As Time Goes By

  But the question buoyed him immensely. Mike was a smart guy and that was his take on the boyfriend issue. Great! When Betsy’s found guilty, I get everything, he thought, every last dime.

  The bartender was putting Mike’s drink in front of him. Suddenly upbeat, Alan shrugged off the fact that his cash supply was dwindling rapidly. “Don’t forget me,” he told the bartender as he pointed to his empty glass.

  Three hours later, somewhat unsteady on his feet, he was back in his apartment. The light on his phone was blinking. “Call me first thing in the morning” was the brief message.

  “What’s that about?” Alan wondered nervously.

  He slept fitfully that night. At eight o’clock the next morning he placed the call.

  When the conversation was over he buried his face in his hands and began to sob.

  28

  By this point in the trial, Delaney could see the ever-increasing stress on the face of Betsy Grant. Her complexion was pale to the point of pallor and she walked into court as though she was forcing herself to enter the room instead of fleeing from it. On every court date day she wore the same kind of subdued clothing, a jacket and skirt in either dark blue or dark gray. And the same single strand of pearls, pearl earrings and her wide gold wedding band.

  It seemed to Delaney that in even these few weeks Grant had lost weight, so that instead of looking slender, she had a distinct aura of fragility about her. Even so, she sat straight in her seat, her expression calm except when the blow that killed her husband came up in testimony. Delaney could see that when that happened, Betsy closed her eyes as though trying to shut out the mental picture that she was seeing.

  The courtroom remained packed every day. Delaney began to identify some of Betsy’s supporters, parents from the school where she had been a teacher and friends from the community. At the lunch break she interviewed some of them and without exception they heatedly declared that it was impossible to conceive of the thought that Betsy Grant was a murderer.

  She knew that she had to report on the six o’clock news what had happened, not express an opinion that she could not shake, her growing feeling that no matter what the evidence suggested, Betsy Grant was innocent.

  “The thing I noticed,” she told Don Brown after they went off the air, “is that Betsy does not seem to have any family supporting her at the trial. I did find out that she was an only child, and that her mother died about twenty years ago, and that her father lives in Florida and is remarried. Wouldn’t you think that he would be up here to be with Betsy at this time?”

  Without hesitation Don replied, “You bet I would be.” He paused. “Unless of course the father is too old or too sick to make the trip.”

  Delaney slid her laptop over to allow Don to view the screen.

  “This was on Facebook yesterday. It’s Betsy Grant’s father, Martin Ryan, with his grandsons at a football game at their high school in Naples.”

  The picture was of a vigorous-looking, seventyish man broadly smiling with his arms around two boys who appeared to be about fifteen and sixteen. The message under the picture was, “As proud as I can be of my grandkids. Both on an undefeated team. How lucky I am!”

  Don Brown read the post and then, incredulous, turned to Betsy. “His daughter’s on trial for murdering her husband and this jerk is bragging about his grandchildren?”

  “Step-grandchildren,” Delaney corrected him. “And his daughter, his flesh and blood, his only child, doesn’t have a single relative there to support her.”

  She waited while Don reread the Facebook post with increasing disbelief, then said, “Don, I have a hunch that this obvious estrangement between Betsy Grant and her father may be a part of a whole scenario. I’m going to do some background investigating on my own time.”

  29

  Jon Cruise, dressed casually but expensively, was making the rounds of the hot nightclubs in SoHo. His good looks, an expensive Rolex watch prominent on his wrist and a handsome tip to the greeters—or non-greeters—at the door insured his welcome even at places where he was told, “no table available, but you’re welcome at the bar, sir.”

  Within a week he began to see the pattern of celebrities, some of them on the A-list, and also regular patrons, many of whom appeared to him to be on drugs. Discreet inquiries resulted in a question about what he wanted and being told to meet someone in the men’s room to conclude a deal.

  With money bankrolled by the Washington Post, Jon made two transactions. An analysis of the pills by a private laboratory showed that what he had bought was diluted, and not the high quality that he was interested in obtaining.

