A Dish Served Cold Read online

  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 a
gain. 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.