As Time Goes By (4 page)

She corrected herself quickly. “I mean my birth mother.”

Alvirah's hand grazed the lapel of her jacket, turning off the microphone. “Let me put my thinking cap on,” she said decisively. “And anyhow, the pasta is here.”

They all looked on in anticipation as the waiter brought over steaming bowls of linguini with white clam sauce for Alvirah and Delaney, and spaghetti and meatballs for Willy.

Willy knew that it was time to change the subject. “To think that this used to be one of Frank Sinatra's favorite restaurants,” he said. “He'd be one hundred years old now. His songs sound a lot better than what is popular today.” He looked around. “Speaking of popularity, it looks like this restaurant is doing just fine.”

He changed the subject again. “Delaney, Alvirah tells me you'll be covering the Betsy Grant trial. What do you think her chances are of getting a not guilty verdict?”

“Slim,” Delaney said. “In fact I wouldn't be surprised if she's getting pressure to accept a plea deal.”

“Do you think she would take it?” Willy asked.

“Absolutely not. She should take her chances at a trial. I have a feeling that a lot more will come out about Ted Grant's son, Alan, than we know now. The gossip is that he's very, very broke.”

Delaney continued, “As everybody knows, when there's a murder, the first question they ask is, ‘who benefits?' His father's untimely departure from this life solves all of Alan Grant's financial problems. And of course the money his stepmother, Betsy, would have inherited all goes to him if she's found guilty.”

“I've thought of that,” Alvirah agreed.

“And something else,” Delaney added. “The word around the courthouse is that Robert Maynard may have been a hot-shot defense lawyer in his day, but his day is past. He's still traveling on his reputation because of getting some high-profile crooks off and still gets huge fees, but he is leaving the case preparation to inexperienced young lawyers in his firm.”

“We'll find out soon enough,” Alvirah said, as she unsuccessfully tried to wrap linguini around her fork and ended up dropping it back in the bowl.

A
nthony Sharkey, better known in certain circles as “Tony the Shark,” looked at the diamond-and-emerald bracelet he was fingering. He was in his small apartment in Moonachie, New Jersey. It was in the basement of a two-story frame house which, like his apartment, had an overall soiled and tired appearance.

The carpet under his feet was grimy, the walls desperately in need of fresh paint, the smell of mildew ever present in the air.

Tony was a heavy drinker and a compulsive gambler. No amount of treatment had managed to curb his thirst or his need to roll the dice. Sometimes after a stint at a safe house he had stayed clean for about a year. But then it would begin again. He'd lose the job he had, manage to find work as a busboy or window washer, and end up broke. That meant going to a shelter, and nothing was worse. Then he'd manage to get sober again and land another crummy job, rent a dump like this and barely have enough cash to feed himself.

His usual solution was to engage in a series of minor thefts, just enough to keep his head above water, pay his rent and head for the casinos in Atlantic City a few times a month. He was usually good at blackjack but lately he'd been having a streak of bad luck and he needed money.

He had a unique system of stealing that was a joke on the people he chose as his targets. There was almost no safe he couldn't open, especially those dopey crackerjack boxes that people kept in their bedroom closet. He never cleaned the safes out. That was because of his keen understanding of human nature and how people think. If somebody opened the safe and it was empty, they would know immediately what had happened and call the police. But when some broad looks in the safe and only one piece is missing, even if it's the best piece, she blames herself and starts trying to figure out when was the last time it was worn, and where it might have been left. After all, no thief in his right mind would leave all the other good jewelry behind, right? Wrong!

Whenever he did a job, he was careful to not disturb anything in the safe. If he had to move some stuff to get to the piece he had selected, he put it back exactly where it was. Most people never even reported to the cops that a diamond necklace or a pair of earrings was missing. They kept hoping they'd misplaced it and it would turn up.

Some of the lucky ones had insurance coverage for “mysterious disappearance.” They just don't know that I'm “Mr. Mysterious Disappearance,” Tony thought.

He looked ten years older than his age, which was thirty-seven. His medium brown hair was already streaked with gray and leaving his forehead rapidly. His shoulders were stooped and his light brown eyes were bleary even when he wasn't drinking.

He again counted all of the emeralds and diamonds in the bracelet. A fence once had told him he could get thirty thousand dollars for it. Of course it was probably worth a lot more than that, but thirty thousand was nothing to sneeze at. Tony had told the fence that he'd think about it. But something had warned him to hang on to it. And the initials on the clasp didn't help. “BG and TG.” How cute, Tony thought.

Now that the Betsy Grant trial was coming up, would it be worth his while to get in touch with her and tell her what he knew about the night her husband was murdered?

The trouble was that if he produced the bracelet, he'd have to explain how he got it, and as sure as God made little fishes, he'd end up in prison.

T
he offices of Robert Maynard occupied three floors of the gleaming tower that was the newest and most expensive building on the Avenue of the Americas.

When it was obvious that the prosecutor was treating her as a suspect in Ted's death, Betsy had asked her estate lawyer Frank Bruno to recommend a criminal defense attorney to her. It was only later that she realized that Bruno was convinced that she had murdered Ted. That was why he put her in touch with a seventy-five-year-old who had the reputation of being one of the best criminal defense lawyers in the country. And one of the most expensive.

