As Time Goes By by Mary Higgins Clark Page A

glass of Chardonnay.”
    â€œAnd 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?”
    â€œNot 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.”
    â€œYou’re covering the Betsy Grant trial. I’ve read about it.”
    â€œYes, I am.”
    â€œIt looks pretty cut-and-dried to me. Alone in the house with her husband. The caregiver suddenly sick, needing to go home.”
    â€œAre 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œWhen 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.”
    â€œWere these addicts mostly recreational drug users?”
    â€œSome 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.”
    â€œYou mean they sell to someone like Steven Harwin?” Delaney asked.
    â€œThat’s exactly what I mean. He was probably on strong pain relief meds during his leukemia treatment. Eventually, he became addicted.”
    â€œDo you have any names in this area?”
    â€œSome. 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