conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about McCone, Private, Sharon with the genre: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense, Mystery?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Trophies and Dead Things'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first five paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Trophies and Dead Things
  But Taylor shook his head. "He didn't need to. Libby and I knew; we've always known. Jenny could only have gotten that gun from the man who knew where the weapons were kept in the flat. No, what he said was worse than that. He said it was Perry who betrayed us."
  Taylor added, "I couldn't listen to him say those things. Perry was the man I looked up to the most. If he betrayed us, then... there were no heroes.
  D.A. bowed his head again. A sudden gust of wind swirled through the clearing. From below I heard the faint noise of a motor—the overworked one on the boat I'd piloted earlier. Davey had reached safety; Ross was taking them home.
  The lantern flickered, getting low on fuel. I stood, "D.A., come back to shore with me. We'll work this out."
  I went over to the lantern, turned it down lower. "Come on, I said. "You'll be okay." I stretched out my hand.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Next I called Greg at home. I asked him to meet me at the Hall in an hour, said I wanted McFate there, too. Greg didn't ask many questions; he was used to peculiar requests from me and, besides, he probably relished dragging McFate out of whatever bed he might occupy at that hour on a weekend morning.
  By the time I parked at the nearly deserted curb in front of the Hall of Justice my anger had built to full pressure and I was primed for a confrontation. As I passed through the echoing marble-walled lobby, I glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes to four on Saturday morning—a week after I'd become involved in the case that for he had stripped away what little remained of the mythic charm of the 1960s.
  I still valued the legacy of those years. A war had been stopped, the will of the people had prevailed, society had been altered in profound ways. But there was a darker side to the legacy, and the personal cost had been high on both sides.
  I'd been right on Monday night when I'd told Rae that what the sixties had been about was rage—but that was only part of it. What they'd also been about was the same as any other decade; winning and losing. Winning the war against the Establishment in the streets at home. Losing the country because it had become bitterly divided over the Asian conflict; losing yourself because the conflict in the streets had left you bitter, broken and alone.
  McFate was the first person I saw when I entered the squad room: standing near Greg's office, looking pressed and combed and clean-shaven, even on such short notice. He glanced at me—took in my mud-stained clothes and dirty face and disheveled hair—and sneered. The pressure of my anger soared, and then I totally lost it.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: At first I felt a stubborn resistance. All those months he'd been silent, left me wondering where we stood, and now he thought he could simply walk back into my life. But then I felt a softening: it couldn't have been easy for him, either. Besides, on some level I'd always known where we stood, known he'd eventually return.
  I picture George: his rough-hewn face, his changeable hazel eyes, his gray-frosted black hair, his tall, lean body. I put my hand to my lips, imagining how it would be to see him after all this time. Imagining how we could be together.
  The pain and anger and disillusionment of the past week fell away from me. Their vestiges would return, I knew. Bad memories would recur—probably for the rest of my life. But I would take comfort in moments like this, when I felt temporarily safe, warm, insulated. I stretch, yawned. What an embarrassment of riches I'd come home to!
  As I hugged my pillow and closed my eyes, I resolved to wake by noon and return four of the five phone calls. I would reassure my mother. Thank Luke Widdows for the information that had aided me in my investigation. Ask Anne-Marie if I couldn't visit Hank sooner than Sunday. And tell George yes, I felt the same, wanted to see him.
  And after that I would initiate a call of my own. I couldn't go on fooling myself: it was high time I told Ted to drop Ralph and Alice off at their new home.