For the Bite of It (13 page)

John twisted the faucet on and off, and watched the water swirl down the drain. “That’s not what I meant. Why did you invite me to the restaurant? You said it was important.”

“We never discussed it, did we?” Vincent’s laughter crackled over the line.

John frowned. Even the man’s laugh was sexy. “Go on.”

“I believe Sala purchased his coffee and donuts at the Nifty Mart. It’s a new twenty-four-hour quick mart between his office and the bakery.”

“And why do you think this?”

“Common sense,” Vincent’s sarcasm hinted on the humorous side. “And they sell donuts and coffee.”

John checked his irritation. He didn’t need Vincent playing junior detective. “Leave the detective business to the police.”

“I would but being a suspect in the murder I thought it best to give you a shove in the right direction.”

“Anything else?”

“Besides what are you doing tonight for dinner?”

The hopeful tone in Vincent’s voice had John’s shoulders tensing. He had to get off the phone, now. He didn’t want to get involved in a relationship. Julie suspected they had something going on between them. His mom almost caught him with a man in his bed. If he hung out with Vincent, it would be a matter of time before Free figured it out, a snowball rushing down a steep mountain gathering momentum.

He yanked the cold water knob shut. “I got the info. Gotta go.”

“What about tonight?”

“I’m busy. And like I said, don’t come to Johnny’s party. Julie’s not doing me any favors by playing matchmaker.” He slammed the phone shut, cutting off Vincent’s surprised gasp.

God, he was an asshole but he had to be harsh. Vincent couldn’t be trusted to control his attraction or his flirting. Julie wasn’t the sole authority on their parents. They might be social liberals but they were conservative in their religious beliefs. They might have been okay with Aunt Lily’s gay son, but their nephew wasn’t one of their own.

As he stepped inside the office, he stopped by Free’s desk.

John scrubbed his face with his hand. “We screwed up. I bet my money that Sala bought his coffee at Nifty Mart. It’s right by his office. What if Sala stopped by his office before getting his coffee? Or likes the swill they serve. It’s not far from the bakery and no coffeehouse opens before six a.m.”

“But the lab didn’t find anything in the coffee or donuts, did they?” asked Free.

John shrugged. “Maybe he ate something else. It’s the only lead we have right now. Let’s go check it out.”

“Fine, but you’re paying for the donut.”

The Nifty Mart was a typical convenience store minus the gas tanks. The male clerk lurking behind the cash register glanced at them. Tanned with black hair, he looked to be around forty, and of Middle Eastern descent.

“Can I help you find anything?”

John held up his badge. “Tempe Police. I’m Detective Reeder, this is Detective Norman. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“I have my green card.”

“I said Tempe Police not Immigration.” His patience hovered on the cliff-edge. Dammit, he should have found out about this not Vincent.

Free removed a photograph from her notebook and handed it to the man. “Do you recognize this person?”

“Yeah, sure. Don’t know his name, but he comes in every morning for his coffee and donut. He hasn’t been around though. Something happen to him?”

“He’s dead.”

The man’s eyes widened and he placed a hand over his heart. “Poor man.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Let me think. The days fly by but I think it was Friday. Yeah, he bought the usual, glazed is what he liked.”

“Did anything unusual happen?”

“No, no. He filled his coffee from the machine over there.” He pointed to the commercial coffee pot behind them. “He added the sweetener from a bottle he carried in his pocket. Just like he usually did.”

“What did the bottle look like? Remember the brand?”

“Nah, but it was yay big.” The owner held up two fingers. “White color. He tossed it in the trash afterwards.”

Excitement raced through John—the sensation came on when he was close to closing a case. This had to be the missing link.

Free raised her brows at him but said nothing. “When is trash pickup?”

“Every Thursday.”

“You have one of those big trash cans outside?”

“In the back. City-issued.”

John turned to Free but she was already talking on the phone, her forehead pulling into a deep frown. She stuffed her phone in her pocket and groused, “Better get the rubber boots and gloves from the car. It’s on us to find the damn bottle.”

