“Sure,” the chef said. “Look at that big-ass lock.”

“What do you think is in that refrigerator?”

“Heroin.” The answer came without pause and with certainty. “Or maybe coke. Some kind of drugs anyway.”

Keith nodded thoughtfully. That is exactly what he would have assumed in this guy’s position. He said, “Do you read the newspaper?”

Baratunde’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Sometimes. I’m more of a talk radio man, though.”

“Have you heard anything about the Cannibal Killer?”

The chef’s face paled to the color of ash. He swallowed and said, “Some.”

“Inside that walk-in, lying in stainless hotel pans that you probably use every day, are the butchered remains of at least three people,” Keith said. “You can see how I want to know more about this catering company that shares your kitchen, right?”

The chef did not immediately answer. Keith wondered briefly if he had misjudged Baratunde. Maybe he truly had been complicit. Then, with no warning, the man lunged sideways and puked loudly into the trash can. The uniform didn’t look very much more well, but he, at least, hadn’t been eating off the same dishes used to process human protein. Keith waited while the chef splashed his face with water and stood, leaning on the hand sink, breathing deeply. Finally, he said, “Sometimes the caterers have leftovers that they leave in our refrigerator for the staff to eat.”

The cause of Baratunde’s abrupt illness became sharply clear. “And?”

“This morning they left some posole in our walk-in. I—for lunch—” Tears rimmed the chef’s eyes. Whether they were the result of impending further illness or horrifying remorse, Keith could not say.

“Is there any left?”

Baratunde nodded. “Ms. Bullock and I were the only ones who ate any. Nobody else wanted hominy. She kept talking about how back in the day the dish was made with human flesh.”

“You better show me. We’ll need to test it.”

“I just need a second.” He leaned far over the sink, jaw working, plainly fighting the urge to vomit again.

Keith said, “Take your time.”

It only took Baratunde a few deep breaths to recover before he was able to lead Keith into the main walk-in, a long, narrow space. It was supremely clean and well organized. The chef plainly took pride in his profession.

“This is it.” He handed Keith a long insert of quasi-congealed stew, taking obvious care not to touch the contents.

Gunther ducked into the walk-in. “We’ve got the dining room cleared.”

“Thanks.” Keith glanced at him and then at the chef, whose eyes were still glassy. The big man’s hands shook slightly. Keith remained placid while he removed a small vial from his pocket. He pulled a piece of flesh from the stew and squeezed a couple of drops of tincture onto it. The tincture shone blue. He looked at the chef and said, “It’s pork. We should keep it anyway. The container might have prints we can use.”

The relief that swept across Baratunde’s face was that of a condemned man released at the last minute.

“Thank the Lord.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d go and see how your crew is doing.”

“Yes, sir.” He went, smiling.

The second the door closed, Keith crumpled the meat in a napkin, whispering, “I’m sorry—whoever you were.”

Gunther drew closer. “I thought blue meant human.”

Keith nodded. “The chef doesn’t need to know that though. He doesn’t need to have that knowledge on him for the rest of his life—that he’s a cannibal. It’s bad enough that he’s going to lose his job when this joint shuts down. Working here isn’t going to be a resume builder, either. We’ll still send it to the lab—just for documentation. And prints, like I said.”

Gunther said, “Do you need a minute?”

“No, let’s just go get this over with.”

Chapter Six

Interviews at Bauer & Bullock went quickly. Few staff knew much about Forbidden Pleasures. Keith called it quits around nine, when his jaw started hurting him too much to pay attention to their uninformative answers. He decided to save Bullock’s interview for the morning, when he was less tired and after she’d spent the night in jail.

Once they reached the hotel, Gunther went to the ice machine to make up a pack for Keith while Keith himself poured two vodka shots and drank them both in quick succession.

Returning with a softball-sized bag of ice, wrapped in a clean white towel, Gunther said, “By the way, it was bison.”

“No, the carcass in the fridge was human. Trust me.” Keith held the ice pack to his jaw, wincing at the cold against his tender flesh.

“I mean the preferred protein at my family’s midsummer meal. It was bison. You asked and I never answered.” Gunther sat down beside him on the bed. Keith’s proximity alarm buzzed and buzzed again, warning him of Gunther’s closeness. He pulled it off and threw it on the nightstand.  He didn’t need the watch to know how near the other man sat. Every part of Keith’s body seemed to be responding to the nearness—to the smell of Gunther’s faintly spicy cologne, to the knowledge of his sheer masculinity.

He needed to get laid and that was a fact.

Gunther said quietly, “Is your jaw hurting you a lot?”

“It hurts enough.” The bruise did hurt, but if he was honest, the real wound had been mainly to his pride. He said, “Getting hit by a crazy, slap-happy bitch isn’t what I wanted from this evening.”

“I admit I had other hopes as well.” After this remark, Gunther lay back and fell silent. Keith glanced sideways, wondering if the other man had somehow fallen asleep. His eyes were closed, his fingers laced behind his head. His abdomen rose and fell slowly. His expression had softened. His mouth looked supremely kissable. Keith imagined himself leaning over and tasting Gunther’s mouth, wondering if the taste of tobacco still lingered there.

And for so many reasons that was the stupidest impulse Keith had had in years.

Without opening his eyes Gunther said, “Are you hungry?”

“I’ll make myself some grilled cheese in a minute.”

“That’s pretty much the only thing you eat now, isn’t it?”

“Pretty much.”

Gunther shook his head. “It doesn’t seem like that could possibly be good for you.”

“Says the man who ate two and a half packs of cigarettes today.”

“I didn’t say my diet was good. I’m just saying that you might want to take a multivitamin.”

“I ate an orange last week,” Keith said. “Grilled cheese is easy when you’re cooking for one.”

“Why don’t you include me in your dinner plans then?”

“I don’t cook meat anymore.” Keith felt like a complete weakling admitting this but also knew that Gunther probably didn’t truly understand how pathetic this made him seem in the professional cooking world.

“I didn’t say it had to be meat.” Gunther opened his eyes, regarding Keith with a steadiness that made him look away.

“You’re a goblin. Meat is what you want.”

“You know we prefer to be called Luminous Ones. And I think we don’t know each other well enough for you to know what it is that I want.”

“You’re telling me that your favorite food isn’t meat?”

Gunther shrugged. “When I was a little kid my favorite food was Christmas lights. I used to eat them right off the string like candy.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Not at all. My godfather used to bribe me with them so I’d stop sucking all the butane out of his lighter. So while it’s true that I haven’t eaten many vegetables, I’m feeling very game today. So how about it?”

“I don’t really want to cook,” Keith said.

“What do you want to do then?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must want something.”

Though he knew Gunther was still talking about their dinner plans, Keith felt so demoralized and tired and maybe slightly drunk from the vodka shot on an empty stomach that he found himself saying, “What I want, Heartman, is to fuck you and not have to talk about it afterward.”