A Dish Served Cold

A Dish Served Cold

"We have reason to believe there's a man who wants to cause you some harm, sir." Standing on the hot sidewalk in front of his office building, compact, muscular Stephen York rocked back and forth on his Bally shoes.

Cause you some harm.

The hell's that supposed to mean?

York set down his gym bag. The fifty-one-year-old investment banker looked from the Scottsdale Police Department senior detective who'd delivered this news to the man's younger partner. The cops were easy to tell apart. Older, blond Bill Lampert was pale as milk, as if he'd come to Scottsdale via Minnesota – a migration that happened pretty frequently, York had learned. The other cop, Juan Alvarado, undoubtedly had roots in the vicinity.

"Who?" York asked.

"His name's Raymond Trotter."

York thought about it, then shook his head. "Never heard of him." He peered at the picture the cop held out. From DMV, it seemed. "Doesn't look familiar. Who is he?"

"Lives here in town. Runs a landscaping company."

"Wait, I know the place. Out off the interstate?" York thought Carole had shopped there.

"Yeah, the big one." Lampert wiped his forehead.

"He's got a problem with me? What sort?" York pulled his Armani shades on. The three p.m. sun in Arizona was like a blowtorch.

"We don't know."

"Well, what do you know?"

Alvarado explained. "We arrested a day laborer for drugs. An illegal. Hector Diaz. He wanted to cut a deal on the charge and he told us he had some information about a possible crime. Seems he's worked for this Trotter off and on. A few days ago Trotter comes to him and offers him a thousand dollars to stop by your house and see if you needed yard work done. While he was there he was supposed to check out your alarm system."

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

What was all this about? Despite the temperature hovering at 105 degrees York felt a chill run through him. "Alarms? Why?"

"All Trotter told Diaz was he was interested in payback for something you did."

"Payback?" York shook his head in frustration. "Jesus, you come and tell me this crap, somebody's going to quote cause me some harm – and you don't have any idea what it's about?"

"No, sir. We were hoping you could tell us."

"Well, I can't."

"Okay, we'll check this Trotter out. But we'd recommend you keep an eye out for anything odd."

"Why don't you arrest him?"

"He hasn't committed a crime," Lampert said. "I'm afraid that without evidence of an overt act, there's nothing we can do."

Cause some harm.…

Evidence of an overt act…

Maybe if they stopped talking like sociology professors they'd do some real goddamn police work. York came close to telling them this but he guessed the disgusted look on his face was message enough.

Trying to put the encounter with the cops out of his thoughts, York drove to the gym. Man, he needed some muscle time. He'd just come through a grind of a negotiation with two men who owned a small manufacturing company he was trying to buy. The old guys'd been a lot wilier than he'd expected. They'd made some savvy demands that were going to cost York big money. He'd looked them over, real condescending, and stormed out of their lawyer's office. Let 'em stew for a day or two before. He'd probably concede but he wasn't going to let them think they'd bullied him.

He parked in the health club lot. Climbed out of the car and walked through the fierce sun to the front door.

"Hi, Mr. York. You're early today."

A nod to the daytime desk manager, Gavin.

"Yeah, snuck out when nobody was looking."

York changed clothes and headed for the aerobics room, empty at the moment. He flopped down on the mats to stretch. After ten minutes of limbering up, he headed off to the machines, pushing hard, doing his regular circuit of twenty reps on each before moving on, ending up with crunches; his job as one of the three partners in a major Scottsdale venture capital firm had him doing a lot of entertaining and spending serious time at his desk; his belly had been testing the waistband of his slacks lately.

He didn't like flabby. Neither did women, whatever they told you. A platinum Amex card lets you get away with a lot but when it's bedtime the dolls love solid abs. After the crunches he hopped on the treadmill for his run.

Mile one, mile two, three…

Trying to push the difficult business deal out of his head – goddamn it, what was with those decrepit farts? How could they be so sharp? They oughta be in an old folks' home.

Running, running…

Mile five…

And who was this Raymond Trotter?

Payback…

He scanned his memory again but could come up with no hits on the name.

He fell into the rhythm of his pounding feet. At seven miles he slowed to a walk, cooled off and shut the treadmill down. York pulled a towel over his neck and, ignoring a flirtatious glance from a woman who was pretty but a few years past being worth the risk, returned to the locker room. There he stripped and grabbed a clean towel then headed for the sauna.

York liked this part of the club because it was out of the way and very few members came here at this time of day. Now it was completely deserted. York wandered down the tile corridor. He heard a noise from around the corner. A click, then what sounded like footsteps, though he couldn't tell for sure. Was somebody here? He got to the junction and looked. No, the hallway was empty. But he paused. Something was different. What? He realized the place was unusually dark. He glanced up at the light fixtures. Several bulbs were missing. Four thousand bucks a year for membership and they couldn't replace the bulbs? Man, he'd give Gavin some crap for that. The murkiness, along with a faint, snaky hiss from the ventilation, made the place eerie.

He continued to the door of the redwood sauna, hanging his towel on a hook and turning the temperature selector to high. He'd just started inside when a sharp pain shot through into his foot.

"Hell!' he shouted and danced back, lifting his sole to see what had stabbed him. A wooden splinter was sticking out of the ball of his foot. He pulled it out and pressed his hand against the tiny, bleeding wound. He squinted at the floor where he'd stepped and noted several other splinters.

Oh, Gavin was going to get an earful today. But York 's anger faded as he glanced down and found what he supposed was the source of the splinters: two slim wooden shims, hand carved, it looked like, lying on the floor near the doorway. They were like door stops, except that the only door here – to the sauna – was at the top of a two-step stairway. The door couldn't be wedged open.

But the shims could be used to wedge the door closed if somebody pounded them into the jamb when the door was shut. They'd fit perfectly. But it'd be crazy to do that. Somebody trapped inside would have no way of turning down the temperature or calling for help; there were no controls inside the unit. And heat in a sauna could kill; York and his wife had just seen a local TV story about a Phoenix woman who'd died in her sauna after she'd fainted.

Holding the shims, staring down at them, a sudden click from nearby made him jump. York turned and saw a shadow against the wall, like that of a person pausing. Then it vanished.

"Hello?" York called.

Silence.

York walked into the hallway. He could see nobody. Then he glanced at the emergency exit door, which didn't seem to be closed all the way. He looked out. The alley was empty. Turning back, he noticed something on the edge of the door. Somebody had taped the latch down so he could get inside without being seen from anyone in the lobby.

Cause you some harm…

Five minutes later, showerless, York was hurrying out of the club, not bothering to give Gavin the lecture he deserved. The businessman was carrying the shims and bit of duct tape, wrapped in paper towels. He was careful. Like everybody who watched TV nowadays he knew all about the art of preserving fingerprints.

"They're in here."

Stephen York handed the paper towel to pale-skinned Detective Bill Lampert. "I didn't touch them – I used tissues."

"At your health club, you said?" asked the detective, looking over the shims and the tape.

"That's right." York couldn't resist adding the name of the exclusive place.

Lampert didn't seem impressed. He stepped to the doorway and handed the evidence to Alvarado. "Prints, toolmarks, stat." The young officer vanished.

Turning back to York. "But nobody actually tried to detain you in the sauna?"

