As Time Goes By (26 page)

Who else could have done it? Carmen Sanchez and Angela Watts each had been left twenty-five thousand dollars in Dr. Grant's will. The estate lawyer had testified to that. But did either of them know that before he died?

What about Dr. Grant's former partners? They had severed their partnership soon after Dr. Grant had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease and each had gone his separate way.

There is no other plausible suspect, Delaney thought in despair.

At nine o'clock Tuesday morning she was in the office of the executive producer with the door closed. “I have to recuse myself from reporting on the Betsy Grant trial,” she began. When she gave her reason, the usually imperturbable expression on Kathleen Gerard's face changed into one of incredulity and then compassion.

“Delaney, of course we have to take you off the trial. And I understand your fear that your mother is going to get convicted.”

Delaney nodded. “I'm so sure she's innocent and I feel so helpless.”

After a brief pause, she continued. “I have two requests. Would it be okay if, starting today, I take some personal time, maybe a week?”

Gerard answered quickly. “Of course, Delaney. Take as much time as you need.”

“Thank you. And right now nobody except you and two of my close friends know about my relationship to Betsy Grant and Peter Benson. If it's okay, I'd like to keep it that way for the time being.”

“You have my word,” Gerard promised.

P
eter Benson, reeling from the impact of seeing a Facebook post of a pregnant young Betsy and then hearing the radio reports of the testimony that he was the father, did not know what to do.

Every instinct made him want to drive up to Alpine and be with Betsy, but he knew that at this crucial point in the trial he needed to stay away from her.

She was suffering alone all these years, after being forced to give up our baby and being too ashamed to search for her, he thought. He remembered Betsy's father all too well. In July, the summer after he and Betsy graduated from Hawthorne High School, Mr. Ryan had phoned and told him not to call Betsy again, that she was going to wait a year before starting college. “She's too young to go away,” Martin Ryan had said, “and she's too young to be seeing so much of you or of anyone else.”

Peter remembered clearly how angry Betsy's father sounded when he delivered the message. Then he thought about Betsy's mother. She clearly had been browbeaten by her husband and was already suffering from the cancer that took her life six years later.

Peter remembered how he had written to both Betsy and her father to express his sympathy at the time of Mrs. Ryan's death and had not heard back from either one of them.

Then he thought over and over, I have a twenty-six-year-old daughter somewhere out there? Who does she look like? I have brown eyes; Betsy has blue. Doesn't brown usually predominate over blue?

He had taken the day off because ever since he had testified at the trial, he had known that the gossip on campus was all about him and Betsy. He had wanted to be at home when the news reports on her testimony began coming in.

After his wife died, Peter had sold their house and moved to a condo within walking distance of the campus. He and Annette were both disappointed that they had never had a child. They had gone for in vitro three times and she had miscarried every time.

I became a father when I was eighteen, Peter thought. If I had known that, would I have chosen to quit college and get a job? I don't know. I can't picture myself as an eighteen-year-old anymore.

On the witness stand Betsy said she had wanted to keep the baby, but her father had sold her for the highest price. Who got her? Was she even in this country?

At 7
P.M.
his mother phoned. Now seventy-three, widowed for four years, she said, “Oh Peter, how happily Dad and I would have taken the baby. If only we had known. Knowing how close you two were, I was always suspicious of the way Betsy decided to defer college and take off for Milwaukee. If only I had followed my instincts and gone to see her there.”

A few minutes later he could not wait any longer and called Betsy. When she answered the phone, her voice was low and tired and sad. “Peter, I know I'm going to be found guilty. I hope you will try to find our baby. And if you do, please convince her that her mother is not a murderer.”

A
fter ten more burglaries and a winning streak at blackjack in Atlantic City, Tony, as usual, had stayed at the tables too long and given it all back.

At square one again, he thought morosely, as he drove into Saddle River, New Jersey.

He still had the bracelet. Oh, sure, he could get thirty thousand for it from the pawnshop even if it had been reported missing, but then he'd lose his one bargaining chip if he ever got caught doing a job again.

One
big
bargaining chip, he reminded himself.

But now it was time to make another score. He'd been hired as a window washer again. It wasn't hard to get that job. People were having their fall cleanups, and for many that included their twice-a-year window washing.

He was on the third day at one of those big mansions in ritzy Saddle River. When he was doing the windows in the master bedroom, he had taken a quick look around. In one of the closets they had one of those joke safes, exactly like the one in Betsy Grant's bedroom. It would be a cinch to open it.

