By Linda Fairstein

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They called her in to question her and she went down to their offices without telling me or anybody else on the staff first. ” “Both of them were single,” Mike said. ” “Hard to reconstruct after the fact. Jeannie was so vague and emotional. ” “Jeannie didn’t know who would be more unhappy—Battaglia or Kitts. I couldn’t offer any advice about Rowdy, but I calmed her down about the front office. ” “You didn’t rat her out to the DA? That’s my girl, Coop. ” I stopped to tighten my scarf around my neck and brushed a branch of seaweed out of Mike’s hair.

I placed my hand on the receiver but waited for Catherine to make her point. “That’s all,” she said as they filed out. ” The phone rang for the third time and I picked it up as I tried to figure out why I was distracted by a knot that tightened in my stomach while my pals fed me the rumor about Mike. ” For each of the four I received, he must have repeatedly hectored his longtime executive assistant, Rose Malone, to try to find me. ” Battaglia hated to be the last to know anything—on the record or off—that related to any case pending in the office.

I could hear wailing now, a cacophony of voices that seemed like it could carry for miles. Cops were trying to move a small cluster of bedraggled survivors toward the dunes, to the vans waiting in the street that would shuttle them to whatever police facility Scully designated. The men were refusing to separate from their comrades despite prodding—all still focused on the others being ferried ashore, all still searching the waves for signs of missing friends. “C’mon, Coop. You’ll rerun this movie in your brain all day and all night,” Mike said, taking my arm to turn me away from the sight.

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