“On the way out into Jersey, they called out to other drivers, yelling jokes and having fun. A few people yelled back, but most just ignored them.
“Five minutes from the house, a young woman that seemed to match their fun-loving attitude pulled up next to them at a traffic light. The fact that she was young and great-looking made the situation almost too good to be true, and they asked her to follow them to the house for a swim, never really expecting that she would.
“But she did follow them, and pulled her car in the driveway behind theirs.”
I already knew that, because her car would later that night be in a photograph, and many years later her license plate would be computer-enhanced and read. Lieutenant Pete Stanton would check that plate number and learn her identity.
The young woman's name was Julie McGregor. Wife of Wally. Mother of Denise.
I finally interrupt Betty to ask her if she knows the identity of the other men with Mike that night.
She shakes her head. “No, Mike would never tell me. I only knew one of them; he was the friend that Mike came to New York with.”
Then she hesitates, as if unsure whether to continue. But she understands there is no turning back now. “There is something else you should know.”
“What's that?”
She's in terrible pain. “That poor young woman. The reporter that was killed.”
“Denise McGregor,” I say.
She nods. “Yes. She was here, tracing what happened. She was piecing it together. I felt so badly for her.”
“How long was this before she was murdered?”
“I think a few months. I didn't find out about her death until much, much later.”
“Had she learned who was there that night?” I ask.
“She only knew about the same two people that I did … Mike and Victor Markham.”
IT'S ELEVEN-THIRTYBEFORE I LEAVE BETTY Anthony's. Court is going to reconvene at two, but I have someplace where I must stop first, even if it means being late. It's not a newsstand, and it's not some superstition that has to be indulged.
I have to go talk to my father.
I get to the cemetery, not swarming with people as it was the last time I was here, only a few visitors paying their respects to those they loved. I find my father's grave, and take a few moments to get my emotions in check.
“Dad, I have something to do today … I don't know how it's going to come out.”
I am overcome by a feeling of closeness to him; I have never really believed in an afterlife, yet I know in the depths of my being that he can hear me.
“I know about the money … and Victor … and Mike Anthony … and now I know what happened that night. But I don't know about you. Were you a part of it, or did you just know about it? Why did you take the money, if you'd never let yourself touch it?
“Dad, I know who you are, nothing can ever change that. But please understand, I need to know what you did.”
A woman walks by, and she speaks to me, hesitatingly.
“Excuse me,” she says. “Were you talking to me?”
Not wanting to look like a complete lunatic, I say, “Yes. I asked you what time it was.”
She looks at her watch. “One o'clock.”
“Thank you,” I say. And then I turn back to my father. “It's time to move on.”
I race back to the courthouse and arrive a little after two. When I enter the courtroom, Kevin is questioning Edward Markham. Obviously Hatchet had not granted him a further delay.
I stay in the back of the room for a while, watching Kevin and deciding exactly how I am going to handle things. Kevin really has nothing to ask Edward; I have not given him any instructions on what I want to accomplish. He is vamping for time, taking Edward through what is basically a rehash of his direct testimony for Wallace.
“So after you found her, what did you do?” asks Kevin.
“As I said previously, I called the police first. I wanted them to get an ambulance there right away, just in case there was any hope. Then I called my father.”
“He was at home?”
Wallace objects, stating the obvious, that all these questions have been previously asked and answered. Hatchet overrules the objection, but his patience is wearing a little thin.
“No, it was Friday night,” says Edward. “He's always at the club on Friday nights.”
Kevin prepares to ask another question he already knows the answer to, when he turns and sees me coming toward him. The look of relief on his face is palpable.
“No further questions, Your Honor,” I say.
“Well, Mr. Carpenter,” says Hatchet. “So glad you could join us.”
“Thank you, Your Honor, nice to be here.”
“Would you like to call another witness, or do you have any more errands to run?”
“If it pleases the court, the defense would like to call Victor Markham.”
Victor does not seem surprised to hear his name called, nor does he seem in any way worried. He's quite willing to take the time from his busy schedule to help further the cause of justice. The bigger they are, the nicer they are.
I approach Victor with a nonthreatening smile on my face, and speak softly. “Mr. Markham,” I begin, “did I have occasion to question you under oath in the office of your attorney a couple of weeks ago?”
“You did.”
“Would you like to have a transcript of that interview so that you can refer to it?”
“That won't be necessary. I just told you the truth about what I know. That hasn't changed any.”
“Do you remember my asking if you knew what story Denise McGregor was working on in the days just before her death?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you say?”
“I told you I had no idea.”
“But you did know her?” I ask.
“I really only knew her casually. She seemed very nice. The important thing to me was that my son liked her. And he certainly did.”
“And she liked him?”
“She seemed to.” He answers quickly, so that Wallace gets to his feet but does not have time to object that Victor could not possibly know what Denise's feelings were.
Hatchet instructs Victor to wait a beat before answering, to give Wallace time to object if he chooses to do so.
“Is it possible that she didn't like him at all, but went out with him for the purpose of finding out information?”
“I can't imagine why she would do that.”
“Perhaps that information would be of help to her in the story she was working on?”
“I'm certainly not aware of any such thing. I don't believe Edward would have had any information that would be useful to a reporter. You might have asked him that when you had him on the stand.”
Victor is good; he must be worried about where this is going, but he doesn't display any sign of it.
I nod. “Maybe I'll be able to help you with that. When your son called you that night, to tell you that Denise McGregor had been murdered and that he had discovered the body, did he seem upset?”
“Obviously.”
“And you shared his distress? You were upset at the news as well?”
He shakes his head slightly, conveying to the jury his frustration with such obvious questions. “Of course I was. A young woman had been murdered.”
“What were you doing at the time?”
“I was in the lobby of my club, chatting with some friends.”
“Which friends?”
A frown. “I'm afraid I really don't remember. This all took place a number of years ago, Mr. Carpenter, and I'm sure the conversations were casual. Besides, I am blessed with a great many friends. We were relaxing at our club on a Friday night.”
I smile my understanding. “But might the conversations have been about golf, the weather, that kind of thing?”