As Time Goes By Read online

  They followed Sam up the stairs to the second floor, where groups of tiles were exhibited, including pictures of how they looked in a kitchen or bath.

  It turned out that Sam was a talker. “Not everyone liked that this neighborhood was changing,” he said. “Some of them even picketed when they heard that it had been re-zoned for commercial buildings. The woman in the house next door was really upset. She said she’d been here thirty years and didn’t want to have a tile factory next door. She was so upset I offered to buy her house too, but she said she would never move out until they carried her out.”

  Willy noticed that Alvirah almost dropped the cream-colored tile she was holding.

  “Is she still there, Sam?” was Alvirah’s next question.

  “Oh, you bet she is. Her name is Jane Mulligan. She’s a widow now and lives alone. She must be up in her eighties, but whenever I run into her, she tells me again that the neighborhood she grew up in has been ruined.”

  Alvirah couldn’t wait to see if the neighbor was home. She made herself linger for another few minutes, examining different patterns of tile. She then thanked Sam, promising to think over the several design samples he insisted on giving her.

  When they left the store she said fervently, “Willy, if this Jane Mulligan gives us a lead to Cora Banks, I’ll come back here, pick out tiles, and you can redo both the kitchen and the bathrooms.”

  When they came to the house next door, Alvirah stopped. “Willy, in this day and age, if Jane Mulligan is home, she might be leery about letting people in. You’d better wait in the car.”

  Willy knew that Alvirah was right, but he hated to see her go alone into the house, even though there was probably only an eighty-something lady inside it. But knowing that by arguing he would only lose, he reluctantly walked to the curb and got back into their newly acquired, previously owned Mercedes.

  After Alvirah rang the bell, she waited a few moments before someone looked through the peephole in the door.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” a querulous voice asked.

  “I’m Alvirah Meehan. I’m a reporter for the Daily Standard, and I am hoping to do a series of articles about changing neighborhoods and the reactions of longtime residents,” Alvirah said, holding up her press card for Jane Mulligan to see.

  She heard the click as the door was unlocked. Then Jane Mulligan partially opened the door and looked her up and down. Satisfied, she opened the door wide.

  “Come in,” she exclaimed. “I’ve got plenty to say on that subject.”

  She led Alvirah into a small living room, immaculately clean, with an overstuffed couch, matching club chairs, an upright piano and a round table filled with photographs.

  Jane Mulligan invited her to sit down, but first Alvirah took a look at the photographs. Grandchildren, she thought immediately.

  “What a handsome group,” she said sincerely. “Are they your grandchildren?”

  “All ten of them.” Now there was pride in Mulligan’s voice. “You couldn’t find a smarter and nicer group if you searched the world.”

  “I can see why you feel that way,” Alvirah agreed as she settled down.

  “What do you want me to tell you about ruining neighborhoods by sticking commercial buildings in them?”

  Before Alvirah could answer, Mulligan went into a tirade about how you couldn’t find a prettier street than the way this one had been years ago. “Everybody knew everybody. You left your doors unlocked.”

  Alvirah managed to get in a question. “I understand two houses were torn down to make room for that tile factory. Did you know the people who lived in them?”

  “I did indeed. The house two doors over were friends. They sold because they wanted to be near their daughter. She lives in Connecticut now.”

  “And the other house?”

  “The original owner moved to an assisted living place. The woman she sold it to was a disgrace.”

  “What about her?”

  “She was a midwife.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “About thirty years ago.”

  Alvirah did instant math. Then Cora Banks was still in the house when Delaney was born.

  “I knew something fishy was going on,” Mulligan said. “I watched people going and coming, every one of them was the same. One or two people would accompany a pregnant girl into that house and anytime from an hour to eight or ten hours later, they’d come out with the girl, supporting her as she walked to the car.

  “It took me a few times to figure out what was going on. The people who left with the baby weren’t the same ones who came in with the pregnant girl. At first I thought Cora Banks was running an adoption agency. That went on for fourteen years, but then when that policemen came with a warrant for her arrest I learned that she was selling the babies. I almost died.”

  “Do you know where she went?”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t want to know.”

  “Did she have any friends who visited her?”

  “She pretty much kept to herself.”

  Trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice, Alvirah confirmed, “Then there is no one you can think of who might have been a friend?”

  “Who’d want to be a friend to someone who sold babies?” Mulligan asked. “Cora Banks’ social life, if she had any, didn’t take place in that house.”

  With that Alvirah said good-bye, left and got into the car. “Let’s go home,” she said to Willy.

  By the disappointed note in her voice he could tell that she hadn’t gotten very far talking to Jane Mulligan. He listened as she gave him a summary of the conversation.

  “Then you didn’t learn anything that will help Delaney find her birth mother?”

  “No, I didn’t, but I do know why Jennifer Wright is uncomfortable talking about the adoption with Delaney. She doesn’t want her to know they bought and paid for her.”

  “Maybe that was the only way they could get a baby,” Willy suggested. “They were nearly fifty years old when they got her. Maybe it showed how much they wanted her.”

