"Whatta you mean--?"
He swerved off the road.
Suitcases and soda and beer flew from the backseat, 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 Black Hawk 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 Johnnie 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, chilly 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 Pe
ter 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 said "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 setup. "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 rearview 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, stand by."
Lampert asked, "What's up, Stan?"
Eberhart said breathlessly, "He made us! He didn't plant anything under 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 takedown 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 offi
cer 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's 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."