Brooklyn Secrets by Triss Stein Page A

was this possible? I pushed the button to replay.
    That only showed me I had heard it right the first time. “Well, damn!” A lot of people in Brooklyn were saying that, but I wouldn’t hear it, live, until later.
    Later, when I was deep into work, my phone made the funny noise that said I had a text. Phone? Where was it? Hidden under a pile of notes? The sender was already gone but the message said, Kin we talk more???? and was signed D. D. Who was that? Was this even real, not spam?
    Then I realized it might be Deandra. I tapped in: Call me and my phone was ringing in just about a minute.

Chapter Nine
    â€œMiz Donato?” She sounded breathless. “It’s me, Deandra?”
    â€œI thought so. What can I do for you?”
    She took a deep breath. Then words tumbled out. “I thought some more, and I want to tell you what I know. I got to tell someone or just bust open.” Then she gasped.
    â€œOh, crap. I thought I was alone here.”
    There was a long silence which ended with me frantically shouting, “Deandra, are you all right? Are you still there?”
    Finally, she whispered, “I’m all right, I’m all right, but I can’t talk to you now. Not now. Someone too curious hanging around here. I’ll call again if that is okay?”
    â€œYes, of course. But are you safe for now? Is there anything…”
    â€œSafe enough.” Then she was gone.
    I didn’t even try to go back to my work after this disturbing call. Had my advice somehow gotten her into trouble? She said she was all right. I didn’t know what to do, but thought I would call her tomorrow if she did not call me. Or maybe go find her at the library. I wasn’t planning to go back to the neighborhood but it looked like that was going to change.
    The news the next morning droned on and on about budget hearings, Albany, some idiotic Hollywood starlet. There was nothing more about the only subject that interested me. But there was a text from Deandra. “Sorry. I okay. Will call.”
    I grumped to myself the whole time I showered and dressed like a lady, to the extent my wardrobe allowed. I was making another visit to Ruby Boyle. In fact, I was taking her out to lunch. She wouldn’t appreciate blue jeans.
    She had responded with pleasure to my late evening call. There was a diner nearby, she told me, with an eight-page menu that would accommodate any special food need and any special craving, too. She had a bacon-lettuce-tomato sandwich in mind, something never available at a home accommodating an observant Jewish population. “Of which,” she added emphatically, “I am not one.”
    There she was, right on time, standing in front of the reception desk, spine straight as a ruler, in a smart tweed suit with a silk scarf. Perhaps the style was a few decades out of date—I wouldn’t really know—but it was definitely an ensemble. I couldn’t apply that word to anything I owned. I was glad I had ditched my jeans.
    However stylish she looked, she did not look happy. I helped her into my car, not that she really needed it.
    â€œWe are not going to lunch,” she announced. “We need to go see Lillian. She is in the hospital.”
    â€œWhat? What happened?”
    â€œSilly woman got up in the night and fell. No walker. Of course at our age a fall like that means broken bones.”
    â€œWhen did this happen? Do you know how she is doing?”
    â€œLast night sometime. At least she did have her emergency button on. An ambulance came. She can have visitors now so let’s get going.”
    She looked around my car as if surprised to see we still hadn’t moved. I pointed out she had not told me the hospital name or location.
    â€œYou see how upset I am? Montefiore, and it’s close. I can direct you.”
    With some confusion, we finally succeeded in finding the hospital, the parking lot entrance, the signs pointing to visitor