by Viki Lyn
Free shuffled through the door and sank into her chair, propping her feet on the desk. “Man, I’m pooped.”
Glad to put this disconcerting thoughts aside, John forced his mind back to their murder investigation “Find out anything?” he asked as he unwrapped a chocolate Kiss and popped it into his mouth.
“While you were out partying last night I was busy tracking down Sala’s lover. Have his address right here.” She dug out a crumpled napkin from her pants pocket. “Wanna go?”
Good, this was what he needed, a distraction. “Sure. You drive.”
Chapter Eight
Sean Cafferty lived in one of the many apartments near Arizona State University catering to the students. The complex looked like a retention center with its electronic gate and high fence.
John knocked on the third floor apartment door as Free stood behind him.
The door flew open and a look of astonishment swept across the boyish face. “You’re not the pizza guy.”
John flipped his badge open, taking in the taupe silk shirt and khaki pants. He was a snazzy dresser for a college kid waiting for pizza. “Detective Reeder. I’m looking for Sean Cafferty.”
“That’s me.”
“I need to ask you a few questions about Amado Sala.”
Sean’s hand flew to his mouth. “Yeah, I heard what happened. Crashing through a window. Was it a heart attack?”
“Murder.”
Sean gasped and his hand dropped to his side. “Murder,” he whispered. “Fuck.”
“Would you rather come down to the station?”
“Station? No!” Sean opened the door wider. “Come in. I have a few friends over. We’re watching the game.”
John didn’t ask what game but followed Sean. As he passed through the living room, he smiled at the worn mismatched furniture and empty beer bottles and wrappers on the coffee table and floor. It brought back memories of his college days.
In the kitchen, he spotted a table, the surface messed with newspapers and magazines. “This won’t take long.”
John pulled out a chair and sat, motioning for Sean to sit across from him. Free remained standing by the doorway, conveniently blocking it.
Sean tapped his ring finger on the tabletop. “Do I need a lawyer or something?”
This guy watched too much TV. John crossed his arms on the table and leaned slightly forward. “Not if you answer me truthfully and if you didn’t kill Sala.”
“No way!”
Sean wiped his hands down his shirt and the chair teetered on its two back legs as he tilted back and forth.
“How often do you go to Hank’s?”
The chair landed squarely on all four legs before Sean answered. “Mostly on the weekends, especially if I need to blow off steam.”
“By drinking?”
“Nah, dancing. I don’t drink. Much.”
The bartender had confirmed Sean was a regular and rarely drank more than a couple of beers. So far, the guy was batting hundred with the truth.
“How long have you known Mr. Sala?”
“Let’s see. We met at Hank’s few months ago. We weren’t together, you know, like dating or nothing. Just friends.”
“With benefits?”
“Sometimes.” Sean tapped the salt-shaker on the table. “What’s this leading to?”
“When’s the last time you two had sex?”
Sean rubbed the back of his nape. “Shit. That’s personal.”
“Not when it’s murder. Answer my question.”
“God, I can’t remember.”
“Try.”
Sean scratched his chin. “Let’s see. Well, I think Thursday night. I don’t usually go on a Thursdays, but it was Tighty Whitey Night and the last guy who won was a real scorcher. I wanted to see if he was there again.”
John felt his own neck grow hot. Vincent had won that night, and he wasn’t sure he appreciated the glimmer in Sean’s eyes. The baker had no sense of shame, parading around half-naked, the slut.
“We’d danced a few times. You know the drill. When it came to closing time, we hooked up. He took me to his office. He’s married and his wife’s clueless. Lot of men like him hiding from their families. The man was one hundred percent certifiably queer.”
John pushed aside a newspaper, his voice coming out harsher than he intended. “Did you threaten to oust him?”
Sean’s eyes narrowed at John. “Hell no, I don’t out people. We weren’t dating, dude. We liked to fool around, that’s all.”
“When did you leave the office that night?”
“Early morning, around two. I remember, because I wanted to go back to Hank’s and checked the time. Sala had to split, you know, because of his wife. So I came home.”
“Did anyone see you get in?”
“Sure, my roomie will vouch for me. He was watching some horror flick. Want me to call him in?”
“I’ll talk to him on the way out. Did Sala ever talk with you about his business?”
“Not why he wanted me, Detective.” Sean smiled, revealing two dimples.
After seeing that dimpled smile, John could see why Sala had taken the young man home. “Did he seem distracted? Worried?”
“Nah, he was a little buzzed. He sometimes took a toke or two, to loosen up before, you know. His wife was getting on his nerves about their daughter’s wedding. Making it a big deal, spending a lot of cash. For being rich, the guy was a tightass.”
John didn’t think Sean was a murderer and certainly not the type to use poison. He’d most likely clobber Sala with a heavy object, or shoot the man out of anger or passion, although he didn’t get the sense Sean got overly passionate about anything.
The murder was premeditated. It had to be someone calculating. Sean seemed too open and wasn’t the brightest star in the sky.
John stood. “Thanks for your time.”
“That’s it?” Sean’s chair thudded to the floor as he stood.
“Not unless you want to confess,” he said, amused to see Sean’s eyes grow round as saucers.
He handed Sean his business card. “If you think of anything else, give me a call.”
After verifying the alibi with Sean’s roommate, they left for the office. Free got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. “Well, we can cross him off our list of suspects.”
“My vote is on the wife. She gets the business and life insurance. She doesn’t like queers. What about the daughter?”
“Rich spoiled kid. The mother dotes on her. She’s marrying some senator’s son she met at NYU. She wasn’t even here when Sala died. So leaves her out.”
Free pulled out of the parking lot but not before she bitched about the litter of tight silver foil balls on the floor. “Shit, John, you and your chocolate fetish. So what did Vincent tell you that warranted a date?”
Ignoring the barb, John whipped his head toward the driver’s window, hoping Free wouldn’t notice the blush creeping up his neck. “What we already knew.”
He’d hoped Free would drop it. It was too embarrassing to confess they never discussed the murder case because he was too busy humping Vincent’s beautiful mouth.
Chapter Nine
John slipped out of the office and made his way to the men’s room. It was empty. Good. He got out his cell phone and punched in Vincent’s number. He chewed his lower lip and waited.
“Vincent, here.”
“It’s John.”
“Hi. How did you like your cupcake?”
Jesus. His throat tightened, straining his voice. “What did you want to tell me at dinner?”
Vincent chuckled. “The other night was wonderful.”
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.”
“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 mentio
ned 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.”