Detain? York asked himself wryly. You mean: Lock me inside to roast me to death.

"No." He pulled out a cigar. "You mind?"

"There's no smoking in the building," Lampert replied.

"Maybe not technically, but…"

"There's no smoking in the building."

York put the stogie away. "The way I read it, Trotter found out my routine. He got into the club and taped the back door open so he could get in without anybody seeing him from the lobby."

"How'd he do that? He a member?"

"I don't know."

Lampert held up a finger. He called the club and had a brief conversation. "No record of him as a member or a guest in the last month."

"Then he had a fake ID or something to try a guest membership."

"Fake ID? That's a little… complicated, isn't it?"

"Well, somehow, the asshole got inside. He was going to seal me inside but I think I surprised him and he ditched the shims and took off."

Alvarado walked into his boss's office. "No prints. Toolmarks aren't distinctive but if we find a plane or chisel we might make a match."

York laughed. "No prints? That's proof of something right there, isn't it?"

Lampert ignored him. He lifted a sheet of paper from his desk and looked it over. "Well, we've looked into this Trotter fellow. Seems like any normal guy. No police record except for a few traffic tickets. But there is something. I talked to the Veterans' Administration in Phoenix. Turns out they have a file on him. He was in Kuwait, the first Gulf War. His unit got hit hard. Half his men were killed and he was badly wounded. After he got discharged he moved here, spent a year in counseling. The file has his shrink's notes in it. That's all privileged – doctor-patient – and we're not supposed to see it, but I've got a buddy in the VA and he gave me the gist. Apparently after Trotter got out of the service he ended up hanging with a bad crowd here and in Albuquerque. Did some strong-arm stuff. For hire. That was a while ago, and he was never arrested but still…"

"Christ… So maybe somebody hired him?"

"Who've you pissed off bad enough they'd go to this kind of trouble to get even?"

"I don't know. I'd have to think about it."

Alvarado said, "You know that expression, 'Revenge is a dish best served cold?'"

"Yeah, I think I heard of that."

"Might be somebody from your distant past. Think way back."

A dish served cold…

"Okay. But what're we going to do in the meantime?" York asked, wiping his sweating palms on his pants.

"Let's go have a talk with him. See what he has to say." The detective picked up the phone and placed a call.

"Mr. Trotter please… I see. Could you tell me when?… Thanks. No message." He hung up. "He just left for Tucson. He'll be back tomorrow morning."

"Aren't you going to stop him?"

"Why?"

"Maybe he's trying to escape, go to Mexico.”

Lampert shrugged and opened a file from another case. "Then I guess you're off the hook."

Pulling up to their five-million-dollar mini-mansion on the edge of the desert, York climbed out of his Mercedes, locked the doors and looked around to make sure he hadn't been followed. No sign of anyone. Still, when he walked inside he double-locked the door behind him.

"Hey, honey." Carole joined him in the entryway, wearing her workout Spandex. His third wife was frosted blonde and beautiful. ("You guys give good visuals," an associate once said.) They'd been together three years. A former secretary turned personal trainer, Carole had just the right mix of what York called being-on-the-ball and not-getting-it. Meaning she could carry on a conversation and not be embarrassing but she kept quiet when she knew she was supposed to – and didn't ask too many questions about where he'd been when he came home late or went on last-minute business trips.

She glanced at the door. "What's with that?" They never used the deadbolt.

He had to be careful. Carole needed things explained to her in simple terms and if she didn't understand what he told her, she'd freak. And her brand of hysteria could get ugly. He'd found that out about stupid people, how they lost it when confronted with something they didn't understand.

So he lied. "Somebody up the street got broken into yesterday."

"I didn't hear about it."

"Well, they did."

"Who?"

"I don't remember."

A faint giggle – a habit of hers he found either irritating or sexy, depending on his mood.

"You don't know who? That's weird." Today's was an irritating giggle.

"Somebody told me. I forgot. I got a lot on my mind."

"Can we go to the club for dinner?"

"I'm wasted, baby. I'll barbecue tonight. How's that?"

"Okay, sure."

He could tell she was disappointed but York knew how to bail out sinking ships; he mixed cocktails fast – doubles – and steered her to the pool, where he put on a Yanni CD. In twenty minutes the liquor and music had dulled her disappointment and she was babbling on about wanting to go visit her family in Los Angeles in a couple of weeks, would he mind baching it?

"Whatever." He gave it a minute and then, sounding casual, said, "I'm thinking of getting some plants for the office."

"You want me to help?"

"No, Marge is handling it. You ever buy anything from that landscaper out by the highway? Trotter's?"

"I don't know. I think so. A while ago."

"They ever deliver anything here?"

"No, I just bought some houseplants and brought ' em home. Why?"

"Wondering if they have good service."

"Now you're into decorating. That's wild." Another giggle.

He grunted and headed into the kitchen, pulled open the fridge.

Smoking a Macanudo and drinking his vodka and tonic, York grilled some steaks and made a salad and they ate in silence. After she'd cleared the dishes, they moved into the den and watched some TV. Carole got cuddly. Normally this meant it was time for the hot tub, or bed – or sometimes the floor – but tonight he said, "You head on upstairs, doll. I've got a few numbers to look over."

"Aw." Another pout.

"I'll be up soon."

"Oh, okay." She sighed, picked up a book and climbed the stairs.

When he heard the door click shut he walked into his study, shut the lights out and peered out at the dark sweep of moonlit desert behind the house. Shadows, rocks, cacti, stars… This was a vista he loved. It changed constantly. He remained here for five minutes, then, pouring a tall scotch, he kicked his shoes off and stretched out on the couch.

A sip of smoky liquor. Another.

Payback…

And Stephen York began a trip through his past, looking for some reason that Trotter, or anyone, wanted him dead.

Because he had ditsy Carole on his mind, he thought first of the women who'd been in his life. He considered his ex-wives. York had been the one who'd ended each of the marriages. The first wife, Vicky, had gone off the deep end when he'd told her he was leaving. The little mouse had cried and begged him to stay even though she knew about the affair he'd been having with his secretary. But he was adamant about the divorce and soon he cut off all contact with her, except for financial matters involving their son, Randy.

But would she actually hire a killer to get even with him?

No way, he decided: Vicky's reaction to the breakup was to play victim, not vengeful ex. Besides, York had done right by her. He'd paid alimony and child support promptly and, a few years later, hadn't contested the custody order that took away his rights to see their son.

York and his second wife were together only two years. She'd proved too brittle for him, too liberal, too NPR. That breakup was Holyfield-Tyson, pure combat. Susan, a high-powered commercial real estate lawyer, walked away with a lot of money, more than enough to salve her injured pride (York left her for a woman sixteen years younger and twenty pounds slimmer). She also took her career too seriously to risk it by doing anything illegal to him. She had remarried – a military consultant and former army colonel she'd met negotiating a contract with the government for her client – and York was sure he'd fallen off her radar screen.

Ex-girlfriends? The usual suspects… But, brother, where to start? Almost too many to count. He'd broken up badly with some of them, used some, lied. Of course, York himself had been used and lied to by women. On the whole it evened out, he figured. That was how the game worked; nobody sane would hire a hitman to kill a lover just because he'd dumped you.

