More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II

“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 selling 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