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.

"They're in here."

Stephen York handed the paper towel to pale-skinned Detective Bill Lampert. "I didn't touch them – I used tissues."

"At your health club, you said?" asked the detective, looking over the shims and the tape.

"That's right." York couldn't resist adding the name of the exclusive place.

Lampert didn't seem impressed. He stepped to the doorway and handed the evidence to Alvarado. "Prints, toolmarks, stat." The young officer vanished.

Turning back to York. "But nobody actually tried to detain you in the sauna?"

Detain? York asked himself wryly. You mean: Lock me inside to roast me to death.

"No." He pulled out a cigar. "You mind?"

"There's no smoking in the building," Lampert replied.

"Maybe not technically, but…"

"There's no smoking in the building."

York put the stogie away. "The way I read it, Trotter found out my routine. He got into the club and taped the back door open so he could get in without anybody seeing him from the lobby."

"How'd he do that? He a member?"

"I don't know."

Lampert held up a finger. He called the club and had a brief conversation. "No record of him as a member or a guest in the last month."

"Then he had a fake ID or something to try a guest membership."

"Fake ID? That's a little… complicated, isn't it?"

"Well, somehow, the asshole got inside. He was going to seal me inside but I think I surprised him and he ditched the shims and took off."

Alvarado walked into his boss's office. "No prints. Toolmarks aren't distinctive but if we find a plane or chisel we might make a match."

York laughed. "No prints? That's proof of something right there, isn't it?"

Lampert ignored him. He lifted a sheet of paper from his desk and looked it over. "Well, we've looked into this Trotter fellow. Seems like any normal guy. No police record except for a few traffic tickets. But there is something. I talked to the Veterans' Administration in Phoenix. Turns out they have a file on him. He was in Kuwait, the first Gulf War. His unit got hit hard. Half his men were killed and he was badly wounded. After he got discharged he moved here, spent a year in counseling. The file has his shrink's notes in it. That's all privileged – doctor-patient – and we're not supposed to see it, but I've got a buddy in the VA and he gave me the gist. Apparently after Trotter got out of the service he ended up hanging with a bad crowd here and in Albuquerque. Did some strong-arm stuff. For hire. That was a while ago, and he was never arrested but still…"

"Christ… So maybe somebody hired him?"

"Who've you pissed off bad enough they'd go to this kind of trouble to get even?"

"I don't know. I'd have to think about it."

Alvarado said, "You know that expression, 'Revenge is a dish best served cold?'"

"Yeah, I think I heard of that."

"Might be somebody from your distant past. Think way back."

A dish served cold…

"Okay. But what're we going to do in the meantime?" York asked, wiping his sweating palms on his pants.

"Let's go have a talk with him. See what he has to say." The detective picked up the phone and placed a call.

"Mr. Trotter please… I see. Could you tell me when?… Thanks. No message." He hung up. "He just left for Tucson. He'll be back tomorrow morning."

"Aren't you going to stop him?"

"Why?"

"Maybe he's trying to escape, go to Mexico.”

Lampert shrugged and opened a file from another case. "Then I guess you're off the hook."

Pulling up to their five-million-dollar mini-mansion on the edge of the desert, York climbed out of his Mercedes, locked the doors and looked around to make sure he hadn't been followed. No sign of anyone. Still, when he walked inside he double-locked the door behind him.

"Hey, honey." Carole joined him in the entryway, wearing her workout Spandex. His third wife was frosted blonde and beautiful. ("You guys give good visuals," an associate once said.) They'd been together three years. A former secretary turned personal trainer, Carole had just the right mix of what York called being-on-the-ball and not-getting-it. Meaning she could carry on a conversation and not be embarrassing but she kept quiet when she knew she was supposed to – and didn't ask too many questions about where he'd been when he came home late or went on last-minute business trips.

She glanced at the door. "What's with that?" They never used the deadbolt.

He had to be careful. Carole needed things explained to her in simple terms and if she didn't understand what he told her, she'd freak. And her brand of hysteria could get ugly. He'd found that out about stupid people, how they lost it when confronted with something they didn't understand.

So he lied. "Somebody up the street got broken into yesterday."

"I didn't hear about it."

"Well, they did."

"Who?"

"I don't remember."

A faint giggle – a habit of hers he found either irritating or sexy, depending on his mood.

"You don't know who? That's weird." Today's was an irritating giggle.

"Somebody told me. I forgot. I got a lot on my mind."

"Can we go to the club for dinner?"

"I'm wasted, baby. I'll barbecue tonight. How's that?"

"Okay, sure."

He could tell she was disappointed but York knew how to bail out sinking ships; he mixed cocktails fast – doubles – and steered her to the pool, where he put on a Yanni CD. In twenty minutes the liquor and music had dulled her disappointment and she was babbling on about wanting to go visit her family in Los Angeles in a couple of weeks, would he mind baching it?

"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.

Payback…

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.