  “I suppose so,” Alvirah admitted. “But in my opinion it’s one thing for a young woman to give up her baby, but it’s another thing if she sells it to the highest bidder.”

  She paused, then said, “I’m not going to tell Delaney this. I’ll just say it was a dead end.”

  “Do you have to give up or are you still going to keep searching for Delaney’s mother?”

  “Of course I’ll keep going,” Alvirah said heartily. “I know the woman who referred them to Cora Banks is dead, but with any luck she had a big mouth and did some talking to her friends or family.”

  “Who are her friends or family?”

  “That’s for me to find out,” Alvirah said. “I’ll look up her obit notice. It has to name some of her family members. I’ll start there.”

  They crossed the bridge from Pennsylvania into New Jersey and were on the Turnpike heading into Manhattan when Alvirah suddenly volunteered, “You know, Willy, I really did love some of those tiles. I mean the pictures of how they’d look in the kitchen and bathrooms were a wakeup call to me. I made myself a promise. If we can track down Delaney’s mother, I’m going to do some renovating. But only if we find her.”

  Willy sighed. “Honey, you mean I’ll do some renovating and you’ll watch.”

  Alvirah turned and smiled at him. “Willy, I’ve always said you are a deep thinker.”

  20

  Delaney and Jon walked downtown to Fifty-Seventh Street. Just before they reached First Avenue they went into Neary’s restaurant.

  “When I was growing up in New York, I came here a lot with my grandfather,” Jon commented as they were escorted to a table. He looked around. “It’s timeless. It hasn’t changed.”

  “It’s my first time,” Delaney confessed.

  “Oh, there have been great moments here. It was a favorite place of Governor Carey. He was famous for saying that the Lord changed water into wine and Jimmy Nea
ry reversed the process.”

  As Delaney laughed she realized that she felt as though she had known Jon forever. She also realized how absolutely delighted she was that after a month of non-communication, he had suddenly appeared.

  It was an evening of getting to know you better. She had told him that she was a court news reporter and absolutely loved the job, but now instead of being the co-anchor fill-in, she told him she was about to become co-anchor of the six o’clock news.

  “That’s a pretty big promotion,” Jon observed. “By the way, I remember you like a glass of Chardonnay.”

  “And you like a vodka martini,” Delaney volunteered.

  She was seated on the banquette. He was across the table looking directly into her eyes.

  After he placed the order, Jon began, “Do I hear a hesitation in your voice about moving full-time to the anchor desk?”

  “Not really. It’s great. It’s just that I’ve loved being the court reporter. I wonder how many people really understand what it’s like to see someone on trial, watching and listening as witnesses put a nail in his or her coffin.”

  “You’re covering the Betsy Grant trial. I’ve read about it.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “It looks pretty cut-and-dried to me. Alone in the house with her husband. The caregiver suddenly sick, needing to go home.”

  “Are you insinuating that Betsy Grant may have slipped the caregiver something to make her sick?” asked Delaney, surprised at the sudden anger that surged through her.

  “I don’t want to get you mad at me,” Jon protested. “Delaney, as Will Rogers said, ‘I only know what I read in the papers.’ ”

  Mollified, Delaney nodded. “Of course you do. I’m overreacting, but being there watching that woman listen to the funeral director and then that stepson of hers, I was cringing for her. When the medical examiner testified about the force of the blow that had killed her husband, she kept shaking her head from side to side as though she was in denial.”

  Jon looked at her without answering.

  “I can read your mind,” Delaney said defensively. “Her reaction might be exactly alike whether she was guilty or innocent.”

  Jon nodded.

  Delaney knew it was time to change the subject. I’m pretty good at being totally objective at a trial, she thought. Why am I going out of my way to become protective of a woman who may very well be guilty of at least manslaughter in the death of a defenseless Alzheimer’s victim? There was no answer to the question. The waiter was putting their drinks on the table.

  “When I asked you what brought you to New York, you said I did, which is a sweet compliment but not true. What did bring you up from Washington?”

  Jon waited until the waiter was out of earshot.

  Lowering his voice so much that Delaney strained to hear him, he said, “Beginning in Washington and up the East Coast to Boston, there is a sophisticated ring of pharmacists who are obtaining illegal prescriptions from doctors and selling them to high-end people like celebrities and Wall Street types. A fortune is being made as doctors see patients for one minute, or not at all, and write them prescriptions for potent opioid pain relievers like Percocet, oxycodone and others. Pharmacists are legally obligated to alert the authorities when they encounter suspicious prescriptions. Some pharmacists just look the other way and make money off filling them. The process creates and supplies thousands of addicts.”

  “Were these addicts mostly recreational drug users?”

  “Some started that way and got hooked. Others were people taking prescribed medication to relieve pain from real injuries. When their responsible doctors wouldn’t write any more scripts, they found other doctors willing to do so. I’m investigating a ring for the Washington Post. I know the police have some of the pharmacists and doctors under surveillance in Washington and Boston.”

