CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Johnny Cash trotted perfectly by Colin’s side as Michael pulled up in his black BMW, a mountain bike on the roof. Colin slowed his pace and met Michael as he stepped out of his car. His brother must have come straight from the office. He wore his usual striped button-down, tie, and dark pants. When he reached Colin, he whipped off his sunglasses, his cool blue gaze sharp as ever. “Did you talk to Ryan? You ready for the detective?”

Colin pushed his palm down as if to say let’s take it easy. “It’s just a talk. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Michael clapped him on the back. “I know that, man. That’s not my point. I was just asking. Just making sure.”

Colin brushed off Michael’s hand. “I get it. But the point is I’m neither worried, nor surprised about anything related to our mother,” he said, though that wasn’t entirely true. He’d been shocked by the news Ryan had shared about her, but only for the first few minutes. At this point Colin was accustomed to hearing that she was a less than stellar citizen.

What had him so prickly was Elle’s cancellation of their plans tomorrow with zero explanation. Nothing. Not a word. That confused the hell out of him, especially because he had no right to ask her what was up. She’d been direct from day one about what she could give and what she couldn’t. They were friends-plus-more, and that was that. She’d made no promises, and he had no reason to feel slighted.

Except…she’d been giving off some serious I want more vibes at the café the other morning. He’d been damn sure they were crossing into the unchartered territory of more—exactly where he wanted to be with her.

But, hell, maybe that had been wishful thinking on his part. Maybe he’d been reading too much into one small, sweet little moment. Because this Elle—the hot and cold one—was the one he’d been used to. Push, pull. Move forward, retreat. Fuck, freak out.

Time to wise up and accept what she would give, instead of angling for something he’d never have. Elle was the summit he’d never reach, thanks to his past.

Right now, Colin’s present involved a detective, who parked his Nissan Leaf at the curb in front of his house. Colin nudged Michael and dropped his voice. “I never, never, never would have pegged the detective as the owner of an electric car.”

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.”

“What do you know about T.J. Nelson?” John asked.

“He’s the guy you think brokered Stefano’s hits, right?” Michael chimed in. After Sophie uncovered the code in the pattern, and Ryan delivered some fresh details on potential names, the detective had enough info to pinpoint the suspected accomplices. A pair of cousins, T.J. and Kenny Nelson, were believed to have helped Jerry Stefano pull off the murder. When Stefano wound up going to prison for the crime, he never gave up their names. But the detective had new evidence pointing to their roles—T.J. as the broker and Kenny as the getaway driver.

John nodded. “We think that’s a strong possibility. We want to know more about him, and how big his role was.”

“Big? Like he was a mastermind of the whole thing?” Colin asked, trying to get to the heart of what the detective needed to know.

But John kept certain details close to the vest. “There are a number of possibilities we’re looking into. Tell me what you know of him.”

Colin sighed deeply, rewinding to his days as a thirteen-year-old, picturing T.J. Nelson, the towering older brother with the short mohawk, gold earring, and menacing smile. His arms were made of steel, and he had a head for strategy. He was always plotting. “What I remember overhearing was T.J. talking about who was handling what in the Royal Sinners. He was very focused on which guys were responsible for which areas. The territories, they called them,” Colin said. “And they also talked about the protection of them.”

“Of the territories?” John asked, his voice tight and clipped, a shift from his previous tone, as if he were holding something in.

Colin nodded. “Yes. I didn’t have any of the details, but that’s some of what I overheard when he was around. Who handled the fences. Who picked up the drugs. That sort of thing.” Colin held up his hands like an innocent man, telling the whole truth. “I had no clue my mom was selling, dealing, or using. But given what you figured out with that pattern, maybe that’s what she was doing talking to them. Maybe she was picking her territory for selling.”

“Seems she got a prime one,” John said. “Any idea why she would?”

“She probably blew somebody,” Michael said with a sneer.

Colin leaned forward, speaking in a stage whisper. “John, I wanted to let you in on a little secret. You might not have picked up on this, but Michael’s not a fan of our mom.”

John laughed lightly; the momentary tension had vacated. “That’s coming through loud and clear.”

