More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II

Trotter set down the large cactus 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, its wild spikes dangerous. “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 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 walked 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