Free Fairstein, Linda - Final Jeopardy by Final Jeopardy (v1.1) [html]

are completely random.
    I mean if they’re not domestic or drug-related, then the killer and victim have absolutely no connection. The best cop in the world can spend a lifetime on a case and never solve it unless somebody walks into the station house and confesses. An outdoor shooting like this, there’s no fingerprints, no DNA, no clue. Maybe it’s just a hunter who let off some shots and Isabella was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s how most victims get it. Bad timing.“
    “It isn’t hunting season, Mike.”
“You know what I’m talking about. Let’s knock it off you’re right.
Dinner will be here in another fifteen minutes.
    Then I’ll get out of your hair till the morning.“
    “I’ll drink to that. Cheers.”
    We watched CNN until the pizza arrived Third World civil wars were generally a diversion from a day at the criminal courthouse and then moved to the dining-room tab leto eat, working on our second drinks.
    “You know what you said when we came in tonight, about your father thinking you’ve been at it too long?
    Were you kidding, Alex?“
”No, but that won’t change anything. You know how I feel about my job.
It’s just that no one in my family no one in my life understands that attraction. It’s not quite what they envisioned for their kid.“
    I had been raised in a comfortable suburban neighborhood north of Manhattan, the third child only daughter of parents who were old-fashioned and uncompromising in their devotion to each other and their families. My father’s parents were Russian Jews who emigrated to this country in the 1920s with his two older brothers, then he and his sister had been born in New York. My mother’s background was entirely different. Her ancestors had come from Finland at the turn of the century and settled on a farm in New England, re-creating the life they had known in Scandinavia, down to the primitive wooden outhouse and sauna on the edge of an icy cold lake.
    She and my father met when he was an intern just out of medical school and she was a college student, both caught up one night in the same disaster. Manhattan’s most famous nightclub in the fifties the Montparnasse was a major attraction because of the combination of its glamorous crowds and its great jazz. My mother was there with a date one November evening, while my father was trying to get in the door with three of his pals who had just finished a tour on duty at the hospital. A raging fire broke out in the kitchen and spread quickly through the crowded club, igniting damask tablecloths and chiffon dresses and silk scarves. The four young doctors turned the Park Avenue sidewalk into a makeshift emergency room, tri aging the fleeing patrons and performers, socialites and staff, as people trampled each other in an effort to escape the treacherous inferno.
My father spent the rest of the night riding the ambulances back and forth from nearby hospitals, unable to help the eighteen men and women who had perished inside the club, but saving scores of lives and calming dozens more who had been overcome by the combination of smoke and fear. The untrained volunteer who worked beside him for hours had been among the fortunate few to emerge unharmed from the Montparnasse.
He learned only her first name that night Maude but was taken as much by her strength of spirit and gentle manner as by her perfect smile, green eyes, and wonderful long legs which she disappeared on when the ambulance delivered its final two patients to New York Hospital. When he told the story of that night he always used to say that the only way he could get the deadly images of the injured out of his mind’s eye was to conjure up the vision of my mother, sitting across from him in the ambulance all night, holding the hands of the patients he labored over, and then the nightmares subsided.
Two weeks later, when Life magazine printed the story of the fire and the rescue, my mother called to thank the young doctor whose name was