conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for a book with the title 'Murder in Greenwich Village'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Murder in Greenwich Village
  A slightly smaller group of scribes and gawkers loitered around our front door today. They swarmed me, but I was used to battling my way inside now. At the sound of my feet on the stairs, a door far above me opened. "Max? Max?"
  Lucia's mournful wail tore at me, and I looked up to see her leaning over the banister, peering down the stairwell. "It's me, Lucia," I said.
  Her door above clicked shut. Were the police still looking for Max? I supposed they were, which was why he could probably never come back until the true killer was caught and convicted. But what if they never found the killer?
  Callie and I had spent the night in the saxophonists' second-floor flat, but it was empty now. I wandered upstairs to see if Callie had returned to ours. The apartment was the same layout as ours, but they used it in an odd way. The larger bedroom seemed to be where they stowed their musical gear, although with them on tour now it was practically empty except for an old saxophone that seemed to be used for spare parts and a trunk holding various brass fittings, tools, oils, solvents, and glues for repairing instruments. The small bedroom contained only one rather high bed. This puzzled us until we pulled back the moth-eaten wool blanket covering it and discovered three thin mattresses piled atop the bedsprings.
  Another puzzle was how they survived almost entirely without furniture. A few mismatched wood chairs littered the main room, none of them the slightest bit comfortable, along with three metal music stands. There was no table, yet we could tell that they cooked because the kitchenette boasted two battered pots, and grease and various food splatters created a disgusting varnish on the surface of the cook top, counter, and walls. A fine layer of dust covered the floor everywhere except a few patches where the mattresses were dragged out to the living room every night. Which didn't make us any more enthusiastic about sleeping on those mattresses, I can tell you.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about lived.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Murder in Greenwich Village
  A slightly smaller group of scribes and gawkers loitered around our front door today. They swarmed me, but I was used to battling my way inside now. At the sound of my feet on the stairs, a door far above me opened. "Max? Max?"
  Lucia's mournful wail tore at me, and I looked up to see her leaning over the banister, peering down the stairwell. "It's me, Lucia," I said. 
  Her door above clicked shut. Were the police still looking for Max? I supposed they were, which was why he could probably never come back until the true killer was caught and convicted. But what if they never found the killer?
  Callie and I had spent the night in the saxophonists' second-floor flat, but it was empty now. I wandered upstairs to see if Callie had returned to ours. The saxophonists, we'd discovered, lived in primitive conditions. The apartment was the same layout as ours, but they used it in an odd way. The larger bedroom seemed to be where they stowed their musical gear, although with them on tour now it was practically empty except for an old saxophone that seemed to be used for spare parts and a trunk holding various brass fittings, tools, oils, solvents, and glues for repairing instruments. The small bedroom contained only one rather high bed. This puzzled us until we pulled back the moth-eaten wool blanket covering it and discovered three thin mattresses piled atop the bedsprings. 
  Another puzzle was how they survived almost entirely without furniture. A few mismatched wood chairs littered the main room, none of them the slightest bit comfortable, along with three metal music stands. There was no table, yet we could tell that they cooked because the kitchenette boasted two battered pots, and grease and various food splatters created a disgusting varnish on the surface of the cook top, counter, and walls. A fine layer of dust covered the floor everywhere except a few patches where the mattresses were dragged out to the living room every night. Which didn't make us any more enthusiastic about sleeping on those mattresses, I can tell you.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I now understood why Callie had been so quick to attack Dora. Knowing about the bloody gloves, she'd probably been mulling over the possibility of her cousin's death for days, and she didn't even have the information Ford had just given me. That was the trouble. All of us were missing pieces.
  I wondered if Callie had a picture of Dora that I could show to Ford. I doubted it. The only one I recalled seeing was ancient, from when she and Ethel were girls. That would be no help.
  His selfishness astounded me. "They might not suspect Callie now, but after Max clears himself—if he clears himself—they'll start hunting for other suspects."
  But they were evidence. Evidence that pointed to a woman—certainly not Max—having committed the crime. Just the thought of destroying evidence rubbed my fur the wrong way. The gloves might even prove important in some way I couldn't perceive now. Those disgusting scraps of once-beautiful leather in my purse were as sacrosanct in their own way as a famous historical document.
  Ford looked at me as if I should be carted off to an asylum. "The Magna Carta? What the hell are you talking about?"
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Knowing about the bloody gloves, she'd probably been mulling over the possibility of her cousin's death for days, and she didn't even have the information Ford had just given me. That was the trouble. All of us were missing pieces.
  I wondered if Callie had a picture of Dora that I could show to Ford. I doubted it. The only one I recalled seeing was ancient, from when she and Ethel were girls. That would be no help.
  His selfishness astounded me. "They might not suspect Callie now, but after Max clears himself—if he clears himself—they'll start hunting for other suspects."
  But they were evidence. Evidence that pointed to a woman—certainly not Max—having committed the crime. Just the thought of destroying evidence rubbed my fur the wrong way. The gloves might even prove important in some way I couldn't perceive now. Those disgusting scraps of once-beautiful leather in my purse were as sacrosanct in their own way as a famous historical document.
  Ford looked at me as if I should be carted off to an asylum. "The Magna Carta? What the hell are you talking about?"
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last five paragraphs.. Start with the sentence 'Muldoon's expression said clearly that he gave the man no thanks for that'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Muldoon's expression said clearly that he gave the man no thanks for that. "Why would you want to be around crime and corruption all the time? Girls should have higher aspirations than that."
  The image of little Calvin Longworth kicking in his baby carriage came to me. He would have everything a little boy could dream of. And I would do my part to make sure the world he grew up in was as safe and just as I could make it. Perhaps Muldoon wasn't wrong about that protective instinct. I couldn't watch over the child I'd brought into this world, but I could watch over his city.
  At my lack of response, Muldoon took a breath. "I see. Well, don't worry. I won't try to talk you out of anything."
  He laughed, showing even white teeth, and his dark features became a shade less forbidding. "Believe me, Louise. I know."
  That I kept writing at all is thanks to some wonderful people. First, John Scognamiglio, my editor at Kensington, who knew just the right moment to nudge me in a different direction. Without his encouragement, I'd probably still be staring at a blank screen in Word. I also owe a special debt of gratitude to Annelise Robey at the Jane Rotrosen Agency, for seeing me through a period of trial and error—lots of error—with unflappable humor and good advice. Endless thanks to my husband, Joe Newman, for proofing and being my partner in crime, and to my sister, Suzanne Bass, for reading and critiquing this manuscript, and listening.