Page 51 of My Beautiful Sin

Harold Longfeld, the former owner of Cotton Building Supply, lives in a studio apartment that used to be a storage shed behind the tiny grocery store where he works as a stock clerk. It has one window and a chemical toilet, and after taking three breaths, I suggest that Lamar and I buy him a cup of coffee at the diner we saw one block over.

He counters with a whiskey at the bar two doors down, and we readily agree.

“Vile, I know,” he says once we’re settled at a small table. “Where I’m living, I mean. But I deserve it. Life I led…” He trails off with a shake of his head. “I never wanted to hurt that woman, but what I did—running her down, taking her from her family—that changed me.”

“I imagine it would,” I say softly. I expect him to order coffee, considering he’s talking about the woman he killed while driving under the influence, but he orders a whiskey. Under the circumstances, I order a Diet Coke. Lamar, who I’m sure is thinking about bonding with the guy, gets a beer.

Lamar pulled the information on Longfeld for me, and I skimmed over it yesterday, but there wasn’t much there that I didn’t already know. Longfeld had been charged with various financial crimes, but they hadn’t stuck. Then he’d killed a woman, and everything changed for him. He’d regretted her death, but even more, he’d regretted the life he’d led before.

According to a memo Lamar found from the Parole Board, he’d started going to the religious services offered to inmates. And not, according to the board member, simply because that meant a weekly change of scenery in the chapel. Apparently Mr. Longfeld had become a believer, even going so far as to teach Sunday school classes to the other inmates, along with remedial reading and math.

There’d been no mention of my uncle in the file, and Lamar said he’d dug around in the evidence room and found nothing there, either.

But if Peter was as deep with The Wolf as we think he was, then surely I can track down some sort of proof that Peter was dirty. I know it’s probably wishful thinking, but I have a feeling that Longfeld was dialed in. And that maybe, just maybe, his remorse and new perspective will push him to reveal whatever secrets he might hold.

I take a sip of my soda, then offer him what I hope is a friendly smile. “I appreciate you talking to me. I told you I’m writing an article about Peter, but it’s not a typical news story. He was my uncle, and I want to dig deep into how he got involved in crime. Unlike you, I’m not sure he ever felt bad about what he did. Maybe he would have gotten there eventually, but we’ll never know. Can you tell me? Did you know he worked for the Wolf? Do you know anything about how he got involved with that world?”

“I know he sat at The Wolf’s right hand,” Longfeld says, and I try very hard not to react even though I’m positively giddy at having tracked down a solid source. “Told me they’d been friends for years. Never told me he was screwing Lopez—and thank God for that. I wouldn’t have wanted to hear him say it. That would have put a target on my back. Me knowing it was dangerous enough.”

“How did you know if he didn’t tell you?”

Longfeld scoffs. “I was laundering hundreds of thousands for your uncle. That’s not a mindless job. I knew what I was doing. Where the money was coming from, and where it was going to.” He lifts his glass, signaling the waiter to bring another, then downs the watery dregs. “You’re not gonna like what I have to say, but you asked, and I don’t see no reason not to tell. You good with that?”

I glance at Lamar and find support in his eyes. Then I nod. “Yeah,” I say. “It’s all good.”

“Your uncle liked what he did. He liked the danger of it. Daniel Lopez was his friend, sure, but Peter liked pulling something over on him. He liked looking at the devil and thinking he’d won.”

My mouth goes dry and my hands are tight on my glass. So tight I have to make a conscious effort to loosen my grip or else risk shattering the glass. He’s describing me. Not the illegal stuff, of course. But the dance with the devil. That thrill that comes from doing something dangerous and surviving.

I’d always thought it was survivor’s guilt, and considering the life I’ve led and everyone I’ve lost, that makes sense. But now I wonder if part of it’s in my blood, too. If there’s a bit of Peter in me. More than simply the familial line, but some real shadow of the man he was.

Considering everything I’m learning about him, I’m not sure I like that possibility.

I do my best to mask my feelings, and since Longfeld keeps on talking, I guess I’m doing a reasonably good job. Lamar, however, knows me well, and when he presses his large hand against my middle back, I say a silent thank you to the universe for finding me such a good friend.

“As for your uncle not having the chance to make my choices,” Longfeld says, “I gotta say you’re wrong there.”

I shake my head, frowning. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean?”

“To repent. He had the chance years before he was killed. But he didn’t do a damn thing different.”

My brow furrows in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Your mom.” His voice is flat and even, and my stomach twists in anticipation of his words. “Peter stole from The Wolf, and The Wolf gave him a warning. Do it again, and Peter would pay the price.” His shoulders sagged. “He paid, all right.”

I glance at Lamar, who looks as befuddled as me. “I don’t understand. How did he pay?”

Longfeld’s eyes meet mine. “You really don’t know? The Wolf had your mom killed in retaliation.”

Chapter Eighteen

I’m too numb, so Lamar takes Shelby’s wheel on the way home.

I close my eyes and lean back, snuggling into the leather seat as I let my thoughts drift over me in some perverse form of meditation. Except that’s the wrong word, because meditation suggests peace and calm. There’s nothing peaceful about the way I feel.

On the contrary, I’m shell-shocked. Raw and empty and ripped apart from the inside out. And as the traffic sounds whip by us, I get lost in my own storm of emotions, everything from anger to loss to betrayal. And, yes, to love. Because that’s the worst of it, isn’t it? The fact that I’d loved my uncle, really and truly loved him. And yet he did this. He’d put one foot in front of the other, knowing perfectly well that the path he was walking would end with my mother in a coffin.

Maybe he hadn’t actually done it to me—hell, odds were he hadn’t even thought of me. For that matter, he probably hadn’t even thought of my mother.