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, goddamn it. 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 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, eyeing 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 good night to his children and stepson, as he always did. ("A serial good nighter" 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 100 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 sell
ing 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 McDonald's.
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, and walked up to the counter. He looked over the heavyset 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.
COPYCAT
Detective Quentin Altman rocked back, his chair squealing with the telltale caw of aging government furniture, and eyed the narrow, jittery man sitting across from him. "Go on," the cop said.
"So I check out this book from the library. Just for the fun of it. I never do that, just read a book for the fun of it. I mean, never. I don't get much time off, you know."
Altman hadn't known this but he could certainly have deduced it. Wallace Gordon was the Greenville Tribune's sole crime reporter and must've spent sixty, seventy hours a week banging out copy, to judge by the number of stories appearing under his byline every day.
"And I'm reading along and--"
"What is it you're reading?"
"A novel--a murder mystery. I'll get to that . . . . I'm reading along and I'm irritated," the reporter continued, "because somebody'd circled some passages. In a library book."
Altman grunted distractedly. He was head of Homicide in a burgh with a small-town name but big-city crime statistics. The fifty-something detective was busy and he didn't have much time for reporters with crackpot theories. There were twenty-two folders of current cases on his desk and here Wallace was delivering some elliptical message about defaced books.
"I don't pay much attention at first but I go back and reread one of the circled paragraphs. It jogs my memory. Anyway, I checked the morgue--"
"Morgue?" Altman frowned, rubbing his wiry red hair, which showed not a strand of gray.
"Our morgue, not yours. In the newspaper office. All the old stories."
"Got it. How 'bout getting to the point?"
"I found the articles about the Kimberly Banning murder."
Quentin Altman grew more attentive. Twenty-eight-year-old Kimberly had been strangled to death eight months ago. The murder occurred two weeks after a similar killing--of a young female grad student. The two deaths appeared to be the work of the same person but there were few forensic leads and no motive that anyone could determine. The cases prompted a task force investigation but eventually the suspects were cleared and the case grew cold.
Tall and gaunt, with tendons and veins rising from his pale skin, reporter Wallace tried--usually unsuccessfully--to tone down his intimidating physique and face with brown tweed jackets, corduroy slacks and pastel shirts. He asked the cop, "You remember how the whole town was paranoid after the first girl was killed? And how everybody was double locking their doors and never letting strangers into their houses?"
Altman nodded.
"Well, look at this." The reporter pulled latex gloves out of his pocket and put them on.
"Why the gloves, Wallace?"
The man ignored the question and dug a book out of his battered briefcase. Altman got a look at the title. Two Deaths in a Small Town. He'd never heard of it.
&n
bsp; "This was published six months before the first killing." He opened the book to a yellow Post-it tab and pushed it forward. "Read those paragraphs." The detective pulled on his CVS drugstore glasses and leaned forward.
The Hunter knew that now that he'd killed once, the town would be more alert than ever. Its soul would be edgier, its collective nerves would be as tense as an animal trap's blue-steel spring. Women would not stroll the streets alone and those who did would be looking around constantly, alert for any risk. Only a fool would let a stranger into her house and the Hunter did not enjoy killing fools.
So on Tuesday night he waited until bedtime--11:00 p.m.--and then slipped onto Maple Street. There, he doused a parked convertible's roof with gasoline and ignited the pungent, amber liquid. A huge whoosh . . . He hid in the bushes and, hypnotized by the tornado of flames and ebony smoke swirling into the night sky above the dying car, he waited. In ten minutes behemoths of fire trucks roared up the street, their wailing sirens drawing people from their homes to find out what the excitement might be.
Among those on the sidewalk was a young, demure blonde with a heart-shaped face, Clara Steading. This was the woman the Hunter knew he had to possess--possess completely. She was love incarnate, Amore herself, she was Beauty, she was Passion . . . . And she was also completely ignorant of her role as the object of his demented desire. Clara shivered in her bathrobe, standing on the sidewalk, along with a clutch of chattery neighbors, as they watched the firemen extinguish the blaze and offered words of sympathy to the dismayed owner of the car, who lived a few doors away.
Finally the onlookers grew bored, or repulsed by the bitter smell of the burnt rubber and plastic, and they returned to their beds or their late-night snacks or their mind-numbing TV. But their vigilance didn't flag; the moment they stepped inside, every one of them locked their doors and windows carefully--to make certain that the strangler would not wreak his carnage in their homes.
Though in Clara Steading's case, her diligence in securing the deadbolt and chains had a somewhat different effect: locking the Hunter inside with her.
"Jesus," Altman muttered. "That's just what happened in the Kimberly Banning case, how the perp got inside. He set fire to a car."
"A convertible," Wallace added. "And then I went back and found some passages that'd been marked. One of them was about how the killer had stalked his victim by pretending to work for the city and trimming the plants in a park across from her apartment."