Split Second

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 aliving. 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 preciouseyesight 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 hislife. 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 apolitical 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