Free Hot-Wired in Brooklyn by Douglas Dinunzio Page A

Hutchinson, and that it was Jimmy’s name, too. But you were married.”
    “I took back my maiden name,” she said, colder. “Isn’t that allowed?”
    “I guess.”
    “Thank you.”
    “So, you’re alone now?”
    “I have no man, if that’s what you mean. Is that what you were hoping I’d say?” The dullness in her eyes turned suddenly to
     a fire hot enough to boil thin-shelled eggs.
    “I’d better be going,” I said.
    A flash of anger crossed her face. “Aren’t you waiting for me to ask you to stay? Isn’t that what happens next for someone
     in your line of work? To comfort the poor, grieving, brotherless war widow between her… sheets?”
    “I already told you I was leaving.”
    “So you did. And I was expected to beg you to stay, wasn’t I?”
    “No.”
    “No?”
    “I think you’ve got the wrong idea about detectives…”
    “But not about men.”
    “I wouldn’t know about anybody else,” I said, as glacial as I could make it. “I just know about me.” I started for the door.
    “Wait, please,” she said, stepping toward me. “I didn’t say that. That is, I didn’t mean what I said. I’m just upset… and
     confused. Do you understand?”
    “Sure.”
    “I’m expected to handle little things like death, Eddie. Parents, a husband, a kid brother. Overcoming tragedy is supposed
     to be run-of-the-mill for me, like being a frontier wife or one of those old, stoic women in Greek plays. I’m cursed with
     this strength to continue on, to survive, but never to win. It’s a false strength, Eddie, and it’s cruel.”
    I was looking directly into her eyes. “I understand.”
    “I believe you do.”
    “I still need to be going.”
    “Eddie?”
    “Yes?”
    “Despite what I said, I really
would
feel better with someone here tonight. With anyone… here tonight. I could make up the couch for you. It’s a lot more comfortable
     than it looks.”
    I glanced at the door, then at my watch. “Won’t Charlotte be back pretty soon? It’s well past midnight.” That brought silence.
     She turned and walked slowly back to the kitchen. I heard the sound of running water, and another sound. Sobbing. I walked
     to where she was standing, reached aroundher and turned off the tap.
    “I don’t guess Charlotte would be much of a comfort, would she?” I said softly. Caroline tried first to smile, then to speak.
     Finally, failing both, she turned her face into my waiting chest and buried it there, sobbing and helpless, like an abandoned
     child.

CHAPTER
16
    C aroline was wrong about the couch. Even Letty’s Queen Anne chair had smaller bumps. I didn’t catch a wink, so my nightmare
     didn’t return, along with whatever ghoulish permutations the trip to the morgue would’ve added. But I needed sleep so badly,
     I was almost willing to risk it in my own bed.
    I looked in on Caroline around three. She was in a dead sleep, covers primly tucked up to her chin, the way little Desiree
     slept with her cat. I wrote her a note, short and professional, offering what help I could in finding her brother’s killer.
     It didn’t figure to be a separate case anyway. Somehow, it tied in with Arnold and the stolen car and Shork’s murder. Everything
     evil seemed to tie in with Arnold’s problem, no matter what I thought or did about it. It was my curse, and I was already
     sick to death of it.
    I got home around three-thirty, slept fitfully and without dreams until seven-thirty, then staggered off to early mass.Usually I went to the ten o’clock, or I skipped mass altogether, but that morning I went early. I sat in the last pew, ignored
     Father Giacomo’s sermon about the meaning of Christ’s suffering, and tried to figure out the meaning of my own. I left, unnoticed,
     just before communion.
    I started making lasagna around nine-thirty. It was Sunday morning, my favorite time of the week, usually, doing what I love
     best. But mass hadn’t set my thoughts in order, and by eleven the lasagna had