Who else could it be?

Most likely, he decided, it was somebody he'd had business dealings with.

But there were a lot of fish in that sea too. Dozens came to mind. When he'd been a salesman for a pharmaceutical company, he'd reported one of his fellow detail men for cheating on his expense account (York turned him in not out of company loyalty but to pillage the guy's territory). The man was fired and vowed to get even.

He'd also been involved in the acquisition of dozens of companies over the last ten years; hundreds of employees had been fired as a result. He recalled one of these in particular – a salesman who'd come to him in tears, after he'd been let go, begging for a second chance. York, though, stuck to his decision – mostly because he didn't like the man's whining. A week later the salesman killed himself; his note said he'd failed as a man because he could no longer take care of his wife and children. York could hardly be responsible for crazy behavior like that. But his survivors might not feel that way. Maybe Trotter was this man's brother or best friend, or been hired by them.

He recalled another incident: the time he'd had a private eye check out a rival venture capitalist and found he was gay. The client that they were both wooing was a homophobe. During dinner one night York subtly dropped the skinny on the rival, and the next day York 's outfit got the assignment. Had he found out and hired Trotter?

Any other sins?

Oh, you bet, York thought in disgust, reaching into the dim past.

A dish served cold…

Recalling an incident in college, a prank gone wrong – a frat hazing that resulting in a pledge getting drunk and stabbing a cop. The kid was expelled, then disappeared not longer after. York couldn't remember his name. It could've been Trotter.

A dozen other incidents flooded into his thoughts, two dozen, three – people ignored and insulted, lies told, associates cheated… His memory spit out not only the serious offenses, but the petty ones too: rudeness to clerks, gouging an elderly woman who'd sold him her car, laughing when a man's toupee flew off in a heavy wind…

Reliving them all. It was exhausting.

Another hit of scotch… then another.

And the next thing he knew the sun was streaming through the window. He squinted in pain from the hangover and groggily focused on his watch. Oh, damn, it was nine… Why hadn't Carole wakened him? She knew he had two deals this morning. Sometimes that woman just didn't have a goddamn clue.

York staggered into the kitchen, and Carole looked up from the phone. She smiled.

"Breakfast's ready."

"You let me sleep."

She told her friend she'd call back and hung up. "I figured you were tired. And you looked just too cute, all cuddled up."

Cute. Jesus Lord… York winced in pain. His neck was frozen from sleeping in an awkward position "I don't have time for breakfast," he grumbled.

"My mother always said breakfast is -"

"- the most important meal of the day. So you've told me. Like, a hundred times."

She went silent. Then rose and walked into the living room with her coffee and phone.

"Baby, I didn't mean…”

York sighed. Like walking on eggshells sometimes… He retreated to the bedroom. He was fishing for aspirin in the medicine cabinet when the phone rang.

"For you" was his wife's cool announcement.

It was Detective Bill Lampert. "Trotter's back in town. Let's go say hi. We'll pick you up in twenty minutes."

"Yes, can I help you?"

"Raymond Trotter?"

"That's right."

Standing in front of Trotter Landscaping and Nursery, a rambling complex of low buildings, greenhouses and potting sheds, Bill Lampert and Juan Alvarado looked over the middle-aged man. Lampert noted that he was in very good shape: slim, with broad shoulders. His brown hair, flecked with gray, was cut short. His square-jawed face shaved perfectly, blue jogging outfit immaculate. Confident eyes. The detective wondered if they revealed surprise as he glanced at their shields and maybe a bit more surprise at the sight of Stephen York, standing behind them. Trotter set down the large flowering plant he was holding.

"Sir, we understand you were seeking some personal information about Mr. York here."

"Who?"

Good delivery, Lampert reflected. He nodded behind him. "The gentleman there."

Trotter frowned. "You're mistaken, I'm afraid. I don't know him."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"Do you know a man named Hector Diaz? Mexican, thirty-five, stocky. He used to work day labor for you."

"I've hired hundreds of day people. I don't know half their names. Is this an Immigration issue? My people are supposed to check documentation."

"No, sir, it's not. This Diaz claimed you asked him about Mr. York's security."

"What?" Then Trotter squinted knowingly. "How'd this all come up. By any chance, was Diaz arrested for something?"

"That's right."

"So he made up something about a former employer to get a shorter sentence. Doesn't that happen?"

Lampert and his partner shared a look. Whatever else, this Trotter wasn't stupid.

"Sometimes, sure."

"Well, I didn't do what Diaz said I did." The piercing eyes turned to York. Alvarado took over. "Were you in the Scottsdale Health and Racquet Club yesterday?"

"The… oh, the fancy one? No, that's not how I spend my money. Besides, I was in Tucson."

"Before you left for Tucson."

"No. I have no idea what you're getting at but I don't know this York. I don't have any interest in his alarm systems."

Lampert felt Alvarado touch his shoulder. The young detective was pointing at a pile of wooden boards, about the same width and thickness of the shims.

"You mind if we take a couple of those with us?"

"You go right ahead… soon as you show me a search warrant."

"We'd appreciate your cooperation."

"I'd appreciate a warrant."

"Are you worried about what we might find?" Alvarado chimed in.

"I'm not at all worried. It's just that we've got this thing in America called the Constitution." He grinned. "What makes our country great. I play by the rules. I guess you should, too."

York sighed loudly. Trotter looked him over coolly.

Alvarado said, "If you have nothing to hide then there'll be no problem."

"If you have probable cause there'll be no problem getting a search warrant."

"So you're telling us you have no intent to endanger Mr. York in any way."

Trotter laughed. "That's ridiculous." Then his face grew icy. "This is pretty serious, what you're suggesting. You start spreading rumors like this, it could get embarrassing. For me… and for you. I hope you realize that."

"Assault and breaking and entering are very serious crimes," Alvarado said.

Trotter picked up the plant. It was impressive. A cactus, dangerous looking. "If there's nothing else…"

"No, there's nothing else. Thanks for your time." Lampert nodded to his partner and he and York started back to the cars.

When they were in the parking lot Lampert said, "He's up to something."

York nodded. "I know what you mean – that look he gave me. It was like he was saying, I'm going to get you. I swear."

"Look? That's not what I'm talking about. Didn't you hear him? He said he wasn't interested in your 'alarms.' I never told him that's what Diaz said. I only mentioned 'security.' That could mean anything. Makes me believe Diaz was telling the truth."

York was impressed. "I never noticed it. Good catch. So what do we do now?"

"You have that list I wanted? Of anybody might have a grudge against you?" He handed over a sheet of paper. "Anything else I should do?"

Looking at the list, Lampert said, "One thing. You might want to think about a bodyguard."

Stan Eberhart looked a bit like Lampert – solid, sculpted hair, humorless, focused as a terrier – only with a tan. The big man stood in the doorway of York 's home. The businessman ushered him in.

"Morning, sir," He spoke with a faint drawl and was the epitome of calm. Eberhart was the head of security for York 's company – York -McMillan-Winston Investments. After his meeting with the cops and Trotter, York had called the man into his office and told him the situation. Eberhart agreed to "put together a comprehensive SP that'll take in all contingencies for the situation." Sounding just like the Scottsdale cops (not too surprising; Eberhart had been a detective in Phoenix).

