For the Bite of It (4 page)

Once Vincent unlocked the door, he followed the baker inside, keeping a safe distance. He frowned at the cupcakes on the cooling racks and in the display case.

“I told you to keep the shop closed.” He scowled further when his stomach rumbled at the succulent sweet aroma.

“I have my permit from the health inspector, and I’m not contaminating any crime scene. If there even is one.” Vincent strode behind the counter, effectively cutting John off. He tied another one of those girly aprons around his waist. When he looked up, a gleam shone from those too-probing eyes. “So was Mr. Sala murdered or is this a personal call?”

John cringed at the smirk in the baker’s voice. He cursed Free for refusing to accompany him because of her frigging diet, as if she couldn’t resist a frilly cupcake for Christ’s sake. Hell, even he was on the verge of asking to taste-test one. God, how did a person work in the midst of the heavenly aroma all day?

Refusing to lose the upper hand, John closed the gap between them. “I have more questions for you. We’re doing this at the station.”

“So you have a warrant then?”

He didn’t have jack shit to pin on this guy, but something about Vincent made him sit up and take notice. The ADA had laughed him out of the office and told him not to come back until he had hard evidence.

The baker was hiding something despite his too-casual attitude. John noticed the occasional tightness around the mouth, and wariness in his eyes. The man had a defensive brick wall around him, several inches thick.

John buried his hands in pant pockets. “Look, it’d be hell of a lot easier if you came to the station.”

“For you, maybe, but I’m swamped with orders.”

“It’s a murder investigation. It’d be in your best interest to cooperate.”

A heart attack had been ruled out but Sala could have died from poison, and he’d certainly had the smarts to poison a man.

Vincent had an air of authority about him, as if he was used to being obeyed. His speech pattern clearly spoke of fancy education. Vincent dragged out a chair from the only table, and molded into the seat. His legs stretched out and his ankles crossed. His eyes narrowed as he rubbed his upper lip with his thumb.

“Just to clarify, I didn’t witness anything. I came in after the fact. Besides, aren’t you getting ahead of yourself by labeling it murder?
Cazzo.
Who would want to kill Sala?”

“Apparently, you.”

The baker’s head snapped up. “Me? Why? What possible motive could I have?”

John towered over Vincent, hoping the dominant position would prevent the slippery slide into losing control of the interview. “A witness overheard a heated discussion between you and Mr. Sala out in the parking lot. You tossed around the word, kill.”

“So?” He snapped his fingers. “That isn’t evidence I murdered him. My landlord wasn’t a nice man. If the tenants were truthful, you’d know I wasn’t the only one who wished him dead, metaphorically of course.”

John refused to back down from Vincent’s haunting gaze as it met his full force. Funny how his heart hammered, its rhythm heavy yet unsteady. He inhaled sharply, the scent of vanilla from that rich cologne assaulting his nose.

He hitched the seam of his pants, resisting the urge to tug at his crotch and relieve the pressure. To distract himself, he glanced at the frosted pink cupcakes lined up behind the glass case.

Jesus, didn’t the man do any color besides pink?

He turned back to Vincent. “Then enlighten me. What were you arguing about?”

Vincent sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, as if he were fighting for patience. “He wanted to raise my rent twenty percent and I told time I’d break my rental contract before I paid him a dime over five percent. But honestly,” he crossed his leg over his thigh, his clog flapping against his heel. “It would take more than a rent hike to make me kill someone.”

Interesting. So the baker would consider murdering someone?

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Sala?”

The baker smirked, his eyes twinkling as if he wasn’t in some serious shit. The idiot.

“Yesterday morning. When he drove through my plate glass window.”

“Before he died,” John snapped, his jaw ached from grinding his teeth. He couldn’t remember the last time when a suspect got him this riled.

Vincent shrugged. “Sometime last week, the day we argued about the rent.”

John pulled out a matchbook cover from his pant pocket. He lifted it to give Vincent a clear view of the lettering announcing Hank’s—a well-known gay country-western bar in downtown. John had heard about the place but stayed away from local gay haunts. He preferred drinking with his cop buddies or having a glass of wine at home.

