“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.”
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 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.