An SP, it turned out, was a security plan, and York figured it would be a good one.

Eberhart was a heavy-hitter in corporate security. In addition to working homicide in Phoenix he'd been a federal drug agent and a private eye. He was a black- or red- or some other kick-ass-belt karate expert and flew helicopters and owned a hundred guns. Security people, York learned, did all that Outdoor Life Network crap. Tough guys. York didn't get it. If making money, golf, martinis and women weren't involved, what was the point?

Alone now in the house – Carole was at her tennis lesson – the men waked into the large sunroom, which the security man studied with a face that suggested he wasn't happy.

Why? Did he think it was too exposed because of the glass? He's worried about goddamn snipers? York laughed to himself.

Eberhart suggested they go into the kitchen, away from the glass windows.

York shrugged and played along. They sat at the kitchen island. The man unbuttoned his jacket – he always wore a suit and tie, whatever the temperature. "First off, let me tell you what I've found out about Trotter. He was born in New Hampshire, majored in engineering in Boston.

He got married and went into the army. After he was discharged he came back here. Whatever happened after that – the stuff in the VA file – he seemed to turn his life around. Started the landscaping company. Then his wife died."

"Died? Maybe that's the thing – he blames me for it. What happened?"

Eberhart was shaking his head. "She had cancer. And you, your company and your clients don’t have any connection with the doctors that treated her or the hospital."

"You checked that?"

"An SP is only as good as the intelligence behind it," the man recited. "Now about his family: He's got three kids. Philip, Celeste and Cindy, ages fourteen, seventeen and eighteen. All in local public schools. Good kids, no trouble with the law." He showed candid pictures that looked like they were from school yearbooks: a skinny, good-looking boy and two daughters: one round and pretty, the other lean and athletic.

"You ever hit on the girls?"

"God no." York was offended. He had some standards.

Eberhart didn't ask if his boss had ever made a move on the son. If he had, York would've fired him on the spot.

"Trotter was single for a while then last year he remarried, Nancy Stockard – real estate broker, thirty-nine. She got divorced about five years ago, has a ten-year-old son." Another picture emerged. "You recognize her?"

York looked at the picture. Now, she was somebody he could definitely go for. Pretty in a girl-next-door way. Great for a one-night stand. Or two.

But, he reflected, no such luck. He would've remembered.

Eberhart continued, "Now, Trotter seems like a good guy, loves his kids, drives 'em to soccer and swimming and their after-school jobs. Model parent, model husband, and good businessman. Made a ton of money last year. Pays his taxes, even goes to church sometimes. Now, let me show you what we've come up with for the SP."

The plan provided for two teams of security specialists, one to conduct surveillance on Trotter and the other to serve as bodyguards. It would be expensive; rent-a-cops don't come cheap.

"But frankly I don't think this'll go on for too long, sir," Eberhart said. He explained that all seven people he had in mind for the security detail were former cops and knew how to run crime scenes and interview witnesses. "With all of us on it, we'll build a solid case, enough to put him away for a long time. We'll have more people and resources on this than Scottsdale Homicide."

And, Christ, the fee'll probably be the same as their annual budget.

York gave the man his and Carole's general daily routine, the stores they shopped at, restaurants and bars they went to regularly. He added that he wanted the guards to keep their distance; he still hadn't shared the story with Carole.

"She doesn't know?"

"Nope. Probably wouldn't take it too well. You know women."

Eberhart didn't seem to know what his boss meant exactly. But he said, "We'll do the best we can, sir."

York saw the security man to the door, thanked him. The man pointed out the first team, in a tan Ford, parked two doors down. York hadn't even noticed them when he'd answered the door. Which meant they knew what they were doing.

As the security specialist drove off, York 's eyes again looked into the back yard, at the desert horizon. Recalling that he'd laughed about snipers earlier.

Now, the thought wasn't funny. York returned inside and pulled closed the drapes on every window that opened onto the beautiful desert vista.

As the days went by there were no further incidents and York began to relax. The guard details watching York and Carole remained largely invisible, and his wife had no clue that she was being guarded when she went on her vital daily missions – to the nail salon, the hairdresser, the club and the mall.

The surveillance team kept a close watch on Trotter, who seemed oblivious to the tail. He went about his life. A few times the man fell off the surveillance radar but only for short periods and it didn't seem that he'd been trying to lose the security people. When he disappeared the teams on York and Carole stepped up protection and there were no incidents.

Meanwhile, Lampert and Alvarado continued to look into the list of people with grudges from York 's past. Some seemed likely, some improbable, but in any event none of the leads panned out.

York decided to get away for a long weekend in Santa Fe for golf and shopping. York chose to leave the bodyguards behind, because they'd be too hard to hide from Carole. Eberhart thought this was okay; they'd keep a close eye on Trotter and if he left Scottsdale a team would fly to Santa Fe to cover York immediately.

The couple hit the road early. The security man told York to take a complicated route out of town, then pause at a particular vista east of the city, where he could make certain they weren't being followed, which he did. No one was following.

Once away from the city York pointed the car into the dawn sun and eased back in the Mercedes's leather seat, as the slipstream poured into the convertible and tousled their hair.

"Put on some music, doll," he called to Carole.

"Sure thing. What?"

"Something loud," he shouted.

A moment later Led Zeppelin chugged from the speakers. York punched off the cruise control and pushed the accelerator to the floor.

Sitting in his white surveillance van, near Ray Trotter's pink adobe house, Stan Eberhart heard his phone chirp. "Yeah?"

Julio, one of the rent-a-cops, said, "Stan, got a problem."

"Go on."

"Has he left yet?"

" York? Yeah, an hour ago."

"Hmm."

"What's the matter?"

"I'm at a NAPA dealer near the landscaping company."

Eberhart had sent people to stores near Trotter's house and business. Armed with pictures, they were querying clerks about purchases the man might've made recently. The security people were no longer in the law enforcement profession, of course, but Eberhart had learned that twenty-dollar bills open as many doors as police shields do. Probably more.

"And?"

"Two days ago this guy who looked like Trotter ordered a copy of a technical manual for Mercedes sports cars. It came in yesterday and he picked it up. The same time, he bought a set of metric wrenches and battery acid. Stan, the book was about brakes. And that was just around the time we lost Trotter for a couple of hours. "

"He could've gotten to York 's Mercedes, you think?"

"Not likely but possible. I think we have to assume he did."

"I'll get back to you." Eberhart hung up and immediately called York.

A distracted voice answered. "Hi."

"Mr. York, it's -"

"I'm not available at the moment. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible."

Eberhart hit disconnect and tried again. Each of the five times he called, the only response was the preoccupied voice on the voicemail.

York was nudging the Mercedes up to a hundred.

"Doesn't this rock?" he called, laughing. "Whoa!"

"Like, what?" Carole shouted back. The roar of the slipstream and Robert Plant's soaring voice had drowned out his voice.

"It's great!"

But she didn't answer. She was frowning, looking ahead. "There's, like, a turn up there." She added something else he couldn't hear.

"What?"

"Uhm, maybe you better slow down."

"This baby curves on a dime. I'm fine."

"Honey, please! Slow down!"