Betsy stepped off the elevator on the forty-ninth floor, where a receptionist in a black suit and pearls received her with a gracious smile. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Grant. Mr. Maynard's associate will be right down to escort you to the conference room.”

Betsy knew that Mr. Maynard's associate was a young lawyer whose fee was eight hundred dollars an hour. She also knew that a second associate would be in the conference room and that after she was seated, Robert Maynard would grace her with his presence.

This time he kept her waiting for ten minutes. During that time the young lawyer who escorted her in . . . what was his name? Oh, yes, Carl Canon . . . tried to make small talk.

“How was the trip in from New Jersey?”

“The usual. It's seldom bad in the middle of the day.”

“I'm from North Dakota. I went to NYU for both college and law school. The minute the plane landed at Kennedy Airport the first time, I knew I was home.”

“My guess is that North Dakota can be pretty cold in the winter.” More meaningless conversation.

“North Dakota was trying to figure out a way to attract more tourists. Someone came up with the bright idea that they rename the state North Florida.”

He is a nice young man, Betsy thought, even though he is costing me eight hundred dollars an hour and the clock is ticking as we discuss the weather.

She turned in her chair as the door of the conference room opened and Robert Maynard, accompanied by his other shadow, Singh Patel, walked in.

As usual Maynard was impeccably dressed, this time in a gray suit with a faint pinstripe. His white shirt, cuff-linked sleeves and subtle tie, a blend of deep blue shades, gave off the appearance of well-groomed success. His rimless glasses enhanced chilly gray eyes. His expression was usually dour, as though someone had asked him to carry an impossibly heavy load on his back.

“Betsy,” he began, “I'm so sorry to keep you waiting but I am afraid I have to ask you to make an important decision.”

What decision? Betsy asked herself frantically. Her lips could not form the words to ask that question.

Maynard did not help her. “You have met Singh Patel?” he asked.

Betsy nodded.

Maynard sat down. Patel laid the file he had been carrying on the table in front of him, then took his own seat. Maynard looked at Betsy.

His voice was now measured, as though to let every word sink in. “Betsy, I know we have discussed this many times, but now that we are on the eve of trial we must address this one final time. You have always insisted on going to trial, but I ask you to listen to what I am going to say. The evidence against you is very strong. There is no doubt that the jury is going to sympathize with all that you endured, including that your husband cursed you and assaulted you at the dinner table the night before he died. But we can't escape the fact that the six people who were there heard you scream and sob that you ‘can't take it anymore,' you ‘can't take it anymore.' These people are going to testify for the prosecutor.”

“He hit me because of the Alzheimer's,” Betsy protested. “That didn't happen too often. It had just been a very bad day.”

“But you did say, ‘I can't take it anymore'?” Maynard persisted.

“I was so upset. Ted had been doing comparatively well. That's why I thought he would enjoy seeing some of his friends from the office. But it only enraged him.”

“Be that as it may, Betsy, after the guests left you were alone in the house with him. You claim you may have forgotten to turn on the alarm system, which could be construed as a way for you to suggest that an intruder might have entered the house, but the caregiver is going to testify that the alarm was on the following morning. The caregiver suddenly became ill and had to go home. In the morning she was fine. What caused her too convenient illness? Financially, you stood to greatly benefit by your husband's death. You were also seeing another man while your husband was still alive.”

Maynard adjusted his glasses. “Betsy, I have to tell you that the prosecutor called me this morning and offered you a very generous plea agreement which I strongly advise you to accept.”

Betsy felt her mouth go dry. Her body stiffened. “You
strongly
advise me to accept?” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

“Yes,” Maynard answered firmly. “I have managed to persuade the prosecutor to allow you to plead guilty to aggravated manslaughter with fifteen years in prison. You would have to serve about twelve years before parole. I know how difficult that would be. But if you are convicted of murder, your minimum sentence is thirty years without parole. And the judge could give you up to life in prison.”

Betsy stood up. “Twelve years in prison for something I didn't do? I am not guilty of my husband's murder. I would have taken care of him until he died a natural death.”

“Betsy, if you are truly innocent, then of course you must go to trial,” Maynard said. “We will present the best possible defense that we can. But please be aware that you will be gambling with very grave odds.”

Betsy struggled to keep her voice calm. She and Robert Maynard had been on a first-name basis, but now she did not want that suggestion of warmth to be in what she was about to say. “Mr. Maynard,” she began, “I have no intention of saying that I killed my husband. I loved him dearly. I had eight wonderful years with him before the Alzheimer's began and there were still many good days in the early years of his illness. As you may know, the younger a person is when it sets in, the more likely he is to die within ten years. Physically as well as mentally, Ted was slipping rapidly. The doctors felt that it was time to put him in a nursing home. I didn't do that. I kept him home because in his few lucid moments he was so happy to be with me.”

The words crowded her throat. “I believe I can convince a reasonable jury of that fact. I have already paid you an enormous amount of money to defend me. So
do
it! And don't convey to the jury that you believe that they will come in with a guilty verdict.”