Buddy nodded so hard his chin hit his chest.
“His room’s right next to mine. Wanna see?”
King looked at Joan. “We’re here.”
“In for a dime, in for a dollar,” she replied with a shrug.
Buddy took Joan’s hand and led them down a hallway. King and Joan weren’t sure they were supposed to be in this area without an attendant, but no one stopped them.
Buddy halted in front of one room and slapped the door. “This is my room! Wanna see? It’s cool.”
“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.”
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.