"I know how to drive."

They were on a straight-away, which was about to drop down a steep hill. At the bottom the road curved sharply and fed onto a bridge above a deep arroyo.

"Slow down! Honey, please! Look at the turn!"

Christ, sometimes it just wasn't worth the battle. "Okay." He lifted his foot off the gas.

And then it happened.

He had no clue exactly what was going on. A huge swirl of sand, spinning around and around, as if the car were caught in the middle of a tornado. They lost sight of the sky. Carole, screaming, grabbed the dash. York, gripping the wheel with cramping hands, tried desperately to find the road. All he could see was sand, whipping into his face, stinging.

"We're going to die, we're going to die!" Carole was wailing.

Then from somewhere above them, a tinny voice crackled, " York, stop your car immediately. Stop your car!"

He looked up to see the police helicopter thirty feet over his head, its rotors' downdraft the source of the sandstorm.

"Who's that?" Carole screamed. "Who's that?"

The voice continued, "Your brakes are going to fail! Don't start down that hill!"

"Son of a bitch," he cried. "He tampered with the brakes."

"Who, Stephen? What's going on?"

The helicopter sped forward toward the bridge and landed – presumably so the rescue workers could try to save them if the car crashed or plummeted over the cliff.

Save them, or collect the bodies.

He was doing ninety as they started over the crest of the hill. The nose of the Mercedes dropped and they began to accelerate.

He pressed the brake pedal. The calipers seemed to grip.

But if he got any farther and the brakes failed he'd have nowhere to go but into rock or over the cliff; there was no way they could make the turn doing more than thirty-five. At least here there was sand just past the shoulder.

Stephen York gripped the wheel firmly and took a deep breath.

"Hold on!"

"Whatta you mean -?" He swerved off the road.

Suitcases and soda and beer flew from the back seat, Carole screamed and York fought with all his strength to keep the car on course, but it was useless. The tires skewed, out of control, through the sand. He just missed a large boulder and plowed into the desert.

Rocks and gravel spattered the body, spidering the windshield and peppering the fender and hood like gunshots. Tumbleweeds and sagebrush pelted their faces. The car bounced and shook and pitched. Twice it nearly flipped over.

They were slowing but they were still speeding at forty miles an hour straight for a large boulder. Now, though, the sand was so deep that he couldn't steer at all.

"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus…” Carole was sobbing, lowering her head to her hands.

York jammed his foot onto the brake pedal with his left foot, shoved the shifter into reverse and then floored the accelerator with his right. The engine screamed, sand cascaded into the air above them.

The car came to a stop five feet from the face of the rock.

York sat forward, head against the wheel, his heart pounding, drenched in sweat. He was furious. Why hadn't they called him? What was with the Blackhawk Down routine?

Then he noticed his phone. The screen read, 7 missed calls 5 messages marked urgent.

He hadn't heard the ring. The wind and the engine… and the goddamn music.

Sobbing and pawing at the sand that covered her white pant suit, Carole snapped at him,

"What is going on? I want to know. Now."

And, as Eberhart and Lampert walked toward them from the chopper, he told her the whole story.

No weekend vacation, Carole announced.

"You, like, might've mentioned it up front."

Showing some backbone for a change.

"I didn't want to worry you."

"You mean you didn't want me to ask what you did to somebody to make them want to get even with you."

"I -"

"Take me home. Now."

They'd returned to Scottsdale in silence, driving in a rental car; the Mercedes had been towed away by the police to look for evidence of tampering and repairs. An hour after walking through their front door Carole left again, suitcase in hand, headed to Los Angeles early for the family visit.

York was secretly relieved she was going. He couldn't deal both with Trotter and his wife's crazy moods. He returned inside, checked the lock on every door and window and spent the night with a bottle of Johnny Walker and HBO.

Two days later, around five p.m., York was working out in the gym he'd set up in a bedroom – he was avoiding the health club and its deadly sauna. He heard the doorbell. Picking up the pistol he now kept in the entryway, he peered out. It was Eberhart. Three locks and a deadbolt later, he gestured the security man in.

"Got something you should know about. I had two teams on Trotter yesterday. He went to a multiplex for a matinee at noon."

"So?"

"There's a rule: anybody under surveillance goes to a movie by himself… that's suspicious. So the teams compared notes. Seems that fifteen minutes after he goes in, this guy in overalls comes out with a couple of trash bags. Then about an hour later, little over, a delivery man in a uniform shows up at the theater, carrying a big box. But my man talked to the manager. The workers there don't usually take the first trash out to the Dumpster until five or six at night. And there weren't any deliveries scheduled that day."

York grimaced. "So, he dodged you for an hour. He could get anywhere in that time."

"He didn't take his car. We had it covered. And we checked cab companies. Nobody called for one in that area."

"So he walked someplace?"

"Yep. And we're pretty sure where. Southern States Chemical is ten minutes by foot from the multiplex. And you know what's interesting?" He looked at his notes. "They make acrylonitrile, methyl methacrylate and adiponitrile."

"What the hell're those?"

"Industrial chemicals. By themselves they're not any big deal. But what is important is that they're used to make hydrogen cyanide."

"Jesus. Like the poison?"

"Like the poison. And one of my guys looked over Southern States. There's no security. Cans of the chemicals were sitting right out in the open by the loading dock. Trotter could've walked up, taken enough to make a batch of poison that'd kill a dozen people and nobody would've seen him. And guess who did the company's landscaping?"

"Trotter."

"So he'd know about the chemicals and where they were kept."

"Could anybody make it? The cyanide?"

"Apparently it's not that hard. And with Trotter in the landscaping business, you'd have to figure he knows chemicals and fertilizers. And remember: he was in the army too, first Gulf War. A lot of those boys got experience with chemical weapons."

The businessman slammed his hand down on the counter. "Goddamnit. So he's got this poison and I'll never know if he's slipped it into what I'm eating. Jesus."

"Well, that's not exactly true," Eberhart said reasonably. "Your house is secure. If you buy packaged food and keep an eye on things at restaurants you can control the risk."

Control the risk…

Disgusted, York returned to the hallway, snagged the FedEx envelope containing a delivery of his cigars, which had arrived that morning and ripped it open. He stalked into the kitchen, unwrapping the cigars. "I can't even go outside to buy my own smokes. I'm a prisoner. That's what I am." York rummaged in a drawer for a cigar cutter, found one and nipped the end off the Macanudo. He chomped down angrily on the cigar, clicked the flame of a lighter and lifted it to his mouth.

Just at that moment a voice yelled, "No!"

Startled, York reached for his gun. But before he could reach it, he was tackled from behind and tumbled hard to the floor, the breath knocked from his lungs.

Gasping, in agony, he scrabbled back in panic. He stared around him – and saw no threat. He then shouted at the security man, "What're you doing?"

Breathing heavily, Eberhart rose and pulled his boss to his feet. "Sorry… I had to stop you… The cigar."

"The -"

"Cigar. Don't touch it."

The security man grabbed several Baggies. In one he put the cigars. In the other the FedEx envelope. "When I was asking you about stores you go to – for the security plan – you told me you get your cigars in Phoenix, right?"

"Right. So what?"

Eberhart held up the FedEx label. "These were sent from a Postal Plus store in the Sonora Hills strip mall."