“To answer your question, I have no idea why she would get a prime route, as you say. Except that she was desperate, and maybe she had some strings to pull, because she was willing to do whatever she had to do to get what she wanted. That’s what I know to be true about her. Maybe she and Stefano were working together,” Colin said, because that seemed plausible to him.

Michael cleared his throat. “What’s going on with the Royal Sinners these days, Detective? I follow the news; I’ve been reading up on them, seeing more and more stories about them rising in power. More crimes, more problems, more trouble. More organized, too, than their rival gangs. I keep hearing ‘Don’t mess with the Sinners.’”

“Yeah, we’ve upped the security at the center during the repairs just to make sure the kids are safe,” Colin added.

A somber look flitted into the detective’s eyes. “You hear right. They’re a top priority for Metro, and my men are working hard on gang enforcement and prevention. We’ve got an anonymous tip line for concerned citizens to report suspected gang activity, an anti-gang initiative, and public education is going strong. We’re doing everything we can on the enforcement front. Last week, we had a few more arrests of Royal Sinners members for grand theft auto, and some from rival gangs for burglary.”

“Glad to hear it’s being taken seriously. Some of my other clients have also been asking about it and increasing their security services based on what they’ve been reading in the news,” Michael said. “They want to protect themselves, and to know the authorities are working hard on it, too.”

“I assure you, we are. And you can let your clients know that you’ve talked to Metro and that we’re committed to this,” he added. “We’re doing everything we can to dismantle the gangs, member by member.”

That last word latched onto Colin’s brain, making him wonder if his old friend Paul had gone down the path of his brother into the Sinners.

“Hey, what happened to Paul? We didn’t stay friends.”

“Paul Nelson is dead,” John said, matter-of-factly, and Colin’s blood froze. “Shot three times in a drive-by shooting a few years ago. Retaliation from another gang over a murder. One we think T.J. was involved in. Both T.J. Nelson and Kenny Nelson are on the run now. They’re wanted for other crimes over the years.”

His whole body turned to ice. “Wow,” Colin said heavily, grappling with the shocking news. “Paul died before he was thirty.”

“Gangs are a young man’s business,” John said. “You don’t find many old men in street gangs. The young men usually die or wind up in prison by the time they hit thirty. Like Stefano. Like Paul.”

“What about T.J. and Kenny Nelson? They must be in their forties. What’s their secret to a long life as a gang man?”

“I’d like to know. Because they’re the exception to the rule,” John said, then thanked them for their time and walked away.

* * *

The bell above the door jingled. Marcus looked up from his math book as a guy in jeans and a black T-shirt entered the convenience store where he worked.

Marcus nodded a hello then returned to the page in front of him, as his mind replayed the day. Talking to Elle had unburdened him, and he was more fired up than ever about his plans. College, living on his own, getting to know his unknown family—he’d wanted all of that for so long, and he was close to having it. Living with his dad had been stifling for so many reasons. Sometimes he missed seeing his stepmom and his little sisters now that he was no longer at home with them, but Marcus was glad to live with his friends. He was on a path to becoming an assistant manager here at the store, and that was helping him make ends meet, along with his savings from little jobs over the years.

As he worked through some equations, the guy grabbed a bag of chips and sauntered over to the counter. He was about Marcus’s age, maybe a year older. He had a goatee, light eyes, and a black and blue fingernail on his right hand, as if he’d slammed it in a car door.

The guy tossed the bag on the counter, as if it were a prize he’d won at a fair. “I’ll take this tasty bag of barbecue chips, please,” he said, stretching out the last word.

“Sure,” Marcus said, scanning the bag. “That’ll be a dollar and two cents.”

The guy jammed his hands into his pockets, riffling around. He pulled out a flip phone and set it on the counter, eyeing it dismissively. “Someday I’ll get an iPhone.” Stuffing his hand into his pocket again, he produced a wadded-up bill, then spread it open. “Shit. I only have a one.”

“That’s cool. I got it,” Marcus said, reaching into the change tin to grab two pennies.

“You are the man,” the guy said with a too-wide grin as he pointed his index fingers at Marcus like guns.

“No problem.”

The guy glanced at the textbook and stabbed his finger against it. “You learning algebra or something like that?”

Marcus nodded, not bothering to explain that he was well beyond ninth grade math at this point. “Studying for school.”