  Ten days after his interview with Lucas Harwin and his wife, Jon was surprised to receive a phone call from the film legend asking him to come to his office as soon as possible.

  “I’m in the middle of producing a documentary,” Harwin explained. “It’s on a tight deadline which actually is a good thing. But I have to go to the set in Massachusetts this weekend, and I don’t want to go until I show you some possible leads to Steven’s supplier.”

  Jon knew what he meant. The best way to handle grief was to be busy.

  When he arrived at the office, he was surprised to find that it was relatively small and plainly furnished. But then he remembered that Harwin Enterprises’ main headquarters was in Hollywood.

  The receptionist greeted him by saying, “Mr. Harwin is expecting you. Come right in.”

  Lucas was dressed casually in an open-neck shirt and long-sleeved sweater. His desk had all the signs of a hands-on producer, with scripts scattered on top, their pages heavily annotated with Post-it notes.

  Jon could see glossy pictures of familiar faces hanging on the wall. He wondered if they were in the documentary.

  The deep lines on Harwin’s face and the sadness in his eyes were evident, but he greeted Jon with a brisk handshake. From a corner of his desk, Lucas picked up a pile of papers and slid them across. “I’ve been going through Steven’s things,” he explained. “I was hoping that I would find something, anything that might be a tie to his supplier.”

  “And did you?” Jon asked quickly.

  “I don’t know. This may mean nothing but these are the last three months of Steven’s E-ZPass statements. Also the E-ZPass bill for the month he overdosed and nearly died a year and a half ago. Read them and see if anything jumps out at you.”

  Carefully Jon read line by line the bill for the last month of Steven Harwin’s life and then read the bill for the month prior to his earlier overdose.

  With a start he saw what Lucas wanted him to find. In the three weeks before his death, Steven’s E-ZPass showed two trips to New Jersey. On the bill before his previous relapse, he had gone over the George Washington Bridge three times in less than three weeks.

  Jon looked up and asked, “The trips to New Jersey?”

  “Exactly. Sure, Steven had friends in New Jersey, but why would he have gone there so frequently in the short period before he lapsed into using drugs again?”

  “You think his supplier might have been in New Jersey?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Have the police told you anything about his cell phone records?”

  “Yes. They told me they got a court order and went through the last year of his calls and there is nothing to a doctor or pharmacist. They did say that it’s entirely possible that he also had one of those disposable phones where you just buy the minutes and there’s no name attached to the phone. Let’s face it,” Lucas said wearily, “the supplier was selling the pills illegally and Steven was buying them illegally. He didn’t want to leave a trail.”

  “Do you have anything else that points to New Jersey?”

  “Yes I do.” Lucas Harwin opened the top drawer of his desk. “This Visa bill just came in and it may narrow it down. Steven ate at the Garden State Diner in Fort Lee. Only one week ago.”

  As he passed the bill across the desk to Jon, he said, “Steven used a credit card for every purchase right down to
a coffee at Starbucks. He’d joke that if he paid cash, he’d miss out on the rewards points for free airline flights.”

  As Jon looked at the bill, Harwin again reached into the drawer and pulled out two bank statements, one from the month of his son’s earlier relapse and the second covering the last several weeks. “Jon, take a look at these and tell me what stands out.”

  Jon’s eyes scanned the transactions and then were drawn to the section of the earlier statement which showed two cash withdrawals of six hundred dollars each. They were on the day before and on the day he had actually driven to Fort Lee, one day prior to his earlier relapse. The second statement showed thirteen hundred dollars being withdrawn just before his final visit to Fort Lee, three days before he died.

  Harwin’s voice had become agitated. Jon could see that he was choking with anger.

  “My son wouldn’t have any reason to go to Fort Lee, New Jersey, twice in the short time before he died, and absolutely no reason to have a lot of cash in his pocket, unless that was where his supplier lived or worked.”

