conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Algonquin, Bay, February with the genre: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense, Mystery?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Forty Words for Sorrow'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first three paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Forty Words for Sorrow
  IT gets dark early in Algonquin Bay. Take a drive up Airport Hill at four o'clock on a February afternoon, and when you come back half an hour later the streets of the city will glitter below you in the dark like so many runways. The forty-sixth parallel may not be all that far north; you can be much farther north and still be in the United States, and even London, England, is a few degrees closer to the North Pole. But this is Ontario, Canada, we're talking about, and Algonquin Bay in February is the very definition of winter: Algonquin Bay is snowbound, Algonquin Bay is quiet, Algonquin Bay is very, very cold.
  It was many degrees below zero outside; winter squeezed the car in its grip. The windows of the Camry were frosted up on both sides, and Cardinal had to keep scraping them with an ineffective plastic blade. He went south down Airport Hill, made a left onto the bypass, another left onto Trout Lake Road, and then he was heading north again toward home.
  Home, if you could call it that with both Catherine and Kelly gone, was a tiny wooden house on Madonna Road, smallest among a crescent of cottages set like a brooch along the north shore of Trout Lake. Cardinal's house was fully winterized, or so the real estate agent had told them, but "winterized" had turned out to be a relative term. Kelly claimed you could store ice cream in her bedroom.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Forty Words for Sorrow
  IT gets dark early in Algonquin Bay. Take a drive up Airport Hill at four o'clock on a February afternoon, and when you come back half an hour later the streets of the city will glitter below you in the dark like so many runways. The forty-sixth parallel may not be all that far north; you can be much farther north and still be in the United States, and even London, England, is a few degrees closer to the North Pole. But this is Ontario, Canada, we're talking about, and Algonquin Bay in February is the very definition of winter: Algonquin Bay is snowbound, Algonquin Bay is quiet, Algonquin Bay is very, very cold.
  It was many degrees below zero outside; winter squeezed the car in its grip. The windows of the Camry were frosted up on both sides, and Cardinal had to keep scraping them with an ineffective plastic blade. He went south down Airport Hill, made a left onto the bypass, another left onto Trout Lake Road, and then he was heading north again toward home.
  Home, if you could call it that with both Catherine and Kelly gone, was a tiny wooden house on Madonna Road, smallest among a crescent of cottages set like a brooch along the north shore of Trout Lake. Cardinal's house was fully winterized, or so the real estate agent had told them, but "winterized" had turned out to be a relative term.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Delorme stood up, brushing crumbs from her lap. Above the fireplace there was a black-and-white photograph of Cardinal, dressed in an old workshirt and jeans, planing a piece of wood, leaning over it like a pool player. He had a three-day stubble and sawdust in his hair, and he looked kind of sexy for a cop. Well, sexy or not, first he leaves his desk drawer open, and now he was giving her the run of his house. As far as Delorme was concerned, that was asking for it.
  The Algonquin Bay police department does not have rules for surreptitious searches for the very good reason that its officers are not supposed to conduct them. Delorme had never relied on clandestine methods to collect evidence, nor would she now. Any clandestine search was of necessity in the nature of a reconnoiter, a preview of what might be available to those (armed with a warrant) who might come after. The only thing the Ontario Police College at Aylmer teaches about such searches is that they are illegal and their fruits inadmissible. What Delorme knew of this unsavory art, she had taught herself.
  She had an hour, say forty minutes to be on the safe side. It was essential to be highly selective. She ruled out all the places she'd seen cops search in the movies: the hard-to-get-at places like tops of cupboards, the attic space—anything requiring something to stand on. Also off the list: any spaces that required moving furniture. There was no way she could lift up rugs or check under couch and chairs without Cardinal's seeing the disruption, and in any case she did not believe that if Cardinal had anything to hide he would hide it in such places. She would not be lifting the lid of the cistern, either.
  No, within minutes of Cardinal's departure, Lise Delorme had decided she would search only the most obvious place for incriminating material: Cardinal's personal files. These he kept conveniently labeled (and unlocked) in a two-drawer metal cabinet, much dented. In no time at all she learned exactly what he earned from the department (with all the overtime, it came to a lot more than she had expected) and that his charming but subzero lakeside house was not paid off. The monthly payments were high but manageable on Cardinal's income, unless he had other major expenses—such as a daughter attending an Ivy League university.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Above the fireplace there was a black-and-white photograph of Cardinal, dressed in an old workshirt and jeans, planing a piece of wood, leaning over it like a pool player. He had a three-day stubble and sawdust in his hair, and he looked kind of sexy for a cop. Well, sexy or not, first he leaves his desk drawer open, and now he was giving her the run of his house. As far as Delorme was concerned, that was asking for it.
  The Algonquin Bay police department does not have rules for surreptitious searches for the very good reason that its officers are not supposed to conduct them. Delorme had never relied on clandestine methods to collect evidence, nor would she now. Any clandestine search was of necessity in the nature of a reconnoiter, a preview of what might be available to those (armed with a warrant) who might come after. The only thing the Ontario Police College at Aylmer teaches about such searches is that they are illegal and their fruits inadmissible. What Delorme knew of this unsavory art, she had taught herself.
  She had an hour, say forty minutes to be on the safe side. It was essential to be highly selective. She ruled out all the places she'd seen cops search in the movies: the hard-to-get-at places like tops of cupboards, the attic space—anything requiring something to stand on. Also off the list: any spaces that required moving furniture. There was no way she could lift up rugs or check under couch and chairs without Cardinal's seeing the disruption, and in any case she did not believe that if Cardinal had anything to hide he would hide it in such places. She would not be lifting the lid of the cistern, either.
  No, within minutes of Cardinal's departure, Lise Delorme had decided she would search only the most obvious place for incriminating material: Cardinal's personal files. These he kept conveniently labeled (and unlocked) in a two-drawer metal cabinet, much dented. In no time at all she learned exactly what he earned from the department (with all the overtime, it came to a lot more than she had expected) and that his charming but subzero lakeside house was not paid off. The monthly payments were high but manageable on Cardinal's income, unless he had other major expenses—such as a daughter attending an Ivy League university.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: There was a silence while they held hands and tried to think of words that would help start them on the road to knowing each other again.
  Cardinal's doctor came in noisily, blaring greetings and questions. "No, no, you can stay," he said when Catherine started to leave. He shone a light in Cardinal's pupils. Asked him to sit up. Even had him walk a few steps, holding onto the bedrail like a little old man, his gut in agony.
  The doctor was scribbling on the chart. "I didn't really need you to walk. Just wanted to see if it hurt as much as I thought it would. You're doing great. Going to take four to six weeks for your innards to heal, though. Bullets really whizzed around in there."
  Cardinal dreamed that they were traveling. He dreamed that he and Catherine were traveling on a river—a leafy, southern river he had never seen before. Catherine paddled in the front of the canoe, and Cardinal steered badly in the back. The sun was the bright yellow of children's drawings. The canoe was bottle-green, and they were laughing.