But would she actually hire a killer to get even with him?

No way, he decided: Vicky's reaction to the breakup was to play victim, not vengeful ex. Besides, York had done right by her. He'd paid alimony and child support promptly and, a few years later, hadn't contested the custody order that took away his rights to see their son.

York and his second wife were together only two years. She'd proved too brittle for him, too liberal, too NPR. That breakup was Holyfield-Tyson, pure combat. Susan, a high-powered commercial real estate lawyer, walked away with a lot of money, more than enough to salve her injured pride (York left her for a woman sixteen years younger and twenty pounds slimmer). She also took her career too seriously to risk it by doing anything illegal to him. She had remarried – a military consultant and former army colonel she'd met negotiating a contract with the government for her client – and York was sure he'd fallen off her radar screen.

Ex-girlfriends? The usual suspects… But, brother, where to start? Almost too many to count. He'd broken up badly with some of them, used some, lied. Of course, York himself had been used and lied to by women. On the whole it evened out, he figured. That was how the game worked; nobody sane would hire a hitman to kill a lover just because he'd dumped you.

Who else could it be?

Most likely, he decided, it was somebody he'd had business dealings with.

But there were a lot of fish in that sea too. Dozens came to mind. When he'd been a salesman for a pharmaceutical company, he'd reported one of his fellow detail men for cheating on his expense account (York turned him in not out of company loyalty but to pillage the guy's territory). The man was fired and vowed to get even.

He'd also been involved in the acquisition of dozens of companies over the last ten years; hundreds of employees had been fired as a result. He recalled one of these in particular – a salesman who'd come to him in tears, after he'd been let go, begging for a second chance. York, though, stuck to his decision – mostly because he didn't like the man's whining. A week later the salesman killed himself; his note said he'd failed as a man because he could no longer take care of his wife and children. York could hardly be responsible for crazy behavior like that. But his survivors might not feel that way. Maybe Trotter was this man's brother or best friend, or been hired by them.

He recalled another incident: the time he'd had a private eye check out a rival venture capitalist and found he was gay. The client that they were both wooing was a homophobe. During dinner one night York subtly dropped the skinny on the rival, and the next day York 's outfit got the assignment. Had he found out and hired Trotter?

Any other sins?

Oh, you bet, York thought in disgust, reaching into the dim past.

A dish served cold…

Recalling an incident in college, a prank gone wrong – a frat hazing that resulting in a pledge getting drunk and stabbing a cop. The kid was expelled, then disappeared not longer after. York couldn't remember his name. It could've been Trotter.

A dozen other incidents flooded into his thoughts, two dozen, three – people ignored and insulted, lies told, associates cheated… His memory spit out not only the serious offenses, but the petty ones too: rudeness to clerks, gouging an elderly woman who'd sold him her car, laughing when a man's toupee flew off in a heavy wind…

Reliving them all. It was exhausting.

Another hit of scotch… then another.

And the next thing he knew the sun was streaming through the window. He squinted in pain from the hangover and groggily focused on his watch. Oh, damn, it was nine… Why hadn't Carole wakened him? She knew he had two deals this morning. Sometimes that woman just didn't have a goddamn clue.

York staggered into the kitchen, and Carole looked up from the phone. She smiled.

"Breakfast's ready."

"You let me sleep."

She told her friend she'd call back and hung up. "I figured you were tired. And you looked just too cute, all cuddled up."

Cute. Jesus Lord… York winced in pain. His neck was frozen from sleeping in an awkward position "I don't have time for breakfast," he grumbled.

"My mother always said breakfast is -"

"- the most important meal of the day. So you've told me. Like, a hundred times."

She went silent. Then rose and walked into the living room with her coffee and phone.

"Baby, I didn't mean…”

York sighed. Like walking on eggshells sometimes… He retreated to the bedroom. He was fishing for aspirin in the medicine cabinet when the phone rang.

"For you" was his wife's cool announcement.

It was Detective Bill Lampert. "Trotter's back in town. Let's go say hi. We'll pick you up in twenty minutes."

"Yes, can I help you?"

"Raymond Trotter?"

"That's right."

Standing in front of Trotter Landscaping and Nursery, a rambling complex of low buildings, greenhouses and potting sheds, Bill Lampert and Juan Alvarado looked over the middle-aged man. Lampert noted that he was in very good shape: slim, with broad shoulders. His brown hair, flecked with gray, was cut short. His square-jawed face shaved perfectly, blue jogging outfit immaculate. Confident eyes. The detective wondered if they revealed surprise as he glanced at their shields and maybe a bit more surprise at the sight of Stephen York, standing behind them. Trotter set down the large flowering plant 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."