Page 25 of My Beautiful Sin

“Sorry, sorry.” His pale face is covered with red blotches. “I don’t know why they let me out in public. Honestly, I have no filter.”

I laugh, deciding I like this guy. “It’s okay, really.”

“Right.” He wipes his palms down the front of his jeans. “So, you’re a reporter. And you’re talking to me, why?”

“I’m doing an article on my uncle. It’s a profile piece,” I explain, “and I’m trying to track down people he knew before he was killed.”

“Oh, wow. I can’t think of anyone I know who was killed. What’s his name?”

“Peter White, and I doubt you knew him. He died about a decade ago. But he did business here. I think he dealt with the previous owner, Mr. Cotton.”

“Right.” He nods slowly. “Oh, I’m Tom, by the way.” He points helpfully to his nametag. “My brother owns the place now, but I’m guessing you knew that.”

“I pulled up the public records online,” I say. “He bought it about six years ago, right? I was hoping that maybe he kept in touch with Mr. Cotton—Harold. Maybe they were friends, or maybe your brother had his contact information. I haven’t spent too much time looking, but nothing popped up in my initial search.”

“That’s probably because his name wasn’t really Cotton. It was Longfeld. Harold Longfeld. Cotton was his mother’s maiden name and I guess her family owned this land generations ago. He used the name because—well, honestly I don’t know why he used it, but he even signed legal documents as Cotton.”

“Thanks,” I say. “You just saved me a few hours of research.” I would have gotten there eventually, but this is why going out into the field is never a bad idea. “So why did he sell?”

“I didn’t pay much attention at the time. I was in college then and only working here on weekends, but my brother talked about it when I was home visiting family, so I got some of the story even though his wife hates when he talks about work. I mean, they fight and fight and—”

“That must have been rough,” I say, hoping to get him back on track. “What did he say about Mr. Cotton? Or, Mr. Longfeld, I mean.”

“Right, right. Yeah, so I guess Cotton was charged with embezzlement and money laundering. A whole big thing. Woulda been charged as Longfeld, though, so probably why you didn’t know about it. You didn’t know, did you?”

I shake my head. “Do you know any details?”

Tom shrugs. “Not really. Just that the charges didn’t stick. That’s when he was selling to my brother. I remember because he was afraid Longfeld would pull out of the deal, but he didn’t.” He shrugs. “Obviously.”

“Is Longfeld still around? Do you have an address?”

“Ain’t hard to find. Turns out he ended up in prison anyway.”

I frown. “What for?”

“DUI. He killed some lady. I got a friend in the DA’s office who told me the story. Knew there was a connection between Longfeld and Buddy. That’s my brother. Guess he figured I’d want to hear the gossip.”

I nod slowly. “There would have been a trial,” I say, thinking out loud.

Tom shakes his head. “No, he pled guilty. Practically on the spot my friend said. Seems he’d been giddy when he beat the financial charges. But when he killed that woman, something snapped. Didn’t even try to plea bargain. Said he deserved what he got, and not just because of that woman.”

“Not just because of that woman,” I repeat. “Any idea what he was talking about?”

“Personally, no. But I asked Buddy. He said there’d been rumors about Cotton running his business on the dirty side of things. Like he had ties to some big crime boss. The Lion? The Jackal? I can’t remember.”

My gut tightens. “The Wolf?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I think that was it.” He shrugs. “Anyway, I remember thinking it all seemed very Sopranos.” Another shrug. “Not much help. Sorry.”

“No, actually that’s useful. I appreciate your time.” I pull Devlin’s list of Uncle Peter’s old contacts out of my bag. “Any chance you know any of these folks?”

He skims over it, but shakes his head. I’m disappointed, but not too much. After all, Tom gave me more than I’d expected, including Buddy’s contact information in case I want to talk to him, too.

I still have a few hours before dinner, so I hop back into Shelby, then open her up on the wide inland roads as I head back toward the picturesque side of town. When I reach Sunset Canyon Road, I floor it, then whip onto the tiny, winding streets that curve around and down like a twisting, meandering river until they hook up with Pacific Avenue right at the base of the hill that leads up to Brandy’s house. And, further, up to Devlin’s.

This is the long route, but I don’t care. Opening Shelby up on these roads is a pleasure. The wind in my face, the roar of her motor surrounding me. The danger of the sharp curves and narrow lanes. My blood pounds and my skin tingles, and it’s only when I make that final turn toward the Arts District that I realize why the feeling is so familiar. Because it’s the same rush I feel in Devlin’s arms. That heady sensation of being fully present and utterly alive.

Smiling, I turn to the right, putting the hill at my back and aiming Shelby toward the ocean. I miraculously find street parking with time left on the meter, and I gather my things and head to Brewski, figuring I’ll grab a coffee, go over my notes, and see if I can luck out and arrange to see Mr. Longfeld later this week.