  “The trail does appear to be leading to Fort Lee,” Jon agreed. “But it may not help us all that much. I know that Fort Lee is full of large, upscale condo buildings. People like overlooking the Hudson River. It also has plenty of one-family homes and businesses.”

  “There’s another point that might help us. Steven was very faithful about going to meetings for addicts. His counselor called me yesterday. When he had the previous relapse, the counselor had warned him that these pills under any circumstances are dangerous, but if he’s getting them from a street dealer, he has no idea what’s in them.”

  Lucas’ lips pressed together as if he was trying to suppress a flood of expletives. “The counselor said that Steven had told him that that was one thing he didn’t have to worry about. His supplier was a doctor.”

  “That’s not uncommon, I’m afraid,” Jon said quietly. “Unfortunately we frequently find that a doctor is the supplier.”

  “Have these doctors ever reminded themselves that they took the Hippocratic oath?” Lucas asked sarcastically.

  “Mr. Harwin,” Jon said firmly, “the Washington Post research staff is the best in the business. I’m going to call in what you suspect, that a doctor in Fort Lee is the supplier. We’ll check the list for any suspected doctor dealers we may have there and we’ll especially focus on any of them that are in close proximity to the Garden State Diner. There’s always the chance that we’ll be able to come across some connection.”

  As he got up to leave, Lucas reached out his hand. “Jon, as I told you last week, I don’t want anyone else to become the victim of the despicable swine who killed my son.”

  30

  As soon as they got home from seeing Bridget O’Keefe, Alvirah made the call to Edith Howell, the neighbor of Victoria Carney.

  “Oh, Victoria felt so guilty about that adoption,” she told Alvirah. “She said that even as a tiny girl, Delaney was asking about her birth mother. Victoria blamed herself for arranging the private adoption. If the Wrights had been able to adopt Delaney through a reputable agency, she would have been able to trace her birth mother. I do know Victoria went back to that house in Philadelphia a short time before she died to see if she could get any information.”

  “How long ago was that?” Alvirah asked quickly.

  “It was just after the house where Delaney was born was taken down for the tile factory. Victoria was so terribly disappointed. I know that she told me that she rang the neighbors’ bells on either side of the new building to ask about that midwife. Victoria did speak to one of them. She told her that Delaney was born on March 16th, what would now be twenty-six years ago. The neighbor remembered something about the day Delaney was born, but it wasn’t enough to go on. Victoria never told me exactly what it was.”

  “She spoke to a neighbor?” Alvirah exclaimed.

  “Yes, she rang a couple of bells on the street but only one of the neighbors was home. I don’t know the name. That isn’t much to tell you.”

  Alvirah fervently thanked Edith Howell. “If that neighbor is still there, it might give us a lead,” she said hopefully.

  • • •

  Two days after speaking to Edith Howell, Alvirah and Willy put the Oak Street address back in the navigation system. “Well here we are again,” Alvirah said cheerfully when they saw the WELCOME TO PHILADELPHIA sign.

  “Yes, we are,” Willy agreed, “and let’s hope this time we get a little more information.”

  “I blame myself for not ringing the doorbell of the neighbor on the other side of the factory,” Alvirah said.

  It did not occur to Willy to say that he was inclined to agree. Although the Yankees were his first love, he had been swept up in the excitement as the Mets were battling down to the wire with the Philadelphia Phillies for the division title. He knew he could have asked Alvirah to wait a few days to make this trip, but he sensed that she was red-hot anxious to follow this particular lead.

  It was an overcast day and drizzling on and off. When they turned onto Oak Street it looked as dreary as both of them had remembered.

  They parked outside the tile factory and once more Alvirah suggested, “Willy, you’d better stay in the car again. This neighbor, if she’s still there, might be nervous if the two of us arrive on her doorstep.”

  This time Willy had no objection to staying in the car. He immediately turned on the radio.

