“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…”