that to chance. Your husband had to be there at a certain time, meaning he had to die on a certain date.”

“That’s what the FBI said, but I’m telling you that no one could have been poisoning Bill. I would have known about it. I was with him every day.”

“Just you? Your husband was very ill before he died. Did you have any help? Anyone who came by? Any medication that he took?”

“Yes. And the FBI took it all to analyze and found nothing. I ate the same food, drank the same water. And I’m fine.”

King sat back and sighed. “Someone impersonated you at the funeral home.”

“So I heard. Well, I look good in black; it goes well with my new hair color.” She looked at King’s half-empty glass. “Would you like another?” He shook his head. She said, “Bill was a Scotch man too, right up to the end. It was one of the few pleasures he had left. Kept his own stash of twenty-five-year-old Macallan’s.” She chuckled. “He had some every night. I’d just pour a shot in his feeding tube using a big syringe. Eating he could have cared less about, but he looked forward to his Scotch even through his belly, and the man made it to eighty, not bad.”

“I bet you keep a good supply on hand.”

She smiled. “At our age, what’s left?”

King looked down at his glass. “How about you? Ever drink Scotch?”

“Never touch the stuff. Like I said, gin is my game. Scotch is too much like paint thinner. If you want to clear your sinuses out, by all means drink the stuff.”

“Well, thanks again. We’ll be in touch. Enjoy your evening.” King rose and started to turn away. He looked over at Joan, her drink and cigarette in hand, and he froze.

Paint thinner?

He whirled back around. “Millie, can you show me Bill’s special stash of Scotch?”