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  I passed him a pad of paper and a pen. “Could you draw a diagram of what you remember of the Smith unit?”

  The man stared at me, then nodded and began to draw. I watched him.

  “And could you label it? Please print rather than write?”

  He looked at me, puzzled.

  I smiled and shrugged. “I have trouble reading handwriting.”

  When he had labeled the rooms he knew, and drawn an arrow to where he deposited and picked up the cylinders, I took the pad back and examined it. Then I got out my fingerprint dust and, with him watching, mouth slightly open, I dusted the paper and took a photograph of his fingerprints.

  I opened my tablet and displayed the orange Post-it fingerprint beside the one I had just photographed. After comparing these, I turned the tablet around and pointed to the orange one.

  “That,” I said, “was found on a Post-it inside the closet where you deposit and retrieve the gas cylinders.”

  The man’s face reddened.

  “You see?” I put the pad he had made the diagram on, and where I had circled the “O” in bedroom, and the “N” in kitchen; he had used all capitals. “These two letters show a marked similarity to the letters written on the Post-it, though on the latter the writing is a bit messier.”

  The man stared, but he said nothing.

  “And this,” I added, pointing with my pen to the comma between the two letters on the Post-it. “I wasn’t sure what that was there for. But then I remembered. It wasn’t a comma, just a jotted number, part of a formula: N2O—nitrous oxide; laughing gas, which you have stored up right next to the oxygen in the dock area.”

  The man had turned white now. He was staring at me in something approaching horror.

  “Now, the cylinder,” I continued. “It has none of your prints on it. I imagine you wiped them off, or perhaps you wear gloves when doing a delivery.” Without waiting for a response, I added, “But the oxygen label—I have to admit, you did a good job with the gluing there. It’s just the same as the other cylinders. I haven’t removed it, but I imagine if I do, I might find the nitrous oxide label underneath. What do you think?”

  He looked at me now with something like pleading in his eyes.

  “Okay,” I said. “Now that I know what you did, I’d like to know why?”

  He stared at me for several seconds, then he kind of crumpled. His head sank down and he put his hands over it, elbows on the desk. I could hear the sound of sobbing. I waited.

  When he raised his head and wiped his eyes on his sleeve, he nodded. He looked defeated.

  “I just wanted to fool him,” he said in a thin voice.

  “Fool whom?”

  “Q-Quentin.” His voice quavered as he said the name. He paused, and then the words came out in a rush. “I didn’t mean to hurt him. I mean, it’s only nitrous oxide. The stuff’s used all the time in dental offices. It’s not dangerous!”

  “Unless overused,” I corrected, and he stared at me in open-mouthed horror.

  “B-but, I mean—I didn’t know—I mean, how—?”

  I shook my head slowly. “That isn’t what I’m asking you. I’m just asking why you did it. Was it really just a lark?”

  The man looked at me. His lower lip quivered, and he shook his head.

  “He hurt me. I was angry.”

  “Because he didn’t want more than just casual sex?”

  The man’s eyes widened.

  “You spent over an hour on a number of occasions. The corridor outside the apartment has a security camera.”

  He licked his lips, nodded. “Yeah. I guess, I kind of fell for the guy.” His face crumpled and he shook his head violently. “I didn’t want to hurt him, though. Just—” He broke off.

  “Just what?”

  “Ruin his fun.” He looked at me, his face a mask of misery. “You know, fool him, play a trick.” He deflated again, this time to the point of laying his head on the desk top, buried in his arms. I looked at him for a little while.

  “Okay,” I said at last. “I think I believe you.”

  He shifted slightly, perhaps a shrug, but didn’t lift his head.

  “Could you,” I added, “write out what you just told me, and sign it?”

  Slowly, he raised his head, and looked at me, his eyes tear-filled. He swallowed, and nodded wearily.

  Twenty minutes later I was driving back to the city. I was heading to the police station.

  * * * *

  Sam met me in the same interrogation room, though because the cameras were off it was not official. I told him the story, and his expression of amazement increased as I talked.

  “So,” he said at last when I had finished. “What does that make it then?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the police. You have to decide whether it was simple death by misadventure or whether there was some culpability on Mr. Henderson’s part.”

  Sam rubbed his jaw. Then he looked at me.

  “What do you think?”

  But I smiled and shook my head. “You first. I’m just a P.I.”

  “Just a P.I!” he cried. “My boss was right. You are amazing!”

  I did my best to look modest, and after a short interval, Sam recovered himself and considered the question he had put.

  “Might be reckless endangerment causing death.”

  I nodded. “That’s what I was thinking. Great minds think alike.”

  Sam beamed. He fairly radiated confidence and virility now. I was pleasant just watching him.

  “I’ll go to the captain with this,” he said at last. “I’ve got to do the report first.”

