For the Bite of It (2 page)

He clenched his chewed-up pencil, dragging the nib across the page. Okay, maybe this Vincent wasn’t a pansy, not with his build—tall and sleek and dangerous as a cat on the prowl—but he was too damn graceful. And too damn smooth. Not exactly effeminate but he didn’t hide his homosexuality either.

John looked up in time to catch Esposito-call-me-Vincent still gazing at him. He resisted the urge to squirm and check his fly. His eyes flicked back to the wreckage. He caught sight of the medical examiner gesturing him over to the crumpled sedan. He quickly stood, taking advantage of the reprieve offered by the doctor.

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

Free waved him away and directed a smile at Vincent. She had taken a liking to the baker. Fine by him, she could play the good cop to his bad.

As soon as he’d stepped inside the shop, the sweet mouthwatering aroma of fresh baked cupcakes wormed its way between the odors of oil, rubber and scraped metal. John’s stomach now rumbled and he scoured at the sinful chocolate ones. He turned away from the temptation displayed inside the glass case and headed for the M.E.

The bald headed Seth Stiller with dark circles ringing his eyes grimaced at John. He wiped his rubber-sheathed hands on his jumpsuit. “I had hoped this was an accident.”

Hell! Had hoped?

“So what’s the skinny, Stiller?”

“Still supposition but I’d put my money on him dying before the car hit the building.”

“Heart attack?”

Stiller ducked behind the open driver’s side door. Someone had cut away the airbag, and a fine white residue coated the seat and the dead man. His head slumped to one side, his hands on his lap.

“Looks like it but I’m not certain. Look at the cyanosis around his lips, and his fingers.” He pointed to a bluish tinge around the dead man’s mouth. “Besides, look at his head, his hands. People tend to lean forward in a crash. Hands grip the steering wheel as if they can use pressure to stop the car. This guy is slumped back, as if he’d let the steering wheel go before he crashed.” He lifted the dead man’s hand and let it drop. It flopped back to his lap. “I need to do an autopsy but consider yourself warned.”

“Thanks man.”

“Oh yeah, we found a piece of a donut on the floor and a cup of coffee, spilled all over the passenger seat.”

“Check it out.”

“Of course, it’s already bagged.”

“All right,” John eyed Stiller’s raccoon eyes. “Get some shut-eye. You need it.”

“I’ve been up all night.” Stiller tugged at his collar. “Tell people to stop dying. Tell the mayor to hire another M.E. Then I’ll get some goddamn sleep.”

John shook his head. Budget cuts. It was all over the news. Did the mayor honestly think cutting back in the police department was a reasonable solution?

Once back outside, his steps slowed as he neared the baker who was deep in conversation with Free. From his angle, Vincent’s aristocratic profile was shadowed by stubble on light chocolate skin, wavy nutty brown hair tucked behind his ears. Long legs stretched to one side to avoid bumping Free.

Sprawled out and relaxed, it was not the posture of a liar.

Vincent gestured, one hand fluidly arcing through the air. Men who moved as if they were born to dance intrigued him. It was their inner grace, and this one had it in spades as well as a silver spoon stuck up his ass. It showed in his arrogance and confident posture.

His heart did a funny jig as he neared Vincent. He pressed his hand to his chest as he slowed his steps.

Something didn’t fit—a man that moved like a dancer and spoke like a PBS announcer baking cupcakes for a living? Call it cop-instinct or whatever, but he had learned early in his career not to ignore it. He didn’t like the guy. And he didn’t like his body’s reaction. Jesus, his semi-hard cock made him out to be a liar. The man was slick as a Ferrari and he’d bet his last cent that Esposito used his looks to his advantage.

John sat with a rigid back and flipped open his book. “Tell me, Vincent, what is your relationship to Mr. Sala?”

“I told you. He’s my landlord.”

“Besides being your landlord?”

One of those sharp dark eyebrows lifted. “If you’re implying anything sexual, I assure you, he’s not my type.”

John propped an ankle on his knee and tapped his pencil on his shoe. “Is there any reason why he would be visiting you at six in the morning?”

“I have no idea. We get…got along. I paid my rent on time and he left me alone.”

John forced back an ‘a-ha’ smile as he noticed the sudden stiffness of Vincent’s posture, and the barrier created as he crossed his arms. The man was lying about something.

