A fter 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.

They rang the bell and knocked on the door, but no one answered.

"I don't understand. I called ahead," said Joan.

"Let's check around back. You said she's a drinker. She could be back there getting wasted."

In the small backyard they found Mildred Martin sitting at a wicker table on a lumpy, moss-covered brick patio, having a drink, smoking a cigarette and admiring her garden. She was about seventy-five, had the heavily wrinkled face of a lifelong smoker and sun worshiper and wore a lightweight print dress and sandals in the warm, breezy air. Her hair was dyed. Other than the gray roots, the primary color was a sort of orange. The smell of citronella filled the air from a bucket of the substance that sat lighted under the table.

After introductions were made, Mildred said, "I like sitting back here. Even with the damn mosquitoes. This time of year the garden can really shine."

"We appreciate your seeing us," said King politely. He'd followed Joan's instructions and removed his head bandage.

Mildred waved them to seats at the table and held up her glass."I'm a gin girl and hate to drink alone. What can I get you?" Her voice was deep and gravelly, permanently engraved with decades of liquor and cigarettes.

"Screwdriver," said Joan with a quick glance at King. "I just love those."

"Scotch and soda," said King. "Can I help you?"

She laughed heartily. "Oh, if I were forty years younger, yes you could." With an impish smile she walked a little unsteadily to the house.

"She seems to have finished her mourning period," commented King.

"They were married forty-six years and by all accounts had a good relationship. Her husband was about eighty, in poor health and suffering great pain. Maybe there's not much to grieve about."

"Bill Martin was Bruno's mentor. How so?"

"Bruno worked for Martin when he first started as a criminal prosecutor in Washington. Martin taught Bruno the ropes."

"At the U.S. Attorney's Office?" asked King.

"That's right," she said.

King looked around. "Well, the Martins don't seem to be all that well off."

"Public service doesn't pay very well, we all know that. And Bill Martin didn't marry an heiress. They moved down here after he retired. Mildred grew up here."

"Well, nostalgia aside, it's not the sort of place I'd want to come rushing back to."

Mildred returned with their drinks on a tray and sat down. "Now, I guess you want to get down to brass tacks. I've already talked to the police. I really know nothing about any of this."

"We understand, Mrs. Martin," said King, "but we wanted to meet and talk with you personally."

"Lucky me. And please call me Millie. Mrs. Martin is my mother-in-law, and she's been dead for thirty years."

"Okay, Millie, we know you've talked to the police, and we know that they did an autopsy on your husband's body."

"God, that was a complete waste of time."

"Why's that?" Joan said sharply.

Mildred eyed her keenly. "Because no one poisoned him. He was an old man with terminal cancer who died peacefully in his own bed. If I can't drop in my garden, I'd prefer to go that way too."

"You know about the phone call to Bruno?"

"Yes, and I've already told the police I didn't place it. They checked my phone records. I guess they didn't believe me."

Joan leaned forward. "Yes, but the point is that Bruno was reportedly very agitated after getting the call. Can you explain why?"

"If I didn't make the call, how should I know? Unfortunately mind reading isn't among my repertoire. If it were, I'd be rich."

Joan persisted. "Look at it this way, Millie. Bruno and your husband were once close but no longer really were. Yet he gets a phone call, which he thinks is from you, asking to meet, and he gets agitated. The person calling would have had to say something plausible for that to happen, something that Bruno would logically associate with you or your husband."

"Well, perhaps it's as simple as the person's having told him Bill was dead. I hope that would have upset him. After all, they were friends."

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 fromthe 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." After she said this, she didn't remove her 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?"

She sat back down. "Bill was a good lawyer and an exceptionally bad judge of character. I have to hand it to Bruno; he said and did all the right things. Do you know that he called here to tell Bill he was running for president?"

King looked at her in surprise. "Really? When was that?"

"Couple of months ago. I answered the phone. Could have knocked me over with a stick hearing his voice. I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, but I didn't. I held my tongue. We chatted like two old friends. He told me all the great things he'd done, his wonderful life in Philadelphia society. It made me want to throw up. Then I gave the phone to Bill, and they talked for a while. All Bruno wanted to do was gloat and rub it in. Let Bill know he'd risen so much further than Bill ever had."

"I just assumed Bruno hadn't had any contact with either of you for years."

"Well, it was just the one phone call, and a damn irritating one at that."

"Did Bill say anything on the phone that might have led to Bruno's coming to see him at the funeral home?"

"No. Bill hardly talked at all. He was pretty weak even at that point. And I certainly didn't say anything to Bruno that would get him all agitated. Although I wanted to, believe me."

"About the stuff at the U.S. Attorney's Office?"

"Among other things."

"Did you ever have any proof?"

"Bruno was a lawyer, he covered his tracks well. His shit never stunk. He was long gone before it all came out."

"Well, I guess you're not really sorry he disappeared."

"John Bruno can go to hell. In fact, I hope he's already there."

King leaned forward, and this time he put his hand on top of hers. "Millie, this is really important. Despite your husband's autopsy being inconclusive, there is evidence that suggests he might have been poisoned, perhaps with methanol. You see, that method of poisoning would have been disguised in the embalming process. His death and his body's being at that funeral home started this whole thing rolling. Whoever took Bruno couldn't have left that to chance. Your husband had to be there at a certain time, meaning he had to die on a certain date."