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“Mildred, let me tell you what they’re undoubtedly doing right now. They’re accessing your bank records to determine how you paid ‘Lizzie.’ Your records won’t reflect any such payments. Next they’ll question your ‘nosy’ neighbors about this woman, and they’ll say they never saw her, because she doesn’t exist. And finally the FBI will be back to see you, and you can be certain that visit will be very unpleasant.”
She looked worried. “You really think they’d check all that?”
“They’re the FBI, Mildred. They’re not stupid. Not stupid like you.”
He stepped closer to her. She now saw what he was carrying: a metal pole.
She started to scream, but he lunged forward and stuffed a wad of cloth down her throat and wound duct tape around her mouth and hands. Gripping her by the hair, he pulled her down the hallway and pushed open a door. “I’ve taken the liberty of drawing a bath for you, Mildred. I want you nice and clean when you’re found.”
He dumped her in the full bathtub, and the water sloshed over the sides. She tried to pull herself out, but he pushed her back under with the pole. With the duct tape across her mouth, and her smoke-packed lungs, she lasted less than half the time Loretta Baldwin had. He grabbed a bottle of Scotch from the cabinet, poured the contents into the bath and then smashed it against her head. Lastly he ripped the tape off her mouth, opened it and stuffed it full of dollar bills he’d pulled from her purse.
Where does one have to go to get reliable help these days? Where!
He looked down at her and said, “Just be glad you’re dead, Mildred. Just be glad you don’t have to feel my rage right now, because it’s right off the scale!”
When he made his plans, he had contemplated killing Mildred too but concluded it would have raised too much suspicion. That decision had come back to haunt him. Still, there was no way to track her culpability back to him. It would be clear, though, that the same hand had struck down both Loretta Baldwin and Mildred Martin. That would probably confuse the authorities more than it would assist them. He didn’t like it yet it couldn’t be helped now. He scornfully looked down at her. Idiot woman!
He left by the back door and looked toward the end of the street, where he knew the FBI was lurking. “Go get her, boys,” he muttered. “She’s all yours.”
A few minutes later the old Buick started up and drifted down the road.
CHAPTER
43
THE PRIVATE PLANE Joan had engaged was like an upscale club with wings and jet engines. It had mahogany paneling, leather seats, a TV, full galley, bar, accompanying steward and even a small bedroom, where Joan had gone to catch a nap. King remained in his seat, eventually dozing off. The funeral home had yielded nothing helpful. The plane was taking them to Washington, D.C. Joan had wanted to check some things at her office before heading out again.
As the plane began its final approach, Joan burst out of the bedroom. The steward called out to her, “Ma’am, you have to take your seat now—”
She gave him a withering look and kept running up the aisle.
She reached King, who was still asleep, and shook him.
“Sean, wake up. Now!”
He didn’t budge. She straddled his legs, so that she was on his lap face-to-face, and started to slap him. “Wake up, damn it!”
He finally came around, groggy. When he focused on her and saw she was sitting, barefoot, skirt hiked and thighs spread, across his lap, he said, “Christ, Joan, get off me. I’m not looking for membership in the mile-high club.”
“You idiot. This is about Mildred Martin.”
Sean sat up straight now, and she climbed off, taking a seat next to him and buckling up.
“So talk!” he demanded.
“You told me Mildred said that Bruno called recently to tell Bill Martin about his running for president? And that she talked to him too?”
“Right. So?”
“So you heard the woman’s voice. It’s like a foghorn. Are you telling me that if Bruno recently heard that voice that someone could have later called and impersonated her voice and he wouldn’t have known the deception?”
King slapped his armrest. “That’s right! I mean how do you do that voice unless you’ve been smoking and drinking for fifty years?”
“And have adenoids the size of golf balls.”
“So she lied to us. She did call Bruno and asked him to come and see her at the funeral home.”
Joan nodded. “And that’s not all. I called Agent Reynolds with the FBI. He wasn’t exactly candid with us. They thought from the start that her story was phony. He’s checking out something that will definitely tell us whether she was in on it or not. Now, the Martins didn’t have a lot of money, so how could they afford a caregiver?”
