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sulkily.
I said, "I'd planned to ask if you'd noticed whether any of Tracy's
things are missing, but after seeing her room, I can't imagine how you
could have."
"Yeah." Her good humor returned—marginally. "Given what she owned,
there was no way to keep track."
"I gather the two of you were good friends."
"The best."
"How did you meet?"
"Through a roommate referral service—one that matches people up
according to their preferences. Where they want to live, how much they
can pay, whether they smoke or not. You know."
I knew. Such services could be iffy, but apparently this one had
done well by Amy and Tracy.
I ran through my routine questions—some of which I already knew the
answers to, ones that merely served as checks on Amy's truthfulness.
She answered them all without hesitation: they had lived together for
two years before Tracy's disappearance; they'd squabbled about the
usual things, such as boyfriends staying overnight too often; they'd
confided in each other, given parties and dinners together, played
racquetbail at a health club a couple of times a week. As far as Amy
knew, Tracy had had no serious personal problems; her career had come
before anything else.
"She was all set for a big breakthrough," Amy said. "Her appearances
at Café Comedie were terrific exposure, and Jay—that's Jay Larkey, the
owner—had renewed her contract for another six months. She'd landed a
couple of TV commercials, and a Hollywood agent had agreed to take her
on. She could have been another Carol Burnett, only then this… thing
happened to her."
"You say 'this thing,' but I got the impression before that you're
convinced she's dead."
"I say 'thing' because I can't stand to use the other word. But like
I told you, I know she's dead, and I can live with it. Bobby killed
her. He confessed, didn't he?"
"There are a lot of discrepancies in that confession."
"But there was evidence."
"Tracy's mother thinks she disappeared deliberately and faked the
evidence. Tracy said some things that make her believe—"
"What things?"
"That she felt she had turned into a bad person. That circumstances
were forcing her to do things she never would have before."
Amy drew her feet up on the sofa and locked her arms around her
knees. "God," she whispered.
I looked inquiringly at her, but she shook her head, refusing to
elaborate.
"You testified for the prosecution at the trial," I said. "Bobby's
public defender thought you were holding something back."
She tightened her grip on her knees. "What could I hold back? All I
did was testify that Trace was supposed to wake me when she came home
that night, but didn't." Her voice had changed, gone high and shrill.
"All I said was that she was dependable, like clockwork. I don't know
anything else. And it wasn't my testimony that put Bobby where he is—it
was his own confession."
"You sound as if you feel bad about testifying against him, though."
She wouldn't look at me.
"Do you?"
"Look, I don't like having had any part in sending somebody to the
gas chamber, if that's what you mean. But I told the truth, and I
wasn't holding anything back. There isn't anything I could have held
back."
I didn't reply. After about thirty seconds of silence, Amy squirmed
uncomfortably, her eyes still focused on the opposite side
of the room.
I said, "What about the things Tracy told her mother? Do you have
any idea what she might have meant?"
"Look, everybody knows Mrs. K is crazy. She probably made the whole
thing up." But Amy's voice was even more shrill now; hearing what her
roommate had told her mother had frightened her.
"I don't think so, Amy. And that doesn't really answer my question.
Do you have any idea—"
"No!" She unwound her arms from her knees and stood. "It's way after
eight, and I've given you a lot of my time. My boyfriend's… I have a
date. You'll have to go now."
I regarded her levelly for a moment, and she again looked away from
me. Finally I stood, putting on my jacket. When I
I said, "I'd planned to ask if you'd noticed whether any of Tracy's
things are missing, but after seeing her room, I can't imagine how you
could have."
"Yeah." Her good humor returned—marginally. "Given what she owned,
there was no way to keep track."
"I gather the two of you were good friends."
"The best."
"How did you meet?"
"Through a roommate referral service—one that matches people up
according to their preferences. Where they want to live, how much they
can pay, whether they smoke or not. You know."
I knew. Such services could be iffy, but apparently this one had
done well by Amy and Tracy.
I ran through my routine questions—some of which I already knew the
answers to, ones that merely served as checks on Amy's truthfulness.
She answered them all without hesitation: they had lived together for
two years before Tracy's disappearance; they'd squabbled about the
usual things, such as boyfriends staying overnight too often; they'd
confided in each other, given parties and dinners together, played
racquetbail at a health club a couple of times a week. As far as Amy
knew, Tracy had had no serious personal problems; her career had come
before anything else.
"She was all set for a big breakthrough," Amy said. "Her appearances
at Café Comedie were terrific exposure, and Jay—that's Jay Larkey, the
owner—had renewed her contract for another six months. She'd landed a
couple of TV commercials, and a Hollywood agent had agreed to take her
on. She could have been another Carol Burnett, only then this… thing
happened to her."
"You say 'this thing,' but I got the impression before that you're
convinced she's dead."
"I say 'thing' because I can't stand to use the other word. But like
I told you, I know she's dead, and I can live with it. Bobby killed
her. He confessed, didn't he?"
"There are a lot of discrepancies in that confession."
"But there was evidence."
"Tracy's mother thinks she disappeared deliberately and faked the
evidence. Tracy said some things that make her believe—"
"What things?"
"That she felt she had turned into a bad person. That circumstances
were forcing her to do things she never would have before."
Amy drew her feet up on the sofa and locked her arms around her
knees. "God," she whispered.
I looked inquiringly at her, but she shook her head, refusing to
elaborate.
"You testified for the prosecution at the trial," I said. "Bobby's
public defender thought you were holding something back."
She tightened her grip on her knees. "What could I hold back? All I
did was testify that Trace was supposed to wake me when she came home
that night, but didn't." Her voice had changed, gone high and shrill.
"All I said was that she was dependable, like clockwork. I don't know
anything else. And it wasn't my testimony that put Bobby where he is—it
was his own confession."
"You sound as if you feel bad about testifying against him, though."
She wouldn't look at me.
"Do you?"
"Look, I don't like having had any part in sending somebody to the
gas chamber, if that's what you mean. But I told the truth, and I
wasn't holding anything back. There isn't anything I could have held
back."
I didn't reply. After about thirty seconds of silence, Amy squirmed
uncomfortably, her eyes still focused on the opposite side
of the room.
I said, "What about the things Tracy told her mother? Do you have
any idea what she might have meant?"
"Look, everybody knows Mrs. K is crazy. She probably made the whole
thing up." But Amy's voice was even more shrill now; hearing what her
roommate had told her mother had frightened her.
"I don't think so, Amy. And that doesn't really answer my question.
Do you have any idea—"
"No!" She unwound her arms from her knees and stood. "It's way after
eight, and I've given you a lot of my time. My boyfriend's… I have a
date. You'll have to go now."
I regarded her levelly for a moment, and she again looked away from
me. Finally I stood, putting on my jacket. When I
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