Tony wasn't sure he was going to do it, but just in case he disconnected one of the balcony doors outside the master bedroom from the alarm system.

But then his boss at the window-washing company asked him when he'd be finished. “Tomorrow afternoon at the latest,” Tony assured him.

“You'd better be. The family is going on a cruise and they don't want anyone working in the house while they're gone.”

Perfect timing, Tony thought. The stepladder that he always carried in his car was high enough to let him shimmy up to the balcony.

Of course they probably had security cameras all over a place like this. But when he got near the property, he'd stop and cover his license plates with a heavy cloth, and wear dark clothes and a ski mask. It was all in the planning. If the alarm went off, he'd be back on Route 17 before the cops had turned on the engine of a patrol car.

It was tricky. Tony knew that. But he loved the rush of satisfaction that came with beating the system. And if something went wrong, he could always use the bracelet to play
Let's Make a Deal.

He had waited over the weekend until late Monday night to be sure the family was bye-bye on the cruise, then at one in the morning gone back to the house. When he turned off the highway, he stopped to cover the license plates. Unaware that a patrol car was in the vicinity and observing his actions, he got back in the car and drove to the house he was planning to rob.

The driveway in front of the house was circular, but also continued around to a parking area in the backyard. Tony left his car back there and, carrying his ladder, cautiously made his way to the front of the house. There he unfolded the stepladder, climbed to the top and hoisted himself up onto the balcony. As he began to pick the door lock, a glaring spotlight was trained on him and a voice boomed through a loudspeaker ordering him to put his hands in the air and freeze.

A
t 1:15
A.M.
on Tuesday Tony Sharkey, handcuffed in the back of a police car, was driven by the arresting officer to the Saddle River police station. He was taken to the booking area, where he went through a process very familiar to him. He was photographed, fingerprinted and asked the usual questions about his name, date of birth and address.

He was then walked down the hall to the Detective Bureau. Detective William Barrett was waiting for him.

“Mr. Sharkey,” he began, “I have been informed by the arresting officer that when you were given your Miranda warnings at the scene, you indicated that you wanted to talk to a detective. Is that correct, sir?”

“Yes,” Tony agreed, his tone resigned.

“As the officer told you at the scene, and I will now repeat, you have a right to remain silent. You have a right to an attorney before you answer any questions. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. And finally, if you choose to answer questions, you may stop answering at any time. Do you understand all of this?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know it by heart.”

“All right, Mr. Sharkey, were you attempting to break into the home where you were arrested?”

“Of course I was. Why do you think I was up on the balcony in the middle of the night? I wasn't picking no apples.”

“I'm sure you weren't picking apples, sir,” the detective replied sarcastically. “What were you going to do when you got inside the house?”

“Look for some jewelry and cash.”

“Was anybody else with you?”

“No, I'm always the Lone Ranger.”

“So, sir, what is it you want to tell me?”

“You know that big trial going on in Hackensack where they charged that rich lady with killing her husband? You know, that dude with Alzheimer's?”

“I'm familiar with the trial,” Barrett said crisply. “What about it?”

“I had worked at the house washing the windows a couple of days before. I was in the house the night the doctor got whacked. I didn't do it, but I don't think his wife did it either.”

“You were in the house that night?” Barrett asked incredulously. “What were you doing there?”

“I was helping myself to a piece of jewelry. I took a bracelet. I still have it.”

“You still have it? Where is it?”

“It's at my pad in Moonachie. The cop who arrested me took my keys. You can go there right now and get it. It's stuffed with diamonds and emeralds.”

“Where will we find it?”

“It's in a paper bag under a loose tile in the floor, under the bathroom sink.”

Detective William Barrett had no idea whether Tony Sharkey was crazy or really had something important. But there was no question they had to check it out immediately.

He turned to the other officer in the room. “Get me the keys from his property envelope. Mr. Sharkey, please sign this consent form.

Tony quickly scribbled his signature on the form.

“Okay, we'll send the officers to your apartment right now. I'll talk to you again when we see if they find anything.”

“Good,” Tony replied. “And tell them there's nothing else in the apartment. Don't mess up my décor.”

Rolling his eyes, Barrett said, “We'll take you to the holding cell now.”

“Oh, one more thing. After you get the bracelet, call Wally's Window Washers in Paramus. Ask them to send you the names of the guys who were working at Grant's house in Alpine the two days before the dude died.”