conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a description for a book titled Line of Vision about Marty, Penzler, Pick with the genre: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers & Suspense
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Penzler Pick, <a href="/exec/obidos/tg/feature/-/137750/${0}">February 2001</a>: First-time author the author captures the imagination from the very first page with the voice of Marty Kalish, an investment banker in a tony company. Marty recounts the night that led to the murder of Dr. Derrick Reinhardt, the abusive husband of Rachel, with whom Marty is having an affair. The highly original premise of this story is masterful. Although Marty tells us his involvement in the murder, we don't know exactly what that involvement is. Did he murder or did he cover up?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first three paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Line of Vision
  I think of Jerry Lazarus. At my insistence, we haven't talked in the law firm since I became a client. Laz is doing well here, a few years from making partner. However he may try to rationalize it, it can't look too good, him being best buddies with a guy on trial for murder. Being the stand-up guy that he is, he will never let that keep him from showing me his undying friendship. So I made a point of telling him that I didn't want to see him at the office.
  Mandy takes a seat across from me. She is wearing a blue suit today, with gold buttons that run all the way up and close the suit jacket at the neck. She has pulled her hair back in a clip, temporarily restraining the unmanageable locks.
  She starts, then chews her lip. "It's not that. It's a question of what's the best defense for you. The state doesn't have a strong case against you, Marty. It might be better to just sit back and make them prove it."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: five more paragraphs. End with the sentence ' You never, ever tested Rachel Reinardt to see if she fired a gun on November eighteenth, did you?"
  Cummings's face transforms during Paul's lengthy question from embarrassment to annoyance to bemusement, so that when he says, "You're correct," he's almost smiling.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Paul pauses on that, then turns on his heels and moves to the left before squaring off. He nods absently. "All right. You arrested Mrs. Reinardt for the murder of her husband, didn't you?"
  Paul turns to the judge. "Your Honor, I don't think I have any further—" He snaps his fingers. "Actually, there is one more thing I'd like to ask the detective. Just one more thing." He strolls toward the jury box. "While we're talking about the gun."
  Cummings inhales. He knows he's almost finished. I happen to think he held up pretty well. Paul worked him over, but there was a lot to work with.
  Paul smiles. "You see where I'm going, Detective. I'm talking about Rachel Reinardt. The only person who we all agree was in that house that night. You never, ever tested Rachel Reinardt to see if she fired a gun on November eighteenth, did you?"
  Cummings's face transforms during Paul's lengthy question from embarrassment to annoyance to bemusement, so that when he says, "You're correct," he's almost smiling.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last five paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The room, like every other in the Sprovieri house now, looks different from any time I've been here. Boxes scattered, most shelves empty now, some even gone, leaving the brackets jutting nakedly from the wall. Rudy's wife is selling the house and moving; until then, she is living downstate with her mother. What Rudy will do now—what Rachel will do, for that matter—is anyone's guess but mine. I won't waste the energy.
  I raise the binoculars again. She is upstairs, walking around in a white undershirt and sweatpants cut off at the knee. Her hair is up in a ponytail, something I've never seen on her before. It suits her. She walks into the master bedroom and flicks on the light. First she pulls down on the sweats, wiggling out of them. I feel the adrenaline, that familiar rush. Then the underwear. She reaches her arms behind her back and pulls the T-shirt over her head, facing me, naked. For a moment, just one deluded moment, I think she will start swaying side to side, will move her hands along her body, will even whisper to me.
  Now she is applying some lotion to her face. She pauses and looks into the mirror, her hand dangling in the air, her long neck craning forward. What she sees in her reflection, I don't know. I guess I never did.
  What was it? What was it that drove them? What made her not only want to cheat, but kill her husband? What made my mother stray from Dad, from Jamie and me? I always blamed it on sex. Stupid me, never a fulfilling relationship in my life, I thought sex was the poison in the drink. I never allowed for any other factors—trust, security, friendship, intimacy, communication, shared experiences, unconditional commitment.
  Oh, why didn't I give you the chance to explain? I could have forgiven you. How could an ignorant eight-year-old, a naïve teenager, understand what was happening between you and Dad? I'll never know the answers. I have to live with that. Jamie will never know the questions—she will remember her mother as she always has. I will try to see her through Jamie's eyes, too.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Boxes scattered, most shelves empty now, some even gone, leaving the brackets jutting nakedly from the wall. Rudy's wife is selling the house and moving; until then, she is living downstate with her mother. What Rudy will do now—what Rachel will do, for that matter—is anyone's guess but mine. I won't waste the energy.
  I raise the binoculars again. She is upstairs, walking around in a white undershirt and sweatpants cut off at the knee. Her hair is up in a ponytail, something I've never seen on her before. It suits her. She walks into the master bedroom and flicks on the light. First she pulls down on the sweats, wiggling out of them. I feel the adrenaline, that familiar rush. Then the underwear. She reaches her arms behind her back and pulls the T-shirt over her head, facing me, naked. For a moment, just one deluded moment, I think she will start swaying side to side, will move her hands along her body, will even whisper to me.
  Now she is applying some lotion to her face. She pauses and looks into the mirror, her hand dangling in the air, her long neck craning forward. What she sees in her reflection, I don't know. I guess I never did.
  What was it? What was it that drove them? What made her not only want to cheat, but kill her husband? What made my mother stray from Dad, from Jamie and me? I always blamed it on sex. Stupid me, never a fulfilling relationship in my life, I thought sex was the poison in the drink. I never allowed for any other factors—trust, security, friendship, intimacy, communication, shared experiences, unconditional commitment.
  Oh, why didn't I give you the chance to explain? I could have forgiven you. How could an ignorant eight-year-old, a naïve teenager, understand what was happening between you and Dad? I'll never know the answers. I have to live with that. Jamie will never know the questions—she will remember her mother as she always has. I will try to see her through Jamie's eyes, too.