“Sure,” said Joan. “Maybe you have some more Buddys in there.”
Buddy opened the door and then immediately closed it. “I don’t like people looking at my stuff,” he said, staring at them anxiously.
King let out a long, exasperated sigh. “Okay, Buddy, your house, your rules.”
“Is this Sid’s room?” Joan was pointing to the door to the left of Buddy’s.
“Nope, this one.” Buddy opened the door to the right.
“Is this okay, Buddy?” asked King. “Can we go in?”
“Is this okay, Buddy? Can we go in?” Buddy repeated, looking at the two with a big smile.
Joan was scanning the hallway and saw no one watching. “I think it’s okay, Buddy. Why don’t you keep watch outside?” She slipped inside, and King followed and closed the door. A suddenly panicked-looking Buddy stood by the door.
Inside they looked around the Spartan quarters. “Sidney Morse’s fall was long and complete,” commented Joan.
“They often are,” King said distractedly as he examined the place. The smell of urine was very strong in here. King wondered how often the sheets were changed. There was a small table in the corner. On it were several photographs, all without frames. King picked them up. “I guess no sharp objects in the room like glass and metal.”
“Morse doesn’t look capable of suicide, or anything else for that matter.”
“You never know, he could swallow that tennis ball and choke to death.” King examined the pictures. There was one of two young men in their teens. One held a baseball bat. He said, “The Morse brothers. They look to be around high school age.” He held up another photo. “And I guess these are their parents.”
Joan joined him and looked at the photos. “Their mother was pretty homely.”
“Homely but rich. That makes a big difference to a lot of people.”
“The dad was very handsome.”
“As I said, the prominent lawyer.”
Joan took the photo and held it up. “Both boys took after their father. Sidney was chunky even back then but nice-looking. Peter was good-looking too… nice build, with the same eyes as his brother.” She studied the confident way he held the baseball bat. “He was probably a jock in high school who hit his peak at eighteen and went rapidly downhill from there. Drugs and bad news.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“How old would Peter be now?”
“A little younger than Sidney, so early fifties maybe.”
She gazed at Peter’s face. “Sort of a Ted Bundy type. Good looking and charming, and he’ll slit your throat the minute you let your guard down.”
“Reminds me of some women I’ve known.”
There was a small box in the corner. King went over and sifted through the contents. They included a number of old, yellowed newspaper clippings. Most chronicled Sidney Morse’s career.
Joan was peering over his shoulder. “Nice of his brother to bring this scrapbook of sorts along. Even if Sidney can’t read it.” King didn’t answer. He kept going through the pages.
King held up one very curled newspaper article. “This talks about Morse’s early career staging plays. I remember him telling me about it. He really put together these elaborate productions. I don’t think any of them made any money, though.”
“Not that he probably cared. The son of a rich mom can afford to dally like that.”
“Well, he gave it up at some point and started to really work for a living. Although you could say he ran Ritter’s campaign like a stage production.”
“Anything else before we officially rule Sidney Morse a complete and total dead end?” she asked.
“Shouldn’t we look under the bed?” asked King.
Joan eyed him disdainfully. “That’s a boy job.”
King sighed and cautiously peered under the bed. He rose quickly.
“Well?” she asked.
“You don’t want to know. Let’s get out of here.”
As they left the room, Buddy was right there waiting.
“Thanks for your help, Buddy,” Joan said. “You’ve been a real peach.”
He looked at Joan excitedly. “Kiss Buddy?”
“I already did, Buddy,” she reminded him politely.
Buddy suddenly looked ready to cry. “No, this Buddy.” He pointed to himself.
Joan’s mouth dropped, and she glanced at King, obviously looking for help.
“Sorry, that’s a girl job,” he said, grinning.
Joan gazed at the pitiful Buddy, swore under her breath and then suddenly grabbed him and planted a big one right on the little man’s lips.
She turned, wiped her face and muttered to King, “The things I do for a million bucks.” Then she stalked out.
“Bye, Buddy,” said King, and he left.
A very happy Buddy waved frantically and said, “Bye, Buddy.”
CHAPTER
39
THE 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.”
CHAPTER
40
AFTER 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
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