David Baldacci - Split Second

"And now where is this very accommodating lady?"

"She said she'd gotten a permanent job in another town, and that was it. Hasn't been back."

"Obviously she did come back," said Joan.

Reynolds nodded. "Our theory is the woman came back to the house the day before Martin died and doctored the bottle, to make sure his next drink would be his last. The bottle of Scotch we found was loaded with methanol. Now, methanol is slow to metabolize into toxic levels. You're looking at twelve to twenty-four hours. If he'd been young and healthy and been found immediately, maybe Martin could have made it to a hospital and survived. But he wasn't young or healthy; he was terminal, in fact. And the Martins also didn't sleep together. After Mildred gave her husband the last pop through his G-tube, the pain probably would have hit him very soon. And he only weighed about ninety pounds. Normally you'd need one hundred to two hundred milliliters of methanol to kill an adult. I doubt they needed anywhere near that to kill Martin."

Reynolds shook his head and smiled wearily. "It's ironic they put it in the Scotch. Scotch contains ethanol, which is an antidote tomethanol, because they both seek the same enzyme. However, there was so much methanol in the bottle the ethanol couldn't have countered it. Martin might have called out in agony, but Mildred never heard him, or so she says. So he might have lain there all night until he finally died. It's not like he could get out of bed for help. He was a complete invalid by that time."

"Mildred was probably passed out on gin. She likes her libations too," said King.

Joan added, "And this nurse obviously had learned the routine of the house, that both of them drank and didn't sleep together. Once she learned he was a Scotch drinker and had his own stash, and also that Mildred never touched the stuff, she had her method of murder. She'd appear to be long gone before the deed was done."

Reynolds nodded. "He could have been killed any number of ways, but it had to be in a manner that wouldn't require an autopsy, because that would have messed up the timing. Martin had to die in his bed. So he did, and Mildred found him there and assumed he died naturally, although the docs tell me death by methanol is by no means peaceful. And methanol metabolizes into formaldehyde, which is toxic, but then it's oxidized into formic acid. That's six times more lethal than methanol."

"So Martin was basically pickled before he got to the funeral home," said King.

"That's right. According to Bruno's staff, their boss was scheduled to be in the area that day and the next at a number of events. The procedure at the funeral home was for a body to lie in the viewing area for a couple of days. Martin died on a Monday, and he went to the funeral home Monday night. His body was laid out on Wednesday and Thursday, with burial scheduled for Friday. Bruno came by on Thursday."

"Still tight timing," said Joan.

Reynolds shrugged. "Probably the best they could do. Otherwise, how else could they get him to the funeral home? They couldn't verywell invite him to Martin's house. It was probably the funeral home or nothing. Sure it was risky but it worked."

"And none of the woman's background checked out, right?" said Joan.

Reynolds nodded. "To use a cliché, she's completely disappeared without a trace."

"Description?"

"Older woman, at least fifty, medium height, a little stout. She had mousy brown hair with some gray in it, though that could have been dyed. And get this: she told Mildred her name was Elizabeth Borden."

King exclaimed, "Elizabeth Borden, as in Lizzie Borden who gave her mother forty whacks?"

"And when she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty-one," added Joan.

"So we have some people with a real warped, macabre sense of humor," said Reynolds.

Joan eyed him intently. "Okay, they're intelligent killers who read their criminal history. They're still killers."

"Well, thanks again for your help. I don't know where this leads us, but it's more than we had before."

"What's going to happen to Mildred?" asked King.

Reynolds shrugged. "You can't arrest someone for being stupid; otherwise, you'd lock up at least half the population. Unless we dig up something incriminating, nothing will happen to her. But if she was in on it, seems like she'd have gotten rid of the Scotch." He turned to Joan. "I heard you were investigating Bruno's disappearance on behalf of the family. That's cool. I know you won't do anything stupid, and you've already found something we missed, so if you need something, just let me know."

"Funny you should mention that-I have a list right here," replied Joan.

As Joan and Reynolds talked business, King watched MildredMartin emerge from the interrogation room. She didn't look like the same woman. Gregarious, salty, full of punch when he first met her, she now looked like she'd soon be joining her dead husband.

After Reynolds walked off, Sean looked at Joan. "Now where?" he asked.

"We go to the funeral home."

"The feds already picked that field clean."

"Yeah, just like they did with Mildred Martin. Besides, I like funeral homes. You hear the most delicious gossip about the dearly departed, usually from their friends ."

"Joan, you really are a cynic."

"Admit it. It's one of my most attractive qualities."

The police dropped off Mildred Martin at her house and then left. Down the street, at the end of the block, a black sedan melded into the darkness, a pair of alert FBI agents inside.

The old woman staggered into the house and locked the door behind her. She needed a drink so badly. Why had she done what she'd done? It was all so perfect, and she'd gone and messed it up, but then she'd recovered. Yes, she had. Everything was okay. She reached for the gin and filled her tumbler, using barely any tonic.

She drank down half the glass; her nerves began to steady. It would be okay; everything was fine. She was old, what could the FBI really do to her? They had nothing really; she was going to be okay.

"Mildred, how are you?"

She dropped her tumbler and let out a shriek.

"Who's there?" She backed up against the liquor cabinet.

The man came forward a little but remained in the shadows.

"It's your old friend."

She squinted at him. "I don't know you."

"Of course you do. I'm the man who helped you kill your husband."

She lifted up her chin. "I did not kill Bill."

"Well, Mildred, the methanol you put in his body certainly did. And you made the phone call to Bruno, just like I asked you to."

She looked more closely. "That… that was you?"

He moved forward some more. "I let you get your revenge on John Bruno and become rich with life insurance in the bargain, and found a way for you to put your poor, sick husband out of his misery. And all I asked was for you to play by the rules. That was all I demanded and you've disappointed me."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said in a quivering voice.

"The rules, Mildred. My rules. And those rules didn't include another trip to the police station and further interrogation by the FBI."

"It was those people who came here asking questions."

"Yes, King and Dillinger, I know. Go on," he said pleasantly.

"I… I was just talking to them. I told them what you said to say. About Bruno, I mean. Just like you said."

"You were obviously more than candid. Come now, Mildred, tell me everything."

The woman was shaking badly.

He said soothingly, "Calm down, pour yourself another drink."

She did so and downed it. "I… we were talking about Scotch. I told him Bill liked his Scotch, that's all. I swear."

"And you put the methanol in the bottle of Scotch?"