  I nodded. “I’d like to emphasize,” I said, “that it was your case. I only assisted. I don’t want credit for anything in particular. Say what you like.”

  “You’re kidding!” he said, getting to his feet.

  I shook my head.

  “Wow!” he said, walking around restlessly. “I feel like celebrating!”

  “Well,” I said. “I have to tell Horst. He’ll be relieved. Why don’t you come over later, after you get off?”

  “Would that be okay?” he said.

  “Yeah,” I reassured him. “Only—”

  “Only what?”

  “Well, I’d like you to come with a good attitude.”

  He stared. “Yeah. Of course. Why shouldn’t I?”

  I grimaced. “Well,” I said, looking up at the cameras whose red lights were off. “You look a little tense.”

  I left him considerably more relaxed, and headed home to tell Horst about the case, and about a dinner guest.

  * * * *

  When Solomon arrived Horst was out, picking up champagne. Any tension that might have dominated things was set aside by his excited observation: “He went for it! The delivery guy, Henderson. How did you know?”

  I shrugged. “I just had the impression that he really loved Quentin. He didn’t want to hurt him, not really. He just made a mistake, and I guess he wants to do the right thing: penance if you like.”

  “Wow!” Sam said. “You really get people.”

  I grinned and said in a pseudo-Bogart voice, “Well, stick with me, kid, and you’ll learn plenty.”

  To my surprise, Sam didn’t smile. Instead his eyes widened and they began to glisten with unshed tears. He seemed almost fearful, shy.

  “I—I’d like to, Ian. If that’s okay with you.”

  I stared at him for a second before it hit me. Then I became shy. This was a very different Detective Sam. The cockiness was gone, though the virility wasn’t. He was a male at a crisis point, and he was enduring it, I had to admit, manfully. It made his physical attributes all that much more attractive. I thought momentarily of Horst, but dismissed that concern. This was someone in distress. I stepped forward and put my hands on his shoulder.

  “I’d like that,” I said, and, leaning forward, kissed him gently on the lips.

  His response was passionate, so much so that his lips seemed to tremble with emotion.


  Then he pulled me into an embrace and we held each other, and the feeling was warm and wonderful, reassuring, strong, and heart-filling. We remained like that for several minutes, before he pulled away.

  When he did so, he looked at me seriously.

  “What will Horst say? I mean—I kind of know you two are an item.”

  I nodded. “I don’t know,” I said. “But I think Horst won’t mind, if he feels sure of my feelings for him.”

  Sam coughed uncomfortably, then said awkwardly, “Well, if he doesn’t then he’s just plain blind. I saw the way you look at each other—” He broke off and turned away. “Sorry!” he murmured, still not facing me. “It’s just—kind of—I don’t know.” He laughed gently. “Funny! I can’t even say what I feel about it. I don’t know if it’s envy, wanting to join in—to be part of things, admiration, awe, or just plain wanting the world to have more of that sort of thing.”

  I nodded. “What about the second option?”

  “What?”

  “The second feeling you mentioned.”

  “What? Oh! Wanting to join in?”

  I nodded again. He laughed in surprise.

  “You’re kidding!”

  “I’m not. I know that you find Horst attractive, and I suspect he finds you the same—or will when he gets over the fact that you’re a cop. I mean, he’s with me now, and I’m an ex-cop, so that should be a good starting point for his growth there.”

  “What? A—what’s it called?”

  “Ménage à trois?”

  “Yeah. Do things like that work?”

  “I have no idea. It might be interesting to try—if you’re interested.”

  “Oh, I’m interested! I just don’t want to complicate things for you—and him.”

  “Okay. What say we take it as it comes, then? No actual planning. There’s a third bedroom after all. Just keep everything open-minded, and open-hearted.”

  “Fair enough.”

  THE END

  ABOUT GORDON PHILLIPS

  I have lived all my life at the intersection of the head and heart, of art and science, and while this has resulted in a life path that is something of a meander, it has also made my life both quite enjoyable and very interesting.

  Academically, I have trained in several sciences and done research in them, publishing a number of scientific papers. I have also worked in various office jobs in the computer engineering field, where I found that cubicle life did not suit my temperament at all. In between these occupations I have also written articles and stories for several local and international community (LGBTQI) periodicals, co-authored a biography of a 19th Century historical figure, and published several novella-length stories in the erotic romance genres.

  While all things interest me, from the physical functioning of our world and engineering control systems of all sorts, to the neurons that direct action in the brain, what particularly fascinates me is the manner in which our actions are directed by the mysterious functioning of the human heart.

  ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC

  JMS Books LLC is a small queer press with competitive royalty rates publishing LGBT romance, erotic romance, and young adult fiction. Visit jms-books.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!