“College?” the guy asked, as if he’d never heard of it before.

“That’s the goal.”

“Man, that shit looks hard. I can’t even imagine.”

Marcus smiled faintly. He wasn’t worried. He wanted the challenge. Wanted to meet it and exceed it.

The guy ripped open the bag with a loud pop and stuffed a chip in his mouth, crunching loudly, like he was showing off how well his teeth worked. “My goal is to never need college,” he said, then cocked his head like he was studying him. “See you later,” he finally said, then walked to the door and stopped to add, “Marcus.”

A chill swept through him as the bell jingled and the guy left.

How the hell did he know his name?

He glanced down at his work shirt and laughed at himself. His nametag was on. “Duh,” he said, and he returned to his textbook.

* * *

Colin’s bike pounded against the bumpy trail, vibrations thrumming in his bones. He leaned into the curve, relentlessly focusing on the single track beneath the wheel and the 180-degree turn ahead of him on the descent.

Whipping past the switchback, he stomped the pedals, chasing speed, chasing adrenaline, and finding it on the hills of Red Rock Canyon with his mountain bike. Dirt churned up beneath him as he attacked the toughest trail, leaving the latest twists and turns in the never-ending saga of their mother in a swirl of dust.

When he reached the bottom, his heart hammered mercilessly, but he’d beaten his brother.

Michael had determination on his side, but Colin possessed that too, along with a more potent dose of fearlessness. Sometimes fearless meant you were faster on a downhill. Tonight, with the sun sinking low on the horizon, the time on the bike was therapy—it was necessary to shed the frustrations he felt over Elle, but also the guilt he still harbored over his mistakes as a kid. Riding a rocky downhill required extreme concentration, and the rattle and hum of the wheels on the ground had forced everything else from his brain, narrowing his focus to only the bike and the trail, and besting his brother.

Michael rolled up next to him, stopping his bike.

“Streak’s still intact,” Colin said, his breath coming fast as he wheeled to the water fountain at the base of the hill. “I continue to reign supreme on two wheels.”

“Watch it. You’re lucky I still ride with you,” Michael teased, as he unsnapped his helmet.

After a drink of water, Colin let the therapy continue, this time with words. Because he wasn’t done. The silt on the riverbed of the past had been well and truly stirred up tonight. “Michael,” he said, stripping away the macho bravado. “I still feel like shit for being friends with those guys.”

His brother got off his bike, resting his palm on the seat. “You’re not responsible. Your friendship played no role in the murder.”

“But what if I hadn’t been friends with Paul? What if I’d never known them? Would things be different?” he asked, letting the question hang in the air.

Michael dropped a hand to Colin’s shoulder. “Forget the ‘what if.’ Focus on the real. And that’s this: she didn’t find Stefano through you,” he said, his voice firm and clear. “She found Stefano on her own. She found those others on her own. Hell, for all we know she might have found them through her lover. The one thing I know for certain is she didn’t find them through you being buddies with T.J’s little bro when you were twelve and thirteen. That is not how it happened. But even if it had, for the sake of argument, let me ask you this. Who arranged for the murder?”

“She did,” he said softly.

“Who hired Stefano?”

“She did.” His voice picked up volume.

“Who planned a murder?”

“She did.” His tone was strong and certain now.

“Exactly,” Michael said, bending to the water fountain and gulping up a stream. As he rose, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“But I’ve made the same mistakes she made,” Colin said quietly, guilt stitched into his voice, into his goddamn heart and soul. Most days, he didn’t beat himself up. But some days, he did. Some days he was consumed with the emotion.

Michael raised a finger and pointed it at Colin. “You didn’t do what she did. You made mistakes that are fucking forgivable. You made mistakes that hurt yourself. You made mistakes that a human being makes. You did not kill a man. You are not like her.”

Colin pressed his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose and exhaled, visualizing letting go of all this guilt.

Soon, soon, he had to say good-bye to it.

“Speaking of what ifs, have you ever heard from your ‘what if’ girl?” Colin asked as they loaded their bikes on the roof rack a few minutes later.

Michael shook his head. “Not lately. That’s why she’s a ‘what if’ girl.”

As they left, Colin asked himself if he’d be happy letting Elle become a ‘what if’ girl.