Linda Fairstein - Final Jeopardy

I wasn’t at all surprised to hear Mike respond the way he often did when he felt insulted and wanted to get back into the game.

“No, Luther, actually not. It’s been a while, but I used to sail up here a lot Edgartown regatta spent some weekends with a girl whose old man kept a boat here.

Think he used to be in the Bureau. Found out the whole squad had been doing her decided to call it quits.“ He could bullshit with the best.

Luther ignored Mike and went right on talking to me.

"I understand sex crimes is your specialty, Alex. At least that’s what Wally tells me. Why would a girl like you want to spend all her time thinking about things like that?"

"Beats me."

It looked like I might have to admit Mike was right. The guy was on his way to proving what a schmuck he was.

“Did you hear the one about the woman who was raped by a man with a very little penis?” Luther went on, clearly thinking he was on a roll and would win me over with this one.

Before I could decide whether to say ‘no’ or a more strongly worded “I’m not interested,” Luther announced that the woman said to her assailant, ‘“Did anyone ever tell you what a small organ you have?” And the rapist looked back at her and answered, “Lady, I never knew I’d have to play it in such a large cathedral.”

I was silent. I had heard lousy, tasteless attempts at humor about rape before, but this was at a time and place to hit a new low.

“Mike, want to go over with me to the Hertz office?”

“We’ve checked that out already,” Luther broke in.

“It’s not the one Isabella used. She picked up the Mustang at the rental office in town, near the ferry terminal.”

“Thanks. But it’s not that. We’re clearly going to need our own car today, okay?”

“We’ll take you anywhere you need to go, Ms. Cooper. I’ve got a government car… you can ride with me.“

“Not possible, Luther,” Mike said as he steered my elbow across the grass to the rental car area.“She’s allergic to polyester. Five minutes in the car with you and she’s likely to lose it all over your best suit. Trust me, she’s hell on synthetics.”

We were fortunate to get one of the rental cars, since the annual Bluefish Derby, which attracted devotees from all over the Northeast, was in its last days and fishermen were everywhere. I pulled out of the parking lot and yelled to Wally that we would meet them all up on Daggett’s Pond Way. The airport is in the middle of the island, so we turned west and began the ride to my house, twenty minutes up-island, taking the South Road so I could point out my favorite sights along the way.

“We’ve got to get some information about Isabella and the investigation. You think Wally will give it to you?” Mike queried.

“That’s our best shot. We should be able to pick up a bit when they walk the crime scene with us. But at some point, back at the house, let’s make sure that one of us has a few moments alone with Wally. I don’t have to invite the trooper and Luther in for tea once they’re through with me as a witness. But we’ll ask Wally to stay, and you can suggest to Eb that he take you around the property and catch you up on some Mayhew history. Wally’s a softie I’m sure he’ll give us some direction, once we get Luther out of the picture.”

“Luther is he sent from central casting, or what? He’s probably dynamite on a forged check case but your mother could solve a murder faster than he could.”

“I can’t wait to tell Sarah Brenner about him. She’s working on a ”Top Ten“ list for sex crimes prosecutors, you know, like Letterman does every night? The Top Ten assumptions people make about district attorneys who handle sex crimes… Number 3 People assume that you want to hear every joke that has the words penis or vagina in it, or has remotely to do with any kind of sexual act between humans, animals, or extraterrestrials. Number 2 People assume that you are interested in any social or sexual problem that they or anyone they have ever talked to has mentioned to them… and Number 1 People always assume that you must be incapable of a “normal” social life whatever that is after listening to daily tales of deviancy and dysfunction. She’d just love Luther and his little organ.“

We were well into Chilmark now, beginning the gradual climb up the road at Abel’s Hill. Off to the right was the quiet local cemetery, scene of many stoned pilgrimages to Belushi’s grave, and then further down around the curve was Clarissa Alien’s farm, with its stunning view of the Atlantic beyond the grazing herd of black and white sheep.

At the intersection of Beetlebung Corner and the Menemsha Crossroad, I turned left.

“This is the center of Chilmark, Mike, with its town hall, library, post office, schoolhouse, and the general store run by my friends Primo and Mary.

“We’re almost there.”

I envisioned Isabella getting her coffee and supplies from Primo every day, as I had suggested, or maybe going next door to The Feast for dinner. Had Wally checked those places, to see who was with her or whether she had signaled a sense of danger to anyone? If he hadn’t, Mike and I could do it this afternoon.

“If she didn’t hang out here, she might have gone up to Gay Head. We can check that out, too.”

“What’s there?”

“Indians.”

“Dot-and-a-knot?” asked Mike.

I bit my lip, trying not to give him the satisfaction of a smile. One of the truly refreshing things about the Homicide Squad was that political correctness had never had an impact there it simply didn’t make a difference.

“Dot-and-a-knot‘ was squad jargon for East Indians the twisted headgear and the red forehead dot of the Hindu religion.

“No, stupid. Feathers. This island was inhabited by Indians Wampanoags until the English came. The history was like everyplace else in America and the Indians were pushed off their land, up to the very tip of the island. Now the tribal lands are protected and the tribe has won official recognition from the government.”

I slowed down as the road dipped at the Gosnold bridge and nodded off to the right, telling Mike to look. Beyond the town boat landing and, across the wide expanse of Menemsha Pond was my cherished hilltop. As soon as I hit this point in the drive my pulse always quickened and my spirits elevated: I was home. I hit the accelerator and raced up the winding hill toward the granite markers and row of six mailboxes which stood at the mouth of Daggett Pond Way. But as I made the last turn onto the unpaved path and saw the access interrupted by the neon yellow color of the crime-scene tape, I braked to a halt and pulled the rented car into a clearing beside a faded bush of lacy blue hydrangeas, as I wondered what Isabella Lascar’s last moments had been like.

We sat quietly in our car for five or six minutes until Wally’s cruiser and Luther’s black sedan pulled in behind us. When they motioned to us to get out, Mike and I opened our doors and joined them on the strip of tall grass next to the roadway. It was only thirty yards back to State Road, but that was entirely out of view because of the sharp bend in the old path. And although my house and the homes of my neighbors were straight ahead, they were shielded from sight by the dense growth of pines and cedars that crowded both sides of the hilltop that crested before us.

“Not a bad place for a murder,” I remarked to Mike. “This one piece of the drive is completely secluded. It never seemed sinister to me until this moment, but it obviously presented a great opportunity for a killer to go unnoticed.”

“Now, Alex,” Luther said as he approached us, ‘there’s not much left here to point out to you, but I just want you to get an idea of what we think happened.“