Even though he had covered his clothes with a plastic overall, the odor of greasy half-eaten food clung to his shirt. It was a shitty job digging through the trash. Luckily, Free had found the bottle but not before they were knee deep in the shit. He never wanted to see another donut again. It’d better have been worth it.

John was finishing his paper work when his phone buzzed. “Reeder.”

“Chris, here. You owe me, man. I got the results.”

He straightened in his seat and grinned. The lab tech must have put a rush on the job. “Great. Well, give…”

“Nothing, man. Nada.”

“Fuck. You’re sure?”

“You doubt me,
kemo sabe
?”

“Thanks for nothing.”

He shook his head a Free. “Got the results.”

Free gaped. “How in the hell did you get those results so fast?”

“Let’s just say Chris owed me a favor.” More like blackmail. He’d found Chris one night passed out in alley in back of the bar where cops went to unwind. Chris’s girlfriend had dumped him, and he took it out on a bottle of whiskey. John took him home and stayed with him until morning, making sure he didn’t vomit in his sleep. Looking out for his fellow worker served John well when he needed fast results from the lab.

He picked up his pencil and doodled question marks on a notepad. “Nada. Dead-end. No poison.”

He spent his afternoon wading in shit because Vincent wanted to play detective. Why the hell was he listening to a man who baked cupcakes for a living? He shot from his chair and grabbed his car keys.

That did it. He had to end it here and now, though he wasn’t really sure
what
he was ending.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“Something I gotta do. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

John banged on the bakery door, knowing Vincent was in, having seen his convertible. Vincent flung open the door but barred it with his body. He wore a ridiculous apron so why did he think how cute the baker looked in it?

His irritation began to wane, but then Vincent wrinkled his nose and drawled. “What’s that awful smell?”

That nailed it. “Don’t stick your nose into my murder investigation!”

Vincent glared back at him. “I’m trying to clear my name. I take it Nifty Mart didn’t hold the answers you’d hoped for.”

“I spent the better part of the afternoon digging through trash.”

A smile crept on that damn beautiful face. “Oh, so the smell is coming from you.”

John fisted his hands. “Keep out of my fucking business.”

“With pleasure. I don’t need a closeted cop in my life.” Vincent slammed the door and locked it, flipping over the ‘closed’ sign.

John’s blood pounded in his temples as he stared at the door. He pivoted and headed for his jeep almost tripping over a man kneeling in the lot spraying at a clump of weeds. He sidestepped and avoided disaster from the spray. That’s all he needed, a dousing with pesticide.

Peeling out of the parking lot, he drove back to the office, determined never to see that fucker again.

Free looked up as he stormed into the office. “Wow, what’s with you?”

He slumped in his chair and tore into the bag of Kisses. “So if the poison wasn’t in the donuts or coffee, where does it leave us?”

“Back to ground zero,” Free sighed, propping her elbows on the desk. “What if he ate or drank something at home. Mrs. Sala mentioned he liked to have a glass of juice before leaving the house.”

John picked up his pencil and wrote Vincent’s name on the scrap of paper. Then he scratched out the name using big black strokes. What a day, first the trash, Vincent slamming the door in his face, then barely avoiding an attack by pesticide.

Pesticide
. Gardeners spraying Sala’s fruit trees… “Oh fuck, that’s it.” He leaned across the desk toward Free. “How could I have missed it? It was staring us in the face.”

“Are you going to share your big revelation?” Free tossed a pen at him.

“Tell you in a sec.” He dialed the lab tech.

“Chris, here.”

“Hey, humor me. Could the poison be pesticide? You know the kind gardeners use to spray citrus trees?”

Papers rustled, then Chris came back on. “Sala’s report shows low cholinesterase levels.” His voice rose in excitement. “Hang on, let me check something out.” John waited impatiently through the tapping of computer keys.

“Here it is. That online course paid off. Exposure to methyl parathion causes low cholinesterase levels.”

“In English, Chris.”

“Methly parathion. In other words, insecticide for fruit trees. It’s soluble in water. Let’s see, there are traces of orange juice in his stomach. Did your suspect have access to insecticide?”

“Yeah, she did all right.”

“It would have to be a large dose if it acted quickly,” warned Chris.