  Alvirah got out of the car and walked past the tile factory to the house next door to it. It was the kind of house she often cleaned, a Cape with a dormer. It could have used a coat of paint, but the lawn was trim and the plants under the front window were obviously well tended.

  Well, let’s hope whoever lives here doesn’t slam the door in my face, Alvirah thought, as she rang the doorbell. But a moment later the door was opened by a seventyish man wearing a Philadelphia Phillies jersey.

  Alvirah spoke first. “I’m Alvirah Meehan and I’m helping a young woman who was born next door who is trying to trace her birth mother. And I’m also a columnist.”

  Through the partially opened door she saw a woman approaching. She had obviously heard what Alvirah had said. “Joe, it’s okay. This woman was interviewing Jane Mulligan last week. Jane told me about her.”

  It was obvious that Joe resented being told what to do. “Okay, come in,” he said reluctantly.

  As Alvirah entered the house she could hear the baseball game on in the living room. It was very loud and she guessed that Joe was hard of hearing. “You’ve got the game on,” she said. “I don’t want to interrupt.”

  “I’m Diana Gibson,” his wife said, her attitude day-and-night different from her husband’s. “Come into the kitchen and we can talk.”

  Gratefully, Alvirah followed the woman into a small but neat kitchen.

  “Sit down, sit down,” she was urged. “Don’t mind my husband. He’s the biggest baseball fan on the face of the earth.”

  “My husband is too,” Alvirah said, “and with the Mets battling for the playoffs, he’s happy as a clam.”

  For the moment she felt guilty about Willy sitting in the car listening to the game instead of being in his comfortable chair in the apartment watching it with a can of beer in his hand. Then she dismissed the idea. She began, “I know your neighbor, Mrs. Mulligan, isn’t happy about the warehouse being built next door. How do you feel about it?”

  “I’m okay with it. Our taxes went down and that’s a big help, and Sam, who owns the factory, is a very nice man. When it snows he has his plow guy do our driveway too.”

  “Did Mrs. Mulligan tell you that I asked her about Cora Banks, the woman who owned the house that was torn down for the factory?”

  “Yes, she did. Cora’s leaving was no loss to the neighborhood. I guess Jane told you that she was a midwife and that cars were regularly parked in front of the house. Pregnant girls would arrive in one car; hours later people in another car would leave with a baby in their arms. I thought Cora w
as running a private adoption service, but then when the police came with a warrant for her arrest, I realized that she was selling babies. Isn’t that awful?”

  “Yes, it is,” Alvirah agreed. “A regular adoption service would look into the adoptive parents and screen them carefully. I guess Cora was selling them to the highest bidder. Do you remember meeting Victoria Carney, a lady who years ago came looking for information about a baby being adopted here?”

  “Yes, I do. The reason I remember is because that woman told me the baby was born on March 16th, ten years before. March 16th is our wedding anniversary. And sixteen years ago, when the lady came, was our thirtieth anniversary. That’s why it’s very clear to me. I told her that the day the baby was born I had been walking the dog when I saw a couple arrive with a pregnant girl who was crying. They had her by both arms and were hustling her into Cora’s house. She was a very pretty girl and obviously in labor. Their car was an old black Ford with Jersey plates.”

  Alvirah held her breath, then asked hopefully, “By any miracle do you remember the license plate number of the car?”

  “Oh, no. I’m so sorry.”

  Alvirah found it hard to hide her disappointment. No wonder Victoria told Edith Howell that whatever information she got wasn’t helpful, she thought, as she got up to go.

  After thanking Mrs. Gibson profusely, she left and started to walk to the car. Just as she passed the tile factory, the owner, Sam, opened the door.

  “Hey, am I glad to see you,” he said. “After you left I thought of something. I have a copy of the closing papers from the sale of the house from Cora Banks to me and I remembered that her lawyer’s name was on it. I wrote it down in case you ever came back to buy something. I have it right inside.”

  He went behind the counter, took a folded sheet of paper from the drawer and held it out to her.