“You sell donuts here?”

“This is an upscale bakery not a donut shop.”

“Answer the question, please.”

“No, I don’t sell donuts. Why?”

John ignored the question and took perverse pleasure when the lines around Vincent’s mouth tightened. Good. He would show Vincent who was boss in this investigation. He glanced at his wristwatch and turned to Free. “You want to canvas the shops, see if anyone else was here early.”

“Sure, John.”

Vincent leaned slightly forward, his hand resting on the table. “I told you everything I know,
John
,” his silver-blue eyes twinkling. “Now if we’ve exhausted all avenues in this discussion, I have to get back to my shop, clean up this mess, and hopefully, sell some cupcakes.”

John leaned back in his chair. Vincent’s gaze lingered too long. All he could focus on were those eerily all-knowing eyes fringed with dark, dark lashes. Then he blinked.

Earth to Reeder. Jesus!

John jumped from his seat, anxious to get the hell away from Vincent Esposito. Pointing his finger at the baker, he ordered, “I’ll have more questions for you so don’t go anywhere.”

John turned away but a hand on his shoulder startled him. He jerked back as he swiveled on his heels, surprised to see Vincent standing next to him. His heart stalled for a second before he could breathe again.

“My apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

The low timbre of Vincent’s accent coaxed a thrill from John. He stepped back from the invasion of his personal space. “Yeah, what?”

Vincent raised his hands. “Hey, relax. When is your crew leaving? They’re bad for business.”

“You’ll have to be closed for a few days until we get the autopsy report.”

“But why, if it’s an accident?”

“Can’t be helped. It’s an on-going investigation.” He turned to leave but Vincent grabbed his wrist. His skin tingled where the baker’s grasping fingers touched.

John jerked back. “End of discussion, Mr. Esposito.”

He glanced past Vincent’s shoulder, spied Free coming out of a store, and waved her over. Vincent, thank God, took the hint and walked back into the bakery. He breathed easier once the man left his personal space, yet Esposito’s rich cologne lingered.

John glanced at the marquee above the doorway—
For the Bite of It
. What kind of name was that anyway? Ghoulish. Then again, what did he know about selling cupcakes? Maybe it was some weird play on words or a book title, or something. The gleaming black and chrome shop was located in a typical Arizona strip mall with stucco and tile architecture and a gigantic parking lot. He stepped back and read the other signs lining the building.

Sally’s videos, Myra’s Alterations, Trudi’s Massage…women-owned businesses and one gay man.

Figured.

Free ran her hand over her short, cropped reddish curls. “Got through talking with Sally. She owns—”

“The video store,” He tilted his head toward the sign.

“Yeah, anyway,” She opened her notebook. “According to her, Mr. Sala was a real ass. He was threatening to raise the rents even in this shitty economy. Plus he wouldn’t make repairs that were needed.”

“Still a weak motive for murder.”

Free gnawed her lower lip with her teeth. “When did it escalate to murder?”

“Stiller thinks the guy was dead before he crashed through the window. He’s not ruling out heart attack, but there could be another cause of death.”

Free whistled. “No shit. You know, she told me something interesting about Vincent. She overheard an argument between him and Mr. Sala in the parking lot last week.”

He tensed from excitement. He’d give anything to nail the guy. “What about?”

“She’s not sure but she did make out one word—kill.” Free shook her head. “She suspected it had something to do with the plumbing repairs the landlord refused to make.”

“Did you believe her?”

“Myra from alterations confirmed her story. Not unless they’re all in it together.”

John scratched his chin. “So out of this bunch, who wants Sala dead?”

She scuffed her tasseled loafer along the cement. “You could go back and ask him?”

John raised his brows. “Ask who?”

“Vincent, he seems to like you.” Her smile widened into a loopy grin.

“Yeah, like I care.”

The warm sensation in his chest from hearing those words alarmed him. He’d have to be extra vigilant when dealing with the baker. The man could be their killer.

Never get involved with a suspect, idiot.

Sure, the man was good looking, and probably a wild cat in bed, but he never wavered from rule number one. He never had sex with a man in town.