He shoved the matchbook in Vincent’s face. “Have you ever been here?”

“It’s not my thing.” Vincent folded his arms across his chest, and pushed back in his seat.

Finally, he got a reaction from the perp. He stuffed the matchbook back into his pocket.

“The bartender saw you last Friday. It was Tighty Whitey Night.” A lump of irritation caught in John’s throat, unable to rid the image of Vincent in constricting white briefs. Heat swelled in his chest. He took out his tattered notebook, shoving loose bits of paper back in as they threatened to fall out. He flipped open to a blank page, needing to avoid Vincent’s hypnotic glare.

Jesus.
Avoiding those piercing eyes was getting to be a habit.

John took out his pencil. “You won the contest.”

Vincent fidgeted in his chair, uncrossing and crossing his leg. Finally, he rested his hand on his clog and leaned forward, his body suddenly quiet. “Okay, you caught me. I did it on a dare.”

“Who dared you?”

The corners of Vincent’s mouth turned down. ”A friend.”

“The bartender saw you and Sala together. He’s like you.”

“Gay, you mean. Can’t say it, can you?” He ran his hand over his hair. “Do you really think if I wanted to kill the guy I’d do it in my shop?”

“Jealousy’s a popular motive for murder.”

“Of Sala? We weren’t involved.”

John hooked his foot around a chair leg and dragged it out. He sat, his eyes never leaving Vincent’s face. “So a boyfriend of yours dared you to enter the contest?”

“Not a boyfriend, just a friend.”

“Give me his name.”

“Angelo.”

“Last name.”

“De Luca.”

John scribbled the name in his notebook, and dug the point of his pencil into the page. Was Angelo the man who had blown him a kiss in the parking lot? “Is he your leopard skinned friend?”

“He’s a very dear friend, and yes, he is the man who blew you a kiss.” Vincent stood and shoved the chair in place. “We’re done. I have a business to run.”

Shit.
Did this guy just read his mind? The man thought too much of himself. John flipped his notebook closed and stood. “You don’t want to answer my questions? Fine, I’ll be back with a warrant.”

Now, instead of his usual cool manner, the baker was edgy, wary, guarded.

In John’s world that meant guilty.

Vince strode into the bakery rubbing his forehead to ease the incipient headache. He had a special order to complete today for a sweet-sixteen birthday party. According to her mother, the teen was less sweet and more Goth. They decided on dark chocolate cupcakes topped with a layer of black and white fondant, capped with roses made of blood-red icing.

He started the French press with his favorite brand of Brazilian-Arabica mix and flipped the switch on his DVD player. Ranach, the vampire opera singer’s music filled the room, his rich, dark voice dripping with promises of warm fire-lit nights of seduction. Vince lost himself in creating the perfect cupcakes.

Two hours later, he glared at the ruins of several red roses.

Dio,
his concentration had more holes than a sieve. And he could thank one sexy all-American detective who had taken residence in his mind. He couldn’t forget that contemptuous, even slightly accusing gaze that met his outside the bakery. Angelo and his public kisses. What had John thought?

He scraped the remnants of the sugar roses off the table and began pouring fresh icing into new molds. Now he would have to flash-freeze the flowers. At least he was ahead of the game having come in an hour earlier than his usual four a.m. start. At the time, rising out of bed seemed better than lying there, staring at the ceiling, jacking off due to an unbelievably hard cock.

The man was off-limits. Or was he? He’d tried to drum that into his treacherous mind for the past two days. Something he couldn’t define brought him back again and again to the glint in John’s eyes when he’d seen Angelo kissing Vince. Almost like…jealousy?

Taking a sip of aromatic black coffee, he winced. He should remember to use five scoops not six of this mix. Refilling the French press, Vince ran it all through in his mind again. Reeder gave off strong straight vibes, but his gaze ran over Vince as an interested man’s would.

So was it worth the try? What was the worst that could happen? John could rebuff him. As if that hadn’t happened before in his long lifetime of loving. He ignored the warning in the back of his mind. Rules about consorting with humans. Rules he had followed until now. Rules that all of a sudden, became submerged in the intense blue of a man’s gaze.