York thought. "That's near -"

"Three minutes from Trotter's company. He could've called the store and found out when you ordered some. Then bought some himself and doctored 'em. I'll get a field test kit and see."

"Don't I need… I mean, don't I need to eat cyanide for it to kill me?"

"Uh-uh." The security expert sniffed the bag carefully. "Cyanide smells like almonds." He shook his head. "Can't tell. Maybe the tobacco's covering up the scent."

"Almonds," York whispered. "Almonds…” He smelled his fingers and began washing his hands frantically.

There was a long silence.

Rubbing his skin with paper towels, York glanced at Eberhart, who was lost in thought.

"What?" the businessman snapped.

"I think it's time for a change of plans."

The next day Stephen York parked his leased Mercedes in the hot, dusty lot of the Scottsdale Police Department. He looked around uneasily for Trotter's car – a dark-blue Lexus sedan, they'd learned. He didn't see it.

York climbed out, carrying plastic bags containing the FedEx envelope, cigars and food from his kitchen. He carried them into the PD's building, chill from an overeager air conditioner.

In a ground floor conference room he found four men: the buddy team of Lampert and Alvarado, as well as Stan Eberhart and a man who was dressed in exactly the same clothes that York wore and who was his same build. The man introduced himself as Peter Billings, an undercover cop.

"Long as I’m playing the part of you for a little while, Mr. York, was wonderin', s'okay to use your pool and hot tub?"

"My -"

"Joking there," Billings said.

"Ah," York muttered humorlessly and turned to Lampert. "Here they are."

The detective took the bags and tossed them absently on an empty chair. None of the cigars or food contained poison, according to a test Eberhart conducted at York 's. But bringing them here – presumably under the eye of vengeful Mr. Trotter – was an important part of their plan. They needed to make Trotter believe for the next hour or so that they were convinced he was going to poison York.

After the tests turned out negative Eberhart had concluded that Trotter was faking the whole cyanide thing; he only wanted the police to think he intended to poison York. Why? A diversion, of course. If the police were confident they knew the intended method of attack, they'd prepare for that and not the real one.

But what was the real one? How was Trotter actually going to come at York?

Eberhart had taken an extreme step to find out: breaking into Trotter's house. While the landscaper, his wife and their children were out Eberhart had disabled the alarm and surveillance cameras then examined the man's office carefully. Hidden in the desk were books on sabotage and surveillance. Two pages were marked with Post-its, marking chapters on turning propane tanks into bombs and on making remote detonators. He found another clue, as well: a note that read "Rodriguez Garden Supplies."

Which was where Stephen York went every Saturday afternoon to exchange his barbecue grill's propane tanks. Eberhart believed that Trotter's plan was to keep the police focused on a poison attack, when he was in fact going to arrange an "accidental" explosion after York picked up his new propane tank. The security man, though, couldn't go to the police with this information – he'd be admitting he'd committed trespass – so he told Bill Lampert only that he'd heard from some sources that Trotter was asking about propane tanks and where York shopped. There was no evidence for a search warrant but the detective reluctantly agreed to Eberhart's plan to catch Trotter in the act.

First, they'd make it seem that they believed the cyanide threat. Since Trotter probably knew York went to the propane store every Saturday around lunchtime, the businessman would take the cigars and food to the police, apparently for testing, which would occupy them for several hours. Trotter would be following. York would then leave and run some errands, among them picking up a new propane canister. Only it wouldn't be Stephen York in the car, but Detective Peter Billings, the look-alike. Billings would collect a new propane tank from Rodriguez's – though it would be empty, for safety's sake – and then stash it in his car. He'd then return to the store to browse and Lampert and his teams would wait for Trotter to make his move.

"So where's our boy?" Lampert asked his partner.

Alvarado explained that Trotter had left his house about the same time as York and headed in the same direction. They'd lost him in traffic for a time but then picked him up at a Whole Foods grocery store lot within walking distance of Rodriguez's. One officer saw him inside.

Lampert called the other players in the set-up. "It's going down," he announced.

Doing his impersonation of York, Billings walked outside, got into the car and headed into traffic. Eberhart and York climbed into one of the chase cars and eased after him, though well behind so they wouldn't get spotted by Trotter if he was, in fact, trailing Billings.

Twenty minutes later the undercover cop pulled up in front of Rodriguez's Garden Supplies, and Eberhart, York beside him, parked in a mini-mall lot a block away. Lampert and the teams moved into position nearby. "Okay," Billings radioed through his hidden mike, "I'm getting the tank, going inside."

York and Eberhart leaned forward to watch what was happening. York could just make out his Mercedes up the street.

Lampert called over the radio, "Any sign of Trotter?"

"Hasn't come out of Whole Foods yet," sounded through the speaker of the walkie talkie dashboard.

Billings came on a moment later. "All units. I've loaded the fake tank in the car. The backseat. I'm going back inside."

Fifteen minutes later York heard a cop's voice urgently saying, “Have something… Guy in a hat and sunglasses, could be Trotter approaching the Mercedes from the east. He's got a shopping bag in one hand and something in the other. Looks like a small computer. Might be a detonator. Or the device itself."

The security specialist nodded at Stephen York, sitting beside him, and said, "Here we go."

"Got him on visual," another cop said.

The surveillance officer continued. "He's looking around… hold on… okay, the suspect just walked by York 's car. Couldn't see for sure, but he paused. Think he might've dropped something underneath it. Now he's crossing the street… he's going into Miguel's."

Lampert radioed, “That'll be where he'll detonate the device from… all right, people, let's seal off the street and get an undercover inside Miguel's to monitor him." Eberhart lifted an eyebrow to York and smiled. "This is it."

"Hope so," was the uneasy response.

Now officers were moving in slowly, sticking close to the buildings on either side of Miguel's Bar and Grill, where Trotter'd be waiting for "York" to return to the car, detonate the device and burn him to death.

A new voice came on the radio. "I'm inside Miguel's," came a whisper from the second undercover cop. "I see the subject by the window on a stool, looking out. No weapons in sight. He's opened up what he was carrying before – a small computer or something, antenna on it. He just typed something. Assume that the device is armed."

Lampert radioed, "Roger. We're in position, three behind Miguel's, two in front. The street's been barricaded and Rodriguez's is clear; we got everybody out the back door. We're ready for the takedown."

In Eberhart's car, the security man kept up an irritating drumming with his fingertips on the steering wheel.

York tried to tune it out, wondering, Would Trotter resist? Maybe he'd panic and -

He jumped as Eberhart's hand gripped his arm hard. The security man was looking in the rear-view mirror. He was frowning. "What's that?"

York turned. On the trunk was a small shopping bag. While they'd been staring at York 's Mercedes, somebody had put it there.

"This is Eberhart. All units, standby." Lampert asked, "What's up, Stan?"

Eberhart said breathlessly, "He made us! He didn't plant anything at the Mercedes. Or if he did there's another device on our car. It's in a Whole Foods bag, a little one. We're getting out!"

"Negative, negative," another voice called over the radio. "This is Grimes with the bomb unit. It could have a pressure or rocker switch. Any movement could set it off. Stay put, we'll get an officer there."

