Jeffery Deaver
A Dish Served Cold
A Dish Served Cold
"We have reason to believe there's a man who wants to cause you some harm, sir." Standing on the hot sidewalk in front of his office building, compact, muscular Stephen York rocked back and forth on his Bally shoes.
Cause you some harm.
The hell's that supposed to mean?
York set down his gym bag. The fifty-one-year-old investment banker looked from the Scottsdale Police Department senior detective who'd delivered this news to the man's younger partner. The cops were easy to tell apart. Older, blond Bill Lampert was pale as milk, as if he'd come to Scottsdale via Minnesota – a migration that happened pretty frequently, York had learned. The other cop, Juan Alvarado, undoubtedly had roots in the vicinity.
"Who?" York asked.
"His name's Raymond Trotter."
York thought about it, then shook his head. "Never heard of him." He peered at the picture the cop held out. From DMV, it seemed. "Doesn't look familiar. Who is he?"
"Lives here in town. Runs a landscaping company."
"Wait, I know the place. Out off the interstate?" York thought Carole had shopped there.
"Yeah, the big one." Lampert wiped his forehead.
"He's got a problem with me? What sort?" York pulled his Armani shades on. The three p.m. sun in Arizona was like a blowtorch.
"We don't know."
"Well, what do you know?"
Alvarado explained. "We arrested a day laborer for drugs. An illegal. Hector Diaz. He wanted to cut a deal on the charge and he told us he had some information about a possible crime. Seems he's worked for this Trotter off and on. A few days ago Trotter comes to him and offers him a thousand dollars to stop by your house and see if you needed yard work done. While he was there he was supposed to check out your alarm system."
"You're kidding."
"Nope."
What was all this about? Despite the temperature hovering at 105 degrees York felt a chill run through him. "Alarms? Why?"
"All Trotter told Diaz was he was interested in payback for something you did."
"Payback?" York shook his head in frustration. "Jesus, you come and tell me this crap, somebody's going to quote cause me some harm – and you don't have any idea what it's about?"
"No, sir. We were hoping you could tell us."
"Well, I can't."
"Okay, we'll check this Trotter out. But we'd recommend you keep an eye out for anything odd."
"Why don't you arrest him?"
"He hasn't committed a crime," Lampert said. "I'm afraid that without evidence of an overt act, there's nothing we can do."
Cause some harm.…
Evidence of an overt act…
Maybe if they stopped talking like sociology professors they'd do some real goddamn police work. York came close to telling them this but he guessed the disgusted look on his face was message enough.
Trying to put the encounter with the cops out of his thoughts, York drove to the gym. Man, he needed some muscle time. He'd just come through a grind of a negotiation with two men who owned a small manufacturing company he was trying to buy. The old guys'd been a lot wilier than he'd expected. They'd made some savvy demands that were going to cost York big money. He'd looked them over, real condescending, and stormed out of their lawyer's office. Let 'em stew for a day or two before. He'd probably concede but he wasn't going to let them think they'd bullied him.
He parked in the health club lot. Climbed out of the car and walked through the fierce sun to the front door.
"Hi, Mr. York. You're early today."
A nod to the daytime desk manager, Gavin.
"Yeah, snuck out when nobody was looking."
York changed clothes and headed for the aerobics room, empty at the moment. He flopped down on the mats to stretch. After ten minutes of limbering up, he headed off to the machines, pushing hard, doing his regular circuit of twenty reps on each before moving on, ending up with crunches; his job as one of the three partners in a major Scottsdale venture capital firm had him doing a lot of entertaining and spending serious time at his desk; his belly had been testing the waistband of his slacks lately.
He didn't like flabby. Neither did women, whatever they told you. A platinum Amex card lets you get away with a lot but when it's bedtime the dolls love solid abs. After the crunches he hopped on the treadmill for his run.
Mile one, mile two, three…
Trying to push the difficult business deal out of his head – goddamn it, what was with those decrepit farts? How could they be so sharp? They oughta be in an old folks' home.
Running, running…
Mile five…
And who was this Raymond Trotter?
Payback…
He scanned his memory again but could come up with no hits on the name.
He fell into the rhythm of his pounding feet. At seven miles he slowed to a walk, cooled off and shut the treadmill down. York pulled a towel over his neck and, ignoring a flirtatious glance from a woman who was pretty but a few years past being worth the risk, returned to the locker room. There he stripped and grabbed a clean towel then headed for the sauna.
York liked this part of the club because it was out of the way and very few members came here at this time of day. Now it was completely deserted. York wandered down the tile corridor. He heard a noise from around the corner. A click, then what sounded like footsteps, though he couldn't tell for sure. Was somebody here? He got to the junction and looked. No, the hallway was empty. But he paused. Something was different. What? He realized the place was unusually dark. He glanced up at the light fixtures. Several bulbs were missing. Four thousand bucks a year for membership and they couldn't replace the bulbs? Man, he'd give Gavin some crap for that. The murkiness, along with a faint, snaky hiss from the ventilation, made the place eerie.
He continued to the door of the redwood sauna, hanging his towel on a hook and turning the temperature selector to high. He'd just started inside when a sharp pain shot through into his foot.
"Hell!' he shouted and danced back, lifting his sole to see what had stabbed him. A wooden splinter was sticking out of the ball of his foot. He pulled it out and pressed his hand against the tiny, bleeding wound. He squinted at the floor where he'd stepped and noted several other splinters.
Oh, Gavin was going to get an earful today. But York 's anger faded as he glanced down and found what he supposed was the source of the splinters: two slim wooden shims, hand carved, it looked like, lying on the floor near the doorway. They were like door stops, except that the only door here – to the sauna – was at the top of a two-step stairway. The door couldn't be wedged open.
But the shims could be used to wedge the door closed if somebody pounded them into the jamb when the door was shut. They'd fit perfectly. But it'd be crazy to do that. Somebody trapped inside would have no way of turning down the temperature or calling for help; there were no controls inside the unit. And heat in a sauna could kill; York and his wife had just seen a local TV story about a Phoenix woman who'd died in her sauna after she'd fainted.
Holding the shims, staring down at them, a sudden click from nearby made him jump. York turned and saw a shadow against the wall, like that of a person pausing. Then it vanished.
"Hello?" York called.
Silence.
York walked into the hallway. He could see nobody. Then he glanced at the emergency exit door, which didn't seem to be closed all the way. He looked out. The alley was empty. Turning back, he noticed something on the edge of the door. Somebody had taped the latch down so he could get inside without being seen from anyone in the lobby.
Cause you some harm…
Five minutes later, showerless, York was hurrying out of the club, not bothering to give Gavin the lecture he deserved. The businessman was carrying the shims and bit of duct tape, wrapped in paper towels. He was careful. Like everybody who watched TV nowadays he knew all about the art of preserving fingerprints.