Vince shut the cardboard box of fresh pastries leaving the top un-taped, and slid it to one side of the already cramped counter. It was best to let the customer see their order before they left the bakery. He’d learned the hard way it prevented last-minute calls from panicked customers needing more cupcakes or a different colored icing.

Greg, his assistant baker, came through the temporary makeshift door. “The cops are outside.”

How well he knew it already. Awareness had started to spider-walk down his back the minute they arrived in the parking lot. He’d spent the last hour glancing at the door hoping John Reeder would walk in. Free had been around when he stepped outside to talk to the contractor but not Reeder. Vince had been surprised at his sharp disappointment.

“Yes, I saw them earlier.” Vince pretended a keen interest in the order book. “Did they talk to you?”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, man, questioned me up one side and down the other. Didn’t mind too much when the dream-boat cop joined in.”

Vince suppressed a strong desire to use his telekinetic power to slam Greg up against the wall behind him. Oh wait, he didn’t have it anymore. He gnashed his teeth instead. It wasn’t Greg’s fault Vince had a man-sized crush on Reeder. “You’re taken, and your boyfriend could crush Reeder with one blow,” he reminded Greg. “What did the cop want to know?”

“How well we knew Sala. If you and Sala had problems,” Greg sent him a questioning look. “Why would they ask me that?”

“Probably checking every angle or something equally detective-like. They can’t think I made his car crash into the building.” Well, technically Vince could have made it happen, but he hadn’t. All the detectives knew was Vince was a baker with a foreign accent. They probably knew he was gay since he made no secret about it.

Greg nodded his agreement. “Well, neither of us had a problem with him. I mean the guy was a dickhead, but hey, who isn’t?” He glanced over to where the car had broken parts of the wall. “Emergency crew did a good job restoring the window. But man, it’s hard to work in this mess.”

“I couldn’t shut the place down. We had orders to fill.” It would have been crazy to reschedule events and phone other bakeries to take over his orders.

“I know. Did they tell you when we’ll be up and running full steam?”

“No firm date.” Vince rubbed his forehead. Twice he’d walked into the temporary wall closing off the area where the crew restored the building. “You’re delivering the Sanderson order or is your helper coming in?”

They’d hired a temporary delivery boy last week. Business was good, and here he was selling cupcakes out of half a store. Damn Sala and his car.

“I’m the delivery boy today. Later, man.” With a wave, Greg swung his pony-tail over his shoulder and left for the kitchen.

If you’d asked him last week, he’d have said he had a good life. All things considered, he was half a vampire with a hankering for blood and weak with power. Still, he had adjusted.

Today, all he could do was compare it with what he’d had before. Another lifetime, when he’d been at the top of his game, respected, even revered. How low could a man fall from grace? How long could he pay penance for something he hadn’t done? And now his ruling council wanted a favor from him? Fuck. That. He’d wither away to bones without blood before he did them any
favors.
Besides knowing the
Jurisdictio
this would be no prize at the bottom of the cracker-jack box. More like,
thank-you-for turning-your-back-so-we-can-stick-a-knife-in
kind of favor. No, this time Vince would watch his ass. There wasn’t anyone else around do it.

The sharp tang of regret rose up in his throat and he slammed the order book closed.

He needed a distraction, any distraction. Except what walked into his shop wasn’t really what he would have chosen.

Looking up, he groaned as Angelo strolled through the bakery door. Vince cast his eyes to the heavens. Angelo wore black jeans—surely stitched on, for no one could have
pulled
those on. A skin-tight lavender shirt with an outrageous black leopard-spot pattern fought for attention with a grey jacket made of some shimmering material. And to cap off the ensemble, a purple silk scarf, carelessly wrapped around Angelo’s elegant neck, its trailing fringe bringing the eye straight to a bulging crotch.

“Just what I need,” Vince muttered through gritted teeth.

“
Alors ce qui s'est passé ici
?” Angelo inquired.

“You’re not seriously asking me what happened, are you? And why are you speaking French. I know it might tax your mind to remember but we’re Italian.”

“I am a man of the world. Why so touchy,
mon ami
?” Angelo leaned against the doorjamb, twirling one end of his scarf in a dizzying up and down motion.

“What you are is
minchione.
” Angelo was anything but the fool Vince had called him. Yet you’d never guess it from looking at him. “Are you auditioning for Project Runway?”