Eberhart muttered, "It's a double feint. He leads us off with the poison and then a fake bomb at the Mercedes. He's been watching us all along and he's planning to get us here… Jesus."

Lampert called, "All units, we're going into Miguel's. Don't let him hit the detonator."

Eberhart covered his face with his jacket.

Stephen York had his doubts that that would provide much protection from an exploding gas tank. But he did exactly the same.

"Ready?" Lampert whispered to Alvarado and the others on the take down team, huddled at the back door of Miguel's. Nods all around.

"Let's do it."

They crashed through the door fast, pistols and machine guns up, while other officers charged through the front. As soon as he stepped into the bar, Lampert sighted on Trotter's head, ready to nail him if he made any move toward the detonator.

But the suspect merely turned, alarmed and frowning in curiosity like the other patrons, at the sound of the officers.

"Hands up! You, Trotter, freeze, freeze!"

The landscaper stumbled back off the stool, eyes wide in shock. He lifted his hands.

An officer from the bomb squad stepped between Trotter and the detonator and looked it over carefully, as the tac cops threw the man to the floor and cuffed him.

"I didn't do anything! What this all about?"

The detective called into his microphone, "We've got him. Bomb Units One and Two, proceed with the render safe operation."

In the car, complete silence. Eberhart and York struggled to remain motionless but York felt as if his pounding heart was going to jiggle the bomb enough so that it would detonate.

They'd learned that Trotter was in custody and couldn't push the detonator button. But that didn't mean that the device wasn't set with a hair trigger. Eberhart had spent the last five minutes lecturing York on how sensitive some bomb detonators could be – until York had told him to shut the hell up.

Wrapped in his jacket, the businessman peeked out and, in the side-view mirror, watched the policeman in a green bomb suit approach the car slowly. Through the radio's tinny speaker they heard, "Eberhart, York, stay completely still."

"Sure," Eberhart said in a throaty whisper, his lips barely moving.

York could see the policeman step closer and peer into the shopping bag. He took out a flashlight and pointed it downward, examining the contents. With a wooden probe, like a chopstick, he carefully searched the bag.

Through the speaker they heard what sounded like a gasp. York cringed.

But it wasn't.

The sound was a laugh. Followed by: "Trash."

"It's what?"

The officer pulled his hood off and walked to the front of the car. With a shaking hand, York rolled the window down.

"Trash," the man repeated. "Somebody's lunch. They had sushi, Pringles and a Yoo-hoo. That chocolate stuff. Not a meal I myself would've picked."

"Trash?" Lampert's voice snapped through the speaker.

"That is affirmative."

The first bomb unit called in; a search of the area beneath York 's Mercedes revealed nothing but a crumpled soda cup, which Trotter might or might not've thrown there.

York wiped his face and climbed out of the car, leaned against it to steady himself.

"Goddamn it, he's been yanking our chain. Let's go talk to that son of a bitch."

Lampert looked up to see Eberhart and York angrily walking into Miguel's. The patrons had resumed eating and drinking and were clearly enjoying this real-life Law and Order show.

He turned back to the uniformed officer who'd just searched Trotter. "Wallet, keys, money. Nothing else."

Another detective from the bomb squad had carefully examined the "detonator" and reported that they'd been wrong; it was only a small laptop computer. As York was mulling this over, a plain-clothed cop appeared at the door and said, "We searched Trotter's car. No explosives."

"Explosives?" Trotter asked, frowning deeply.

"Don't get cute," Lampert snapped.

"But there was an empty propane tank," the cop added. "From Rodriguez's."

Trotter added, "I needed a refill. That's where I always go. I was going there after lunch." He nodded at the bar menu. "You ever try the tamales here? The best in town."

York muttered, "You played us like a fish, goddamnit. Making us think your trash was a bomb."

Another cold smile crossed the landscaper's face. "Why exactly did you think I'd have a bomb?"

Silence for a moment. Then Lampert turned toward Eberhart, who avoided everyone's eyes.

Trotter's nodded at the computer. "Hit the play button."

"What?" Lampert asked.

"The play button."

Lampert paused as he looked over the computer.

"It's not a bomb. And even if it was, would I blow myself up too?" The detective hit the button.

"Oh, Christ," muttered Eberhart as a video came on the small screen.

It showed the security man prowling through an office.

"Stan? Is that you?" Lampert asked.

"I -"

"Yep, it's him." Trotter said. "He's in my office at home."

"You told us one of your sources said Trotter was asking about where York shopped and about propane tanks."

The security man said nothing.

Trotter offered, "I was going to stop by the police station after lunch and drop off the CD. But since you're here… it's all yours."

The officers watched Eberhart ransacking Trotter's desk.

"So what'd that be?" the landscaper asked. "Breaking and entering, trespass too. And – if you were going to ask – yeah, I want to press charges. What do you guys say? To the fullest extent of the law."

"But I…” the security man stammered.

"You what?" Trotter filled in. "You shut the power off? And the backup too? But I've been a little paranoid lately, thanks to Mr. York. So I have two battery backups."

"You broke into his house?" Stephen York asked Eberhart, looking shocked. "You never told me that."

"You goddamn Judas!" Eberhart exploded. "You knew exactly what I was doing. You agreed to it! You wanted me to!"

"I swear," York said, "this is the first I've heard about it."

Lampert shook his head. "Stan, why'd you do it? I could've overlooked some things, but a B and E? Stupid."

"I know, I know," he said, looking down. "But we were so desperate to get this guy. He's dangerous. He's got books on sabotage and surveillance… please, Bill, can you cut me some slack?"

"Sorry, Stan." A nod to a uniformed officer, who cuffed him. "Take him to booking."

Trotter called after him, "If you're interested, those books about bombs and things? I got them for research. I'm trying my hand at a murder mystery. Everybody seems to be doing it nowadays. I've got a couple of chapters on that computer. Why don't you check it out, if you don't believe me."

"You're lying!" Then York turned to Lampert. "You know why he did this, don't you? It's all part of his plan."

"Mr. York, just -"

"No, no, think about it. He sets up a sting to get rid of my security man and leave me unprotected. And then he does all this, with the fake bomb, to find out about your procedures – the bomb squad, how many officers you have, who your undercover cops are."

"Did you leave a Whole Foods bag on the trunk of Mr. Eberhart's car?" Alvarado asked. Trotter replied, "No. If you think I did why don't you check for fingerprints."

York pointed at Trotter's pocket. "Gloves, look! There won't be any prints. Why's he wearing gloves in this heat?"

"I'm a landscaper. I usually wear gloves when I work. Most of us do… have to say, I'm getting pretty tired of this whole thing. Because of what some day-laborer said, you got it into your head that I'm a killer or something. Well, I'm sick of my house being broken into, sick of being watched all the time. I think it's time to call my lawyer. "

York stepped forward angrily. "You're lying! Tell me why you're doing this! Tell me, goddamn it! I've looked at everything I've ever done bad in my whole life. I mean everything. The homeless guy I told to get a job when he asked me for a quarter, the clerk I called a stupid pig 'cause she gave me the wrong order, the valet I didn't tip because he couldn't speak English… every little goddamn thing! I've been going over my life with a microscope. I don't know what I did to you. Tell me! Tell me!" His face was red and his veins jutted out. His fists were clenched at his sides.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Trotter lifted his hands, the cuffs jingling.

