a nerve-racking one. Pete's information has the promise of cracking this case wide open and letting the long hidden secrets pour out, but it will be of no value if I can't get Betty Anthony on my side. And so far I have had no success at doing that.
I try her apartment first, hoping that she is not at work. When I arrive and prepare to ring the bell, I hear the strains of Frank Sinatra singing Cole Porter, coming from inside the apartment. She's home.
Betty comes to the door, and her expression when she sees that it's me is a combination of exasperation and fear. She's fended me off until now, but she's afraid that I'll come at her from an angle that will shake up her world. Which is exactly what I'm about to do.
“Hello, Betty.”
“Mr. Carpenter, I really must ask you to stop bothering me like this. It's not—”
“I know about Julie McGregor.”
The effect is immediate, and it is all in her eyes. First there is the flash of fear, as she starts to process the words she hoped never to hear. Then comes the realization that there is no defense to those words, that resistance is futile. Then her body catches up to her eyes, and she sags noticeably, the fight taken out of her.
Watching her reaction is exhilarating and terribly, terribly sad.
She doesn't say a word, just opens the door wider for me to enter. The apartment is exactly what I would have expected … small, inexpensively furnished, but meticulously kept. There are a number of religious artifacts around, as well as pictures of family members, including many of Mike.
Betty starts to straighten the place up, dusting areas without dust and moving things which do not need to be moved. I suppose it is her way of trying to bring order into what is soon to be a chaotic situation.
“Would you like some coffee?” she asks.
“Yes, thank you.”
She is trying to find something to do. We both know that she is going to speak to me, but I'm helping her put it off at least for a few more minutes.
She makes the coffee and brings it to me. Finally, she says, “How much do you know?”
“Enough to tell the world the story. Not enough to prove it.”
She nods. “He was never the same after that night. He thought it would get better, but it got worse as the years went by.”
“Did you know him then?”
“Yes. We were engaged. But he didn't tell me the full story about what happened until years later.”
A pause, as she struggles with her own guilt. “But I couldn't help him with it.”
“Down deep he had to know it would come out,” I say. “He couldn't keep it inside any longer. And neither can you. Not anymore.”
She sighs. “I know.”
“Tell me about that night.”
She takes a deep breath and lets it out. “They were in Manhattan for a dinner, some kind of awards event for the best students from around the country. A future leaders thing, or something. Most of them never met each other before that night.”
I start to ask her if she knows their names, but I decide I'm not going to interrupt. The story is going to come pouring out of her, and I'm not going to do anything to influence or derail it.
She goes on. “A group of them began drinking at the banquet, and then went to a bar on the Upper West Side. All they were interested in was alcohol and women, but it was late on a slow Tuesday night, so they were having much more luck with the alcohol.
“The bar was about to close, and nothing much was happening, so they accepted the offer of one of their group to go to his house, where they could keep drinking and swim in his pool.
“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