“Like in a big glass of OJ?”

“That would work. The citrus would probably disguise the taste.”

“Thanks man, I owe you a drink.” He hung up and turned to Free, raising his arm into a fisted salute. “Yes! Mrs. Sala had been concerned about the smell of insecticide. She had the means and the motive to off her husband.”

Free was already going over the credit card statements again. “Good for you, Johnny boy. But we might not get a search warrant based on that.”

“Sure we will. The ADA wants to close this case pretty bad. I bet she’ll find a liberal judge.”

Free slapped a hand over heart. “Stop. You mean we have those in this county?” She began flipping through the bills in her hand. “So I’m looking for a purchase at a garden supply place?”

“Yup, either a Home Depot type place or—.”

“Here it is—Valley Wide nursery.”

At least he’d end this day by solving a murder, if not solving his dilemma about Vincent. John grinned. “Let’s give them a call and nail that bitch.”

Vince flipped the sleek silver phone open and shut, the rhythmic actions at odds with his tapping feet. It had been two days since he’d banged the door in John’s face. To call John or not to call was the question weighing a ton on Vince’s mind. He glanced at the local newspaper on his desk. The news that Sala’s wife had been arrested for the murder of her husband was sprawled all over the front page. She had confessed to putting the pesticide in his OJ. Talk about creative. But why hadn’t John called?

He spun his phone on the table where it whirled and wobbled to a halt near the edge. The very least he could have done was let Vince know the outcome. For a while, he had been a suspect in the murder, now they were friends, no, they were lovers. Surely that warranted a phone call? He was so mad at the moment he wanted to smash something.

A peremptory knock on his office door roused Vince. Angelo stood at the door, somewhat conservatively dressed in tight jeans and a tie-dye tee.

“Hippie day, I see,” muttered Vince, waving him in.

“There’s no pleasing your high and mightiness is there?” Angelo drawled.

“Angelo, I’m not in the mood.”

“That I can see.” Angelo sank gracefully into a chair in the cramped room and crossed his legs. He glanced around the room and shuddered. “Surely, you could have made this room larger?”

Vince shrugged. “Surely you didn’t come to discuss space planning with me?” he mocked.

Angelo sighed and leaned over to read the newspaper on the desk. “So the wronged wife did it? How cliché!”

“Cliché or not, I’m glad they figured it out.”

“Me too. So what’s with the Nervous Nellie routine?” asked Angelo.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Come on. The foot tapping a mile a minute. And you were about to break your phone before I came in.”

“Just thinking.”

“And enquiring minds want to know, what about?” asked Angelo with one of his engaging grins.

Vince shrugged and swung his chair back on two legs. “Okay, I’ll guess. You were trying to decide if you should call your detective boy toy.”

“His name is John.”

“I stand corrected. So, are you going to call him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Call him. Get it out of your system.”

“Maybe later.”

“I’m going to tune in when you call so you may as well do it now and save me the trouble.”

True, Angelo had an unbelievable antenna for gossip at any distance.

“I know, I know. You’ve already left him a message. What’s the worst he can do, not answer the phone? Vinny, you’re not afraid are you?”

“I am not afraid of anything,” he growled. “I’m angry. See? There I said it. I’m
angry
with him.”

He let his wrath simmer down, but
dio
, that had felt good.

“So get it out of your system completely. Call the guy and curse him out.”

The fight fizzled out of Vince. Was it being with a human that made things so complicated? He didn’t want to curse at John. He wanted to make slow love to him. He wanted to cook for him, bake chocolate goodies for him, wanted John to growl at him for leaving the toothpaste open and his socks on the ground. Wanted John to learn Italian so they could talk intimately to each other. Vince slowly admitted to what he knew had been happening all along. This was more than sex for him. Surely, that was worth fighting for?

He made a snap decision. “Knowing you, I better make that call or put up with you hanging around all day telling me what to do.”

“I knew you had a brain. Go forth and conquer, my friend. Here take my phone. He won’t recognize the number.” Angelo passed over his black and silver phone.

Vince took it with a grimace and pressed the numbers to call John.