Some Like It Hot-Buttered by JEFFREY COHEN

belief that brooms can stay in the regular closet with all the other cleaning implements and just get over themselves. There was a small assemble-it-yourself desk (which I had assembled myself, after only three calls to the manufacturer and one to my father), a phone, a watercooler, and a single chair, which O’Donnell was now sitting in, having commandeered the office as his temporary headquarters. Standing next to him, I felt rather like someone had taken over my territory, a feeling I remember having quite often during the divorce proceedings.
    “Well, he might have simply been surprised she said it out loud, or surprised she knew it was him.” O’Donnell chewed on a pencil, which I realized with some revulsion was one of mine. Companies send me free pencils and pens all the time with the business name on them, secure in their odd belief that I will give them as gifts to my “clients.”
    “Yeah, or she might have been putting on a nice public display of accusation to shift the suspicion from herself,” I suggested.
    “Uh-huh,” he said, with great noncommittal flair.
    “You did suspect her, didn’t you?” I might as well accuse somebody of something; it seemed all the rage around here these days.
    “I’m sorry, am I required to keep you up-to-date on our investigation, Freed?” O’Donnell leaned back in my chair and eyed me with something that couldn’t be described with any word other than “suspicion.”
    “I thought I’d come by and share information with you, O’Donnell, but if that’s your attitude, I’ll keep it to myself next time.”
    "It’s Sergeant O’Donnell, and what makes you think there’ll be a ‘next time’ you’ll have anything useful to tell me?” he asked. I ignored him, because coming up with a clever retort would have required more effort than I had energy for at the moment.
    “Did you get a report back on that vial my father found here, or are you not allowed to tell me whether I’m under suspicion as a major drug dealer?” At least that had a little zing to it.
    “Oh, we got the report, okay.” O’Donnell smirked. “I’m sorry to say, we don’t think you’re dealing coke in anything but overpriced cups that are mostly filled with ice.”
    “I’ve got to make money somewhere ,” I told him. “The studios take all the receipts on the movie. Anyway, what is it I am dealing? I’ve been out of the business for so long, I can’t remember which felony I was committing on a regular basis.”
    O’Donnell picked up a paper from my desk and held it out far from his face so he could read it. I felt like telling him that real men like Chief Barry Dutton aren’t too insecure to use reading glasses.
    “It’s a substance called clonidine,” he said, reading from the paper. “It’s an alpha 2-adrenergic blocker” (it took him a couple of tries to say “adrenergic”) “used to treat high blood pressure, and sometimes attention deficit disorder. Crushed up into a powder and given in a large enough dose to someone who doesn’t need it, clonidine makes a healthy person’s blood pressure drop until his heart stops.”
    “So it was this clonidine that killed Vincent Ansella,” I said.
    O’Donnell nodded. “Sprinkled on his popcorn. He probably never even noticed it. And anyone with high blood pressure might have a prescription for it.”
    “Do any of the suspects have high blood pressure?” I asked.
    “Strangely, Sherlock, I haven’t had time to check on everyone yet, because I haven’t ruled out anyone as a suspect except Ansella himself. Besides, anyone who wanted to kill him could have known someone with high blood pressure, and stolen enough to do the job.”
    “I don’t suppose you’ve checked whether Ansella himself had a prescription?”
    “Well, then you suppose wrong.” O’Donnell didn’t have enough room in the small office to pat himself on the back, but I’m sure he made a mental note to do so once he got back out into the real world.