  “You mean they sell to someone like Steven Harwin?” Delaney asked.

  “That’s exactly what I mean. He was probably on strong pain relief meds during his leukemia treatment. Eventually, he became addicted.”

  “Do you have any names in this area?”

  “Some. Not too many, but enough for a good start.”

  As they were handed menus, Jon said briskly, “A little more name-dropping. When Bloomberg was mayor, he would phone ahead and tell Jimmy he and Diana were on their way and to put the roast chicken on.”

  “That’s exactly what I was planning to have.”

  After they placed their orders, Jon sipped his martini and Delaney sipped her wine. At their first dinner last month they’d compared their hobbies. When Delaney told Jon that her favorite ones were riding, hiking and skiing, Jon had said, “The last two I go along with. I never had the opportunity growing up to take riding lessons. Most of the ‘riding’ I did was on subways. My father and grandfather were detectives in the New York Police Department.”

  This evening they went deeper, talking about themselves. Jon was two years older. That had come out over dinner last month, but tonight he added, “I was an identical twin. My brother died at birth. I know my mother has always mourned for him. I see tears in her eyes at my birthday dinners.”

  Delaney had told Jon that she was adopted but had not expected to say, “I wonder if on my birthday my birth mother mourns for me.”

  “I’m sure she does.”

  It was two hours later that Jon paid the bill and walked her to her apartment. Delaney realized again how comfortable she felt with Jon’s arm under hers. While they were at dinner the September evening had become sharply colder.

  “Skiing season may be early,” Jon said, satisfaction in his voice.

  “I hope so,” Delaney said fervently.

  At her apartment building she invited him to come up for a nightcap but he shook his head. “I’ll take a rain check.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek, then as the doorman held open the door for him, he turned and came back to where she was standing.

  “Delaney, do you believe in love at first sight?”

  He answered his own question before she could: “I do.”

  Then he was gone.

  21

  Angela Watts, the caregiver, was the next witness. To Delaney she seemed to be just as nervous as Carmen Sanchez had been. After establishing her background and experience as a home caregiver, the prosecutor asked about her relationship with the Grant family.

  Unlike Carmen, she answered the questions without embellishment.

  “You were the caregiver for Dr. Grant?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “How long did you work for him?”

  “Three years, two months and four days.”

  “What were your hours when you took care of Dr. Grant?”

  “I worked six days round-the-clock, then I was off on Sundays.”

  “Who took care of Dr. Grant on Sundays?”

  “Mrs. Grant.”

  “Were you at the house the evening before Dr. Grant died?”

  “Yes, there was a small birthday dinner for him.”

  “Who was at the birthday dinner?”

  “Dr. and Mrs. Grant, Alan Grant and two doctors that Dr. Ted used to work with and their wives.”

  “How was Dr. Grant on that evening?”

  “During cocktails in the living room, he suddenly became very upset, stood up and started muttering to himself and aggressively pointing around the room.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Miss Betsy put her arms around him and he quieted down right away. A few minutes later we went in to dinner.”

  “Were you seated at the table?”

  “Yes, I was. Carmen Sanchez cooked and served the dinner.”

  “How was Dr. Grant during dinner?”

  “At first, all right. Quiet but all right.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “He suddenly stood up. His face looked angry and almost twisted. He pushed back his chair so hard it toppled over. He lunged across the table and knocked over a lot of the pla
tes and glasses.”

  “What was Mrs. Grant’s reaction?”

  “She tried to pull him back, but he turned around and slapped her hard in the face. Then the other doctors and his son grabbed him and tried to calm him down. He was very, very upset and crying. As they were consoling him, I suggested that we take him back to his bedroom and get him settled in for the night.”

  “And what happened next?”

  “Dr. Clifton, Alan and I walked him back to his bedroom.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I was about to help him get into his pajamas when all of a sudden I felt sick.”

  “Describe your sudden illness.”

  “I felt nauseous and light-headed. Really bad.”

  “You said this came on suddenly?”

  “It hit me like a ton of bricks.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “Everybody was telling me, ‘Go home and take care of yourself. We’ll get him settled.’ They asked me if I was okay to drive myself.”

  “I told them I was and I left. When I got home I went straight to bed. I fell asleep almost immediately. I woke up at the usual time, 6 A.M. Whatever was wrong with me was over. I felt fine.”

  “Do you know if anyone other than Mrs. Grant stayed at the house overnight?”

  “Mrs. Grant told me that all of the other guests stayed for about an hour and then they had left when they were sure he was asleep.”

  “And that meant that Mrs. Grant was alone in the house overnight with her husband, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you come back to the Grant house the following morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  “Did you have your own key to the front door of the Grant home?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And you knew the four-digit code to activate and shut off the alarm system?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “When you arrived at the house the morning Dr. Grant was found dead, was the front door locked or unlocked?”

  “Locked.”

  “In what position was the alarm system?”

  “It was on. I used the code to turn it off.”