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
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 officer 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
He turned back to the uniformed officer who’d just searched Trotter. “Wallet, keys, money. Nothing else.”
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?
“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
