Linda Fairstein - The Kills

Mercer made a signal of some kind over my head, probably telling Mike to cut it out.

"It's okay," I said. Mike Chapman knew me every bit as well as I knew myself. I didn't want to go home just yet. I didn't want to spend the night alone.

I ducked under the blades and climbed up on the pontoons, into the seat behind the pilot. I had been in a similar chopper scores of times, riding with the DA's office photographer to take aerial photos of crime scenes. Someone would return tomorrow to do that over the river and bay, down to the Kills.

After Mike and Mercer got in, the pilot lifted the helicopter in the air, hovering behind the great green lady. He swooped down and to his left, circling from behind her enormous arm holding the torch aloft, past her strong face, illumined at dusk by the lights in her crown.

"Lady Liberty, Coop. She watched over you today. Quite a beauty."

My head rested against the window and I stared back at her, saluting her silently in gratitude.

"Personally," Mike went on, "the Liberty on the gold piece is a bit sexier, in my book. This one's got her hair all tied up neat in a bun. The one on the Double Eagle? Hers is all loose and wild, kinda like yours looks right now."

The sun was setting behind us, west of the Hudson, and straight ahead the elegant Manhattan skyline was showing off its stunning array of lights.

We were over the river, then above the Chelsea Piers, passing close to the Empire State Building and the Art Deco spire of the Chrysler Building, coming in for an easy landing along the East River, in sight of the old deadhouse at the tip of Roosevelt Island.

A phalanx of detectives was waiting at the heliport to brainstorm with Mike and Mercer, and to hear my story of the day's events.

"The commissioner wants to see Ms. Cooper before he goes home tonight," one of them told Chapman as he brushed them out of the way.

"Give me an hour. I gotta buy her a new pair of shoes. Then we'll have her down to headquarters." He spotted a friend in the crowd. "Joey-get us uptown fast as you can, lights and sirens. The broad needs a bath bad. She got too close to Jersey today-smells like Secaucus."

We were at my front door fifteen minutes later. I unlocked it and the three of us went inside. "Clean yourself up, blondie. Go heavy on the perfume."

"Do I really have to go to headquarters tonight? I'm drained," I said, opening the bedroom door and pausing there while Mike and Mercer headed for the ice cubes and the bar glasses respectively.

"You bet your sweet ass you do. The commish had all of Manhattan South scouring the town for you-air, sea, scuba-every hand on deck. And after you're done thanking him, you've got the two of us to deal with."

I called back out to Mike, "What do you mean by that?"

Mercer answered. "It's payday. We're going to keep you out all night. Dancing, wining and dining, hanging out with your friends."

"And when we deliver you back here at daybreak, you'll be so exhausted you won't be able to give me any orders for at least a month. You'll sleep like a baby," Mike said.

"I'm not sure I can keep up with-"

"Unless you'd rather we go on ahead and you just take your shower, pull the covers up over your head, and stay here feeling sorry for yourself. Sulking, pouting-your usual MO."

"Give me half an hour," I said. "Don't leave without me."

I went into my bedroom and stripped off the sweatshirt and damp pants. The message light was flashing on the answering machine, and I could see there were seven calls. I pressed the erase button and held it down until every one of them was deleted. Whoever had been looking for me today could try again tomorrow.

The rare and magnificent object that captured my imagination-"such stuff," the Bard once said, "as dreams are made on"-first came to my attention in an article in The New York Times. Other helpful sources included William Stadiem's Too Rich-The High Life and Tragic Death of King Farouk ; the Sotheby's/Stack's catalog of the July 30, 2002, auction of the 1933 Double Eagle; John Rousmaniere's history of the New York Yacht Club; and Seitz and Miller's The Other Islands of New York City.

I am grateful to Susanne Kirk and all my friends at Scribner and Pocket Books who have made my transition from the prosecutor's office to my writing room such a delightful step.

Esther Newberg is the best friend any writer could hope to have.

My friends and family give me more joy than I can express. And although Justin Feldman is only a cameo in the world of Alexandra Cooper, he is everything to me.

Linda Fairstein, America's foremost expert on crimes of sexual assault and domestic violence, led the Sex Crimes Unit of the District Attorney's Office in Manhattan for twenty-five years, leaving in 2002 to write and lecture full-time. A fellow of the American College of Trial Lawyers, she is a graduate of Vassar College and the University of Virginia School of Law. Her first novel, Final Jeopardy, which introduced the character Alexandra Cooper, was published in 1996 to critical and commercial acclaim and was made into an ABC Movie of the Week starring Dana Delany. Likely to Die, Cold Hit, The Deadhouse, and her most recent novel, The Bone Vault, also achieved international-bestseller status. Her nonfiction book, Sexual Violence, was a New York Times Notable Book in 1994. She lives with her husband in Manhattan and on Martha's Vineyard.