“Heroin,” Thorpe said. “I hate that shit, and you’re talking to one who knows.” He lifted his eyes, his voice suddenly flat. “My dad shot my mother and then killed himself when I was twelve. It wasn’t much fun.”

“No. Doesn’t sound like it.” Mickey took a beat, let out a short breath. “That’s a worse story than mine, or damn close. And I don’t hear them too often. And now we’re both training to be chefs. Somebody should do a study. Orphans and chefs.”

“We want to cook for people ’cause there was nobody to cook for us.”

“Good theory. So you guys didn’t have other family?”

“One aunt in Texas. An uncle in Florida. Neither interested.”

“So how’d you and your sister stay connected?” Mickey asked.

“Alicia, mostly, not giving up. We both bounced around a lot. Foster homes, you know? You too?”

Mickey shook his head. “We didn’t have that. My grandfather-the one who drove for Como-showed up and took us in. Saved us, no doubt. Maybe himself in the bargain.”

“Well, Alicia and me, we got split up and farmed out to different families. I got into some bad behavior mixed with drugs and wound up at the youth work farm till I was seventeen. Alicia, she moved in with three or four different families, but she had some issues of her own-guys, mostly-and none of the family units took. But somehow she kept up on me, where I was, and finally talked me into the Sunset Youth Project.”

Mickey nodded. “One of Como’s charities.”

“Right. Actually, the main one. So, anyway, between that place and Alicia keeping me honest, I eventually straightened out, got back into school, and then even college. A miracle, really.”

“But now you say your sister needs a private eye around Dominic’s death?”

Thorpe nodded. “She volunteered out at Sunset and got pretty close to him in the last few months. The cops came by and talked to her yesterday. She got the impression that she was some kind of a suspect.”