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was one of the earliest and one of the least important.”
    “But you didn’t think so. Did you talk to this cop?”
    “I did. He said he walked down to the beach.” She started down to the beach, and I followed.
    She stopped at the water’s edge, pointed, and said, “Across that inlet is Fire Island and Smith Point County Park where the memorial service was just held. Far out on the horizon, this police officer could see the jet fuel burning on the water. He shined his light out on the water, but all he saw was a calm, glassy surface. He said in his report that he didn’t expect to see any survivors coming to shore, at least not that soon, and probably not that far from the crash. In any case, he decided to climb up a sand dune where he could get a better view.”
    She turned and headed for the rising dune, which was near where I’d parked the Jeep. I followed.
    We reached the base of the dune. “Okay,” she said, “he told me he saw recent signs that people had scrambled up or down-or up
and
down-this dune. This guy wasn’t actually following the footprints; he was just looking for a vantage point to scan the water. So, he climbed this dune.”
    “Does that mean I have to climb it?”
    “Follow me.”
    We scrambled up the dune, and I got sand in my shoes. When I was a young detective, I was into re-enactments, which are sometimes strenuous and get your clothes dirty. I’m more cerebral now.
    We stood at the top of the dune, and she said, “Down there in that small valley between this dune and the next, this policeman saw a blanket.” We walked down the shallow slope.
    She said, “Just about here. A bed blanket. If you live around here, you probably own a good cotton beach blanket. This was a synthetic fiber blanket, maybe from a hotel or motel.”
    “Did anyone check out local hotels and motels to get a match?”
    “Yes, an ATTF team did. They found several hotels and motels that used that brand of blanket. They narrowed it down to one hotel that said a maid reported a missing blanket from a room.”
    “What was the name of the hotel?”
    “Are you interested in pursuing this?”
    “No. In fact both you and Liam Griffith have told me it’s none of my business.”
    “That’s correct.”
    “Good. By the way-why are we here?”
    “I thought you’d find this interesting. You might work it into one of your classes at John Jay.”
    “You’re always thinking of me.”
    She didn’t reply.
    By now, of course, the hook was in John Corey’s mouth, and Kate Mayfield was reeling the fish in slowly. I think this is how I got married, both times.
    She continued, “On the blanket was an ice chest, and in the chest, the police officer’s report described half-melted ice. There were two wineglasses on the blanket, a corkscrew, and an empty bottle of white wine.”
    “What kind of wine?”
    “An expensive French Pouilly-Fume. About fifty dollars in those days.”
    I asked, “Did anyone get prints from the bottle?”
    “Yes. And the wineglasses. And the ice chest. Lots of good prints. Two different sets. The FBI ran the prints, but came up empty.”
    I asked, “Lipstick?”
    “Yes, on one glass.”
    “Any sign of sex on the blanket?”
    Kate replied, “There was no semen found, and no condoms.”
    “Maybe they had oral sex, and she swallowed.”
    “Thank you for that thought. Okay, forensics did find male and female epidermal on the blanket, plus body hair, head hair, and some pubic hair, so this couple was probably naked at some point.” She added, “But it could have been someone else’s hair and epidermal since it seemed to be a hotel blanket.”
    “Any foreign fibers?”
    “Lots of fibers. But again, it could be from a dozen different sources.” She added, “Also some white wine on the blanket.”
    I nodded. In fact, stuff found on hotel blankets was not exactly good forensic evidence. I asked, “Sand?”
    “Yes. Some still damp. So they may have gone down to the beach.”
    I nodded and