Sinful Longing

Michael laughed. “Doesn’t he know he’s required to drive a sedan? Four doors, dark blue, unmarked. Just like the movies.”

John walked over to the two of them, took off his shades, and said hello. Johnny Cash barked at the man. Colin tugged on the dog’s leash, giving him a quick correction. “It’s okay, Johnny Cash. If you’re nice to him, the detective won’t throw us in the pokey,” Colin said.

John rubbed the dog’s head. “Nice first name for a dog. And I don’t have any plans to throw you in the pokey.” He paused, then added, “At least, not today.” John shifted his gaze to Michael. “Good to see you again, too, Mr. Sloan.”

Michael nodded. “I know you were planning on talking to Colin, but I see no reason why I can’t be here.”

John nodded and shot him a closed-mouth smile. “Not a problem. Happy to chat with both of you about the latest. Do you want to talk inside? Or chat on the porch?”

Colin’s street was quiet now, so he opted for the porch.

John dived right into the heart of his visit. “Here’s the deal.” He took a piece of paper from his pocket then spread open a copy of the sewing pattern on his lap. Johnny Cash lifted his snout to sniff it. “We knew from Sophie’s first attempts that this pattern contained more than just a few names. Now that she’s figured out all the addresses in it, we were able to track them to who lived in those houses at the time of the murder. We believe that this was a drug dealing route,” the detective said, sharing what Ryan had told Colin on the phone.

There it was. The official mention of how unbelievably fucked up their mother was. What gnawed at Colin the most wasn’t that he shared genes with her, but that he shared choices. The choice to use—coke for her, pills and liquor for him. The one solace he found was that even before he’d stopped, he’d stopped at using. He’d never moved into the selling, as she evidently had.

“Surprise,” Michael said with disdain. “Inmate 347-921 was a drug dealer, in addition to being a murderer. What next? She ran a child pornography ring? Oh wait. She probably operates an underground sex slave business from prison.” Michael shoved a hand into his dark hair. “Every fucking time it’s something else with her.”

“Sorry to be the bearer of this news.” John’s voice was steady, a stark contrast to Michael’s. “We believe these men were at the top of the pattern not only because of their potential involvement in the murder, but because of their role in the drug ring, and we think below them is the list of people Dora was selling to regularly. Presumably she hid her route in the pattern so no one in her family would know what she was doing. We’d previously thought Stefano was her dealer, but it seems he was a step up. He was her supplier and provided the drugs she sold. That’s why she owed him money—for the drugs she procured from him.” John turned to Colin. “But we don’t believe Stefano was the one who recruited her for it. Do you know anything about how she got involved? Can you remember anything?”

Michael raised a hand and cut in before Colin could say a word. “Why are you asking him?”

“Because of the friends he had when he was younger,” John said to Michael in a cool, even tone. “That’s why I’m here talking to him.”

“I’ll answer it,” Colin said firmly, taking the reins. He loved his big brother, adored him to the ends of the Earth, but Colin wasn’t a kid anymore. “The answer is no. I have no clue how she got involved in dealing drugs. I had no idea she was selling, but it doesn’t surprise me because she was a fucked up, desperate woman. But if you’re asking for details about the drug business the Royal Sinners were in, I’ll tell you anything I know. I’ve been upfront with you from day one, Detective. When I was thirteen, I hung with the wrong crowd. I was friends with the wrong people, and yes, I was friends with the brother of one of the men whose address was in the pattern. T.J. Nelson’s brother Paul. He was fifteen and I was thirteen, and when Ryan told me T.J’s name was in that pattern, I was shocked—and frankly embarrassed that I was ever friends with his brother. We did stupid shit. Egged houses, TP’d them. That was as far as we went. But we knew what the older guys were doing because we heard them talk.”

“What did you hear?”

“They were always talking about territory. They claimed ‘hoods’ for fencing their stolen goods, and when they moved deeper into drugs, they claimed sections of neighborhoods for selling those, too. They marked everything that was theirs with gang logos, insignia, personal graffiti. They’d have a field day on Facebook today with the way they tagged stuff.”

John nodded. “The gang culture, oddly enough, loves social media. They post pictures of themselves online, on Instagram and Facebook, holding wads of bills from their drugs, or showing off phones they stole.”

“That’s what it was all about then, too, in an old school way.”