“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.
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.
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 hit man 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
Any other sins?
Oh, you bet, York thought in disgust, reaching into the dim past.
Recalling an incident in college, a prank gone wrong — a frat hazing that resulted in a pledge getting drunk and stabbing a cop. The kid was expelled, then disappeared not long 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.
