For the Bite of It (5 page)

“I hope you told him you ran a high-class bakery. That’s an insult to me. After all I found the place for you.”

Vince grinned at Angelo. The vampire had taken a surprising proprietary interest in the bakery, even becoming a silent partner. “Not quite in those words, but yes, I did tell him I didn’t sell donuts.”

Angelo handed Vincent a minuscule camera. “Here’s more dirt.” Vincent’s brows arched. “You took photos? I didn’t ask for that.”

Angelo lay back on a padded deck chair, tilting it so he could lounge back. “Take a look before you get all king-of-the-castle on me.”

Vince winced at the jibe. He wasn’t a prince or heir apparent anymore, just a lonely vampire, exiled from his world. With a sigh, he flipped the camera switch with a thumbnail, and the small screen flickered on.

The first photo was the inside of the police station. There was Free, standing by a desk with a cup raised to her lips. John Reeder’s square back was clearly visible in the chair facing Free, his head tilted up. There were more photos of John and cops he didn’t recognize. Vince drank in the detective’s expressions and his made-to-lie-on-wide shoulders, even as he cursed himself for being a lovesick fool.

He flipped through the rest of the pictures. “Hmm, this looks like a desk drawer.”

“A locked drawer. Thought your detective might have some dirt you could use.”

“Now why would you think that?”

“Vinny boy, everyone’s got secrets. Some hide it better than others.”

The contents of a man’s locked desk were private. Vince scrolled through the next few shots with anticipation—all was fair in love and war, after all. Inside was a blue leather holder with
Passport
in gold letters, a mobile phone bill, a packet of silver-wrapped Hershey’s Kisses. Vince smiled at John’s sweet indulgence. He filed that bit of information away in case he could use it later. Oh, what he might be able to do to John with a special cupcake and chocolate frosting.

“What’s this?” It was a brochure of a sun-drenched beach, with men and women in mid-run, droplets of water gleaming on their bronzed shoulders.

Was John planning a vacation?

The next colored leaflet pictured a gleaming catamaran on cobalt water, while an azure sky served as the backdrop for skinny palm trees.

Chartered, independent sailing vacations.

His blood heated, the chill of the night replaced with warmth as his cock surged thinking of John stretched out naked on a private deck, and lying next to him. Hands wandered, legs would touch…

There was no point hiding how he felt from Angelo. Judging by the grin on his friend’s face, he had already sensed the surge of Vince’s lust.

He held the camera out to Angelo. “Anything else?”

Angelo shook his head, his mouth turning down at the corners in a mock-mournful gesture. “You didn’t catch it, did you?” He grinned as if he knew a secret Vince didn’t.

“Catch what?”

Angelo only shook his head again and nodded toward the camera. Sighing, Vince flipped through the photos again. He paused at the cluttered desk drawer. It had to be something inside. He zoomed in on the chocolate wrappers, the matchbook, thumbing the picture from side to side.

Then he saw it. Mint-flavored toothpicks. He knew it as well as Angelo did. The slim packet bore the logo of an exclusive Las Vegas Gay Nightclub.

His instincts had been on target. John Reeder was gay though probably not out. Vince’s pulse quickened in anticipation. Now there was no need to hold back. He’d go after John with everything he had. Rules be damned. For once, Vince was following his gut.

John sat his butt on the edge of his gunmetal desk as he sipped the bitter brew they called coffee. Working the weekend came with the territory of being a cop, not that he had anything special planned. Lately, his days consisted of work, home and nothing special in between. He needed to go out, get laid, but he hadn’t the time to slip to Vegas with a murder investigation going on. And he never, ever, broke his cardinal rule of picking up a man on his home turf.

So being sexually drawn to Vincent Esposito waved all kinds of flags, red, white and blue and rainbow, a warning to treat the man as a suspect, not a potential fuck.

He reached inside his desk drawer and picked out a Hershey’s Kiss from the bag, unwrapped the silver foil and popped the sweet chocolate morsel into his mouth.

“So what do you think?” John tossed the tight silver ball into the wastebasket.

Free scratched her head. “My vote is the wife. A real cold fish. She gets the insurance money and inherits the business. Nine times out of ten, it’s a spouse.”