First, he had to get John to stop treating him like suspect. He guessed the detective’s work ethic was too strong to allow him to respond to anyone mixed up in a case.

Of all the bakeries in all the world, why did Sala have to crash into his and make him suspect
uno
? But, if not for the accident he might never have met John.

He glanced around the now clean bakery, then tacked a note for Greg to let him know the sugar roses were in the freezer, in case they didn’t see each other before the delivery.

He wouldn’t open the bakery for a couple more hours. There was enough time to contact Angelo and ask for help. His stomach rolled. If he called Angelo, there was no going back. Vince’s interest in John would be clear.

If he only had all his powers, he could do this himself. Swallowing the bitter wash of anger at the choices he had had to make, he reached out for Angelo, sending a psychic thread of questing.

The telepathic connection to his friend was one of the few powers left to him, and only because Angelo allowed the mind-link. Vince doubted the
Jurisdictio
knew he could mind-talk. He hoped Angelo was in a less outrageous mood. Vince couldn’t stomach another faux accent.

In seconds, Angelo spoke into his mind.

You called, Vinny?

Vincent sighed with relief at Angelo’s normal voice.
I need your help.

Anything for you, darling.

The police think I’m a suspect. I need to get them off my back.

Be more specific.

Vince hesitated. Angelo was already on his case about John Reeder. Any detail Vince gave him would encourage him more.
I need to know what is in their files.

Aha! I begin to see light. That sexy male detective interests you.

There’s no damn light. Just get me the info.

Still the prince giving orders, are you?

Fuck you.
He didn’t need any reminders of the life he left behind. But he knew Angelo continued to jibe him with these comments. They were not so subtle reminders of Vince’s duty to his people. He ran a hand through his hair.
Forget I asked
. He would find another way.

Grouchy, grouchy. I’ll get you the information. Ciao.

Too jittery to sit around and wait, Vince lost himself in baking several dozen black forest cupcakes with cherries, adding a lavender extract to give it an exotic taste. His regulars loved the surprise flavors. Unlike others in his family, he liked humans—most of the time. Even as a fully-fledged vampire, he had spent many months in the human world. His cabin in the Italian Alps was not so remote he didn’t meet residents of the nearby town every few days.

At last, the customers trickled to a halt and the last order was picked up. He hung his apron on a hook and went home.

He completed a manic forty laps in the twelve-foot pool while he waited for Angelo. Sitting on the blue-tiled edge, his legs in the water and chest heaving, he wished his body could absorb enough alcohol so he could get drunk. Some days it was the perfect human solution to a bad day.

He knew a split second before Angelo materialized on the diving board before him.

“Man, you must have it bad,” his friend, remarked.

Vince refused to rise to the bait. Maybe if he ignored the jibes, Angelo would give up teasing about the damn detective.

“Look I’m only trying to understand why the police suspect me.” He pulled a towel free from the pile behind him, and rubbed his hair. “I can’t afford to have them investigating my life as you well know.”

“I know. So, here it is.” Angelo jumped down to the cement path and held out a manila folder.

Vince wiped his hands on the terry-cloth and reached for the file. He flipped it open, tilting the papers to catch the light.

Angela had made copies of everything related to the case. Vince smiled at the notes in John’s scrawling hand. The neater writing had to belong to Free.

There wasn’t much in the handwritten record, except a list of Sala’s tenants in the strip mall, their occupations, and the businesses they owned. A few annotated comments gave a glimpse into the detectives’ first impressions. By Trudi’s name, it read
talkative
; by Myra, who owned the alterations store was the word
nervous
. By Vincent’s name, John had scrawled
cagey, hiding something
.

Adesso sono veramente fottuto
. If John started probing deeper, he really was fucked. Angelo smirked, reading over Vince’s shoulder. “So what did you do to make John think you’re…cagey?”

“Not a thing. I wasn’t evasive. I told him everything about my interactions with Sala.”

Vince read the M.E.’s preliminary report. Interesting.

“They tested the donut and coffee found in the car for poison. So that’s why John asked me if I sold donuts.”