Split Second (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 1)

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?”