“Yeah, follow the money. But she’s wealthier than God on her own. She doesn’t need his money.” John went around his desk and sat in his chair. “I don’t know. I still say the baker is hiding something.”

“A gay man who bakes cupcakes doesn’t exactly fit the bill.” She chuckled and shook her head. “Can’t see him as a killer. Besides, he has no motive.”

“Hey, he threatened him.”

“Yeah, yeah, in the parking lot during an argument about the rent. And if it’s poison that’s sophisticated, and premeditated.” Her gaze skimmed across the notebook. “There’s the young man seen at the bar with Sala. Seems our victim swung both ways. And if the missus knew about his extra-curricular affairs I’d bet she’d be pissed.”

John shoved aside his paperwork. “Yeah, he’s a regular at Hank’s. Maybe he’s a friend of Esposito’s. Let’s go over that morning.”

Free flipped through her notebook. “Sala left his house around five-thirty. Between his home and the bakery, he bought a donut and coffee. Then about twenty minutes later, he crashes into the bakery. Dead before he’d even hit the window.”

“No evidence, no weapon, we have nothing but crumbs from a donut and an empty paper cup. Shit.”

Free shook her head as she stood. “Come on, Sherlock, let’s see what the wife has to say.”

John whistled under his breath at the sheer size of Sala’s Paradise Valley. The horse stable alone was bigger than his place. Obviously, the home had been custom-built, and as he strode up the flagstone walkway, he admired the lush desert landscape.

He caught a whiff of citrus and guessed there were orange trees around back. “Wonder whose money built this palace?” he asked Free.

Free chuckled and tilted her head toward a trio conversing near a grove of fruit trees. John passed a truck advertising Sanchez Landscape on the driver’s side of the door. Marian Sala stood waving her hand impatiently as she talked to two Hispanic men.

As they approached the threesome, it sounded like Mrs. Sala wasn’t having a good day.

“Senora, we’re here now, so we must spray the trees today.”

“Fine, but make it quick,” Mrs. Sala snapped. “I told you I needed it done yesterday. My family is coming over tomorrow and I don’t want any lingering odor.”

“No worry.”

“The pesticide is in the shed. I bought it last week.”

Mrs. Sala spied John and Free and quickly walked up to them. “What do you want?”

She was a striking woman, her sleek auburn hair curled into a page boy. A black dress skimmed her toned body and screamed designer label. John would bet the color was to highlight her red hair and green eyes, not because she gave a damn about her husband.

“Mrs. Sala, we need to ask you a few questions. We’d appreciate your cooperation during this painful time.”

She let out a deep sigh as if she didn’t want to be bothered. “Fine, but not out here where everyone can hear us.”

She led them through the back door and into the kitchen. Sitting at a glass table, she proceeded to tap her manicured nails on the surface. “I answered all your questions already.”

John and Free sat down, and John moved the oversized floral arrangement so he had a clear view of Mrs. Sala. “Just need some verification, ma’am.”

She coughed delicately into a tissue she procured from inside a hidden pocket of her dress. When she gazed at John, her eyes were dry and sharp as a well-honed knife.

“Instead of wasting your time talking to me, why aren’t you out there trying to find my husband’s killer?”

“We’re working on it.” He leaned slightly forward, one hand on the table. “When was the last time you saw your husband alive?”

“As I told the other officer, the morning he died. He’s an early riser while I like to sleep in. I heard him take a shower and get dressed. Before he left our bedroom, he kissed me goodbye, like he always does.” She dabbed her eyes with the tip of the Kleenex. “It’s the last time I saw him.”

“Does he usually make coffee in the morning?”

“He liked to go out for his morning cup. He preferred to start the day with fruit or juice.”

“Where did he usually go for his coffee?”

She narrowed his eyes at him. “How should I know? Maybe went to the cupcake shop, the one owned by that
homosexual
.”

Ah, a homophobe. What else was new? He glanced at Free and smiled as she noted something in her book. She caught the slur, too. Even the smallest detail sometimes led to satisfying results.

“The morning of his death we found an empty paper cup and a bag with half an uneaten donut.”

She wrinkled her nose. “He wasn’t worried about poisoning his body with fat and sugar. I told him it’d kill him someday.”

As Mrs. Sala crumpled the tissue, John noted she had strong hands. “What time did your husband come home the night before he died?”