The detective made a decision. "Take 'em off." A patrol officer unhooked the bracelets. Sweating, York said to Lampert, "No! This's all part of his plot!"

"I'm inclined to believe him. I think Diaz was making the whole thing up."

"But the sauna -" York began.

"Think about it, though. Nothing happened. And there was nothing wrong with the brakes on your Mercedes. We just got the report."

York snapped, "But the repair guide. He bought one!"

"Brakes?" Trotter asked.

York said, "You bought a book on Mercedes brakes. Don't deny it."

"Why would I deny it? Call DMV. I bought an old Mercedes sedan a week ago. It needs new brakes and I'm going to do the work myself. Sorry, York, but I think you need professional help."

"No, he just bought the car as a cover," York raged. "Look at him! Look at his eyes! He's just waiting for a chance to kill me."

"Bought a car as cover?" Alvarado asked, eying his boss.

Lampert sighed. "Mr. York, if you're so sure you're in danger, then I'd suggest you hire another babysitter. I frankly don't have time for any more of these games." He turned to the team.

"Come on, people, let's pack up. We've got some real cases to get back to."

The detective noticed the bartender hovering nearby, holding Trotter's tamales. He nodded and the man walked forward and served the landscaper, who sat back down, unfolded a napkin and smoothed it on his lap.

"Good, huh?" he asked Trotter.

"The best."

Lampert nodded. "Sorry about this."

Trotter shrugged. Suddenly his mood seemed to change. Smiling, he turned to York, who was heading out the front door, and called, "Hey."

The businessman stopped and stared back.

"Good luck to you," Trotter said. And started on his lunch.

At ten that night Ray Trotter made the rounds of his house, saying goodnight to his children and stepson, as he always did. ("A serial goodnighter" was how his younger daughter laughingly described him.)

Then he showered and climbed into bed, waiting for Nancy, who was finishing the dishes. A moment later the lights in the kitchen went out and she passed the doorway. His wife smiled at him and continued into the bathroom.

A moment later he heard the shower. He enjoyed the hiss of falling water. A desert-dweller now, yes, but Ray still had a fondness for the sounds of the damp Northeast.

Lying back against a half-dozen thick pillows, he reflected on the day's events, particularly the incident at Miguel's.

Stephen York, face red, eyes frightened. He was out of control. He was as crazed as a lunatic.

Of course, he also happened to be one hundred percent right. Ray Trotter had in fact done everything that York accused him of – from approaching Diaz about the alarms to planting the trash on the trunk of Eberhart's car.

Sure, he'd done it all.

But he'd never had any intention of hurting one hair on York 's coiffed, Rogained head.

He'd asked Diaz about York 's security system but the next day had anonymously turned the worker in for drugs (Ray had seen him selling pot to other employees at the landscaping company), in the hopes that he'd spill the information about Ray to the cops. He'd bought the books on sabotage, as well as the one about Mercedes brakes, but would never think about making a bomb or tampering with the businessman's car. The shims at the sauna room he was never going to use. And the chemicals from Southern States he'd never planned to use to make cyanide. He'd sent an order of cigars – nice ones, by the way, and completely poison free. Even the psychologist's reports in the Veterans Administration file were Ray's creation. He'd gone to the VA's office, requested his own file and, pretending to review it, had slipped in several sheets of notes, apparently taken by a counselor during therapy sessions from years ago, documenting his "troubled years" after the service. The report was all a fiction.

Oh, yes, his heart ached for revenge against Stephen A. York. But the payback wasn't exacting physical revenge; it was simply in making the man believe that Trotter was going to kill him – and guaranteeing that York spent a long, long time wallowing in paranoia and misery, waiting for the other shoe to drop: for York's car to explode, his gas line to start leaking, a gunshot to shatter his bedroom window.

Was that just a stomach cramp – or the first symptom of arsenic poisoning? And the offense that had turned Ray into an angel of vengeance?

I don't know what I did to you. Tell me, tell me, tell me…

To Ray's astonishment and amusement, York himself had actually mentioned the very transgression that afternoon at Miguel's, Ray thought back to it now, an autumn day two years ago. His daughter Celeste had returned home from her after-school job, a troubled look on her face.

"What's the matter?" he'd asked.

The sixteen-year-old hadn't answered but had walked immediately to her room, closed the door. These were the days not long after her mother had passed away; occasional moodiness wasn't unusual. But he'd persisted in drawing her out and that night he'd learned the reason she was upset: an incident during her shift at McDonalds.

Celeste confessed that she'd accidentally mixed up two orders and given a man a chicken sandwich when he'd asked for a Big Mac. He'd left, not realizing the mistake, then returned five minutes later, walked up to the counter. He looked over the heavy-set girl and snapped, "So you're not only a fat pig, you're stupid too. I want to see the manager. Now!"

Celeste had tried to be stoic about the incident but as she related it to her father a single tear ran down her cheek. Ray was heartbroken at the sight. The next day he'd learned the identity of the customer from the manager and filed away the name Stephen York.

A single tear…

For some people, perhaps, not even worth a second thought. But because it was his daughter's tear, Ray Trotter decided it was payback time.

He now heard the water stop running, then detected a fragrant smell of perfume wafting from the bathroom. Nancy came to bed, laying her head on his chest.

"You seem happy tonight," she said.

"Do I?"

"When I walked past before and saw you staring at the ceiling you looked… what's the word? Content."

He thought about the word. "That describes it." Ray shut the light out, and putting his arm around his wife, pulled her closer to him.

"I'm glad you're in my life," she whispered.

"Me too," he replied.

Stretching out, Ray considered his next steps. He'd probably give York a month or two of peace. Then, just when the businessman was feeling comfortable, he'd start up again.

What would he do? Maybe an empty medicine vial next to York 's car, along with a bit of harmless Botox on the door handle. That had some appeal to it. He'd have to check if a trace of the cosmetic gave a positive reading for botulism bacteria.

Now that he'd convinced the police that he was innocent and York was paranoid, the businessman could cry wolf as often as he liked and the cops would tune him out completely. The playing field was wide open…

Maybe he could enlist York 's wife. She'd be a willing ally, he believed. In his surveillance Ray had seen how badly the man treated her. He'd overheard York lose his temper at her once when she kept pressuring him to let her apply to a local college to finish her degree. He'd yelled as if she were a teenager. Carole was currently out of town – probably with that English professor she'd met at Arizona State when she was sneaking classes instead of taking tennis lessons. The man had transferred to UCLA but she was still seeing him; they'd meet in LA or Palm Springs. Ray had also followed her to a lawyer's office several times in Scottsdale and assumed she was getting ready to divorce York.

Maybe after it was final she'd be willing to give him some inside information that he could use.

Another idea occurred to him. He could send York an anonymous letter, possibly with a cryptic message on it. The words wouldn't be important. The point would be the smell; he'd sprinkle the paper with almond extract – which gave off the telltale aroma of cyanide. After all, nobody knew that he hadn't made a batch of poison.

Oh, the possibilities were endless…

He rolled onto his side, whispered to his wife that he loved her and in sixty seconds was sound asleep.