Roger Dean   1 Steeped in post-wedding weariness, Carolyn Hutchins stared contemplatively out the window of room 826 of the Renaissance Center. A late season storm was dropping those large, heavy flakes that do not seem to fall so much as hang suspended in the fluorescent halo of the street lights below. As far as Carolyn was concerned, the winter was already old and frayed. But even she had to admit that the falling snow cascading across the landscape, created an almost magical glow to the evening. “Jesus, Detroit in the winter,” Carolyn said making no effort to turn around. She sighed heavily and breathed in the faint aroma of wet overcoats, stale cigarette smoke and spilled whisky. It was a scent common to older hotels that had seen better days. “I thought you seemed quite happy to be back on your home turf today,” said Sam from the hotel bed where he lay studying her. “You know,” he intoned

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