“Late. He had dinner with one of his investors. I was already in bed, and remember looking at the clock. It was after two a.m.”

John flashed a sympathetic smile. “Mrs. Sala, your husband was seen at a gay bar the night before he died. He left with a young man.”

He studied her expression, hoping for a crack in her too perfectly painted face. Sure enough, he didn’t see surprise in those green eyes but a dark shadow of pure hate.

Her shoulders stiffened as she folded her hands on the table. “I told him I’d ask for a divorce if he ever went back there.”

“So you knew your husband was gay?”

“He wasn’t gay. Amado loved me, but he got in with the wrong crowd. He’d promised to quit that lifestyle. If not for me, you’d think he would have for our daughter’s sake.”

“Is your daughter home?”

“She’s flying in tonight. She’s in the middle of planning a wedding.” She said, almost as an afterthought. “Marrying a senator’s son, but now…”

She rose from the chair and shoved it back with a strong force. “I have arrangements to make. Please see yourself out.” Without saying another word, she strode out of the room, leaving behind a faint fragrance of expensive perfume.

John rose from his seat and turned to Free. “Would knowing your husband was gay be a motive for murder?”

John Reeder had been popping in and out of the bakery like a health inspector during a salmonella outbreak. Mostly canvassing the shopping center and talking with the owners, but still, he’d come in and purchase a coffee and cupcake, then leave.

The sight of John made Vince’s blood sing and his groin ache. He was so distracted he could barely add two and two.

Sensing Angelo’s arrival, he glanced up from the jumble of budget figures on the computer screen and leaned back on the padded back of his office chair.

“What do you want?” He pushed a thumb against his throbbing temple. He had to do something about this headache.

“Is that any way to greet a friend?”

Vince eyed Angelo’s outfit as the vampire strolled over to a chair and straddled it. Today he was in jeans, faded almost white, a red turtleneck, his hair slicked back and eyes accentuated with liner.

“Some friend,” scoffed Vince. “Where have you been?”

“Here and there.” The note of evasion in Angelo’s voice set off a tingle across Vince’s neck. What now?

Knowing how much Angelo liked to tease, Vince ignored the bait and turned his attention back to the computer.

“So, has your detective boy-toy solved the murder yet?”

“He is not my detective. And he’s certainly not a boy-toy. No he’s still here investigating so he hasn’t solved the case.”

“And why do you think he’s here all the time?”

Vince gave up on the budget and clicked on the save icon. “He thinks I’m involved in his murder.”

“Ever think he’s coming here to see you?”

Startled, Vince sat up and banged his knee on the metal desk. “Ouch.” He shot Angelo a searching look. “You know something I don’t?” Just because they’d figured out John was gay didn’t mean the detective liked Vince. Actually, all they knew was John most likely slept with men.

Maybe he was bi. Maybe just curious. Maybe he was on the down-low.

“Just seemed like he’s here a lot more than any other place,” Angelo accentuated his words with a graceful shrug.

“Sala did crash and die in my bakery.”

“The lab tests showed he had a reaction to something he ate or drank.”

“Lab tests?” Vince pushed up from his chair too restless to sit.

“Is there an echo in the room?”

“Dammit, Angelo. What the hell do you know?”

Angelo winked and sprawled in his seat. “I got a peek at the report from the lab. Seems your boy wasn’t on any medication which could have caused him to lose control. There was no poison in his system, but they’re now thinking it might be something that doesn’t leave a trace. Whatever killed him must have been in the donut or the coffee. He reacted to it and—boom.” He clapped his hands together in a dramatic gesture. “Crash. Your bakery is lacking a wall and Sala walks this land no more.”

With a grimace for Angelo’s drama, Vince paced the length of the room—all of four steps, back and forth. When had John found out? And if the cause of death was the food, why was John back interviewing Vince? It was clear Sala hadn’t stepped out of the car and he hadn’t had a chance to eat anything in Vince’s bakery. So Vince shouldn’t be suspect
numero uno
anymore.

“When did the detectives find this out?” Excitement flared, his skin tightened with anticipation. If he wasn’t a suspect, then he could ask John out.

Angelo lifted his shoulders in a careless gesture. “I’d say at the latest this morning,” he mused. “Makes you wonder why he keeps coming back here, huh?”