York grimaced. "So, he dodged you for an hour. He could get anywhere in that time."

"He didn't take his car. We had it covered. And we checked cab companies. Nobody called for one in that area."

"So he walked someplace?"

"Yep. And we're pretty sure where. Southern States Chemical is ten minutes by foot from the multiplex. And you know what's interesting?" He looked at his notes. "They make acrylonitrile, methyl methacrylate and adiponitrile."

"What the hell're those?"

"Industrial chemicals. By themselves they're not any big deal. But what is important is that they're used to make hydrogen cyanide."

"Jesus. Like the poison?"

"Like the poison. And one of my guys looked over Southern States. There's no security. Cans of the chemicals were sitting right out in the open by the loading dock. Trotter could've walked up, taken enough to make a batch of poison that'd kill a dozen people and nobody would've seen him. And guess who did the company's landscaping?"

"Trotter."

"So he'd know about the chemicals and where they were kept."

"Could anybody make it? The cyanide?"

"Apparently it's not that hard. And with Trotter in the landscaping business, you'd have to figure he knows chemicals and fertilizers. And remember: he was in the army too, first Gulf War. A lot of those boys got experience with chemical weapons."

The businessman slammed his hand down on the counter. "Goddamnit. So he's got this poison and I'll never know if he's slipped it into what I'm eating. Jesus."

"Well, that's not exactly true," Eberhart said reasonably. "Your house is secure. If you buy packaged food and keep an eye on things at restaurants you can control the risk."

Control the risk…

Disgusted, York returned to the hallway, snagged the FedEx envelope containing a delivery of his cigars, which had arrived that morning and ripped it open. He stalked into the kitchen, unwrapping the cigars. "I can't even go outside to buy my own smokes. I'm a prisoner. That's what I am." York rummaged in a drawer for a cigar cutter, found one and nipped the end off the Macanudo. He chomped down angrily on the cigar, clicked the flame of a lighter and lifted it to his mouth.

Just at that moment a voice yelled, "No!"

Startled, York reached for his gun. But before he could reach it, he was tackled from behind and tumbled hard to the floor, the breath knocked from his lungs.

Gasping, in agony, he scrabbled back in panic. He stared around him – and saw no threat. He then shouted at the security man, "What're you doing?"

Breathing heavily, Eberhart rose and pulled his boss to his feet. "Sorry… I had to stop you… The cigar."

"The -"

"Cigar. Don't touch it."

The security man grabbed several Baggies. In one he put the cigars. In the other the FedEx envelope. "When I was asking you about stores you go to – for the security plan – you told me you get your cigars in Phoenix, right?"

"Right. So what?"

Eberhart held up the FedEx label. "These were sent from a Postal Plus store in the Sonora Hills strip mall."

York thought. "That's near -"

"Three minutes from Trotter's company. He could've called the store and found out when you ordered some. Then bought some himself and doctored 'em. I'll get a field test kit and see."

"Don't I need… I mean, don't I need to eat cyanide for it to kill me?"

"Uh-uh." The security expert sniffed the bag carefully. "Cyanide smells like almonds." He shook his head. "Can't tell. Maybe the tobacco's covering up the scent."

"Almonds," York whispered. "Almonds…” He smelled his fingers and began washing his hands frantically.

There was a long silence.

Rubbing his skin with paper towels, York glanced at Eberhart, who was lost in thought.

"What?" the businessman snapped.

"I think it's time for a change of plans."

The next day Stephen York parked his leased Mercedes in the hot, dusty lot of the Scottsdale Police Department. He looked around uneasily for Trotter's car – a dark-blue Lexus sedan, they'd learned. He didn't see it.

York climbed out, carrying plastic bags containing the FedEx envelope, cigars and food from his kitchen. He carried them into the PD's building, chill from an overeager air conditioner.

In a ground floor conference room he found four men: the buddy team of Lampert and Alvarado, as well as Stan Eberhart and a man who was dressed in exactly the same clothes that York wore and who was his same build. The man introduced himself as Peter Billings, an undercover cop.

"Long as I’m playing the part of you for a little while, Mr. York, was wonderin', s'okay to use your pool and hot tub?"

"My -"

"Joking there," Billings said.

"Ah," York muttered humorlessly and turned to Lampert. "Here they are."

The detective took the bags and tossed them absently on an empty chair. None of the cigars or food contained poison, according to a test Eberhart conducted at York 's. But bringing them here – presumably under the eye of vengeful Mr. Trotter – was an important part of their plan. They needed to make Trotter believe for the next hour or so that they were convinced he was going to poison York.

After the tests turned out negative Eberhart had concluded that Trotter was faking the whole cyanide thing; he only wanted the police to think he intended to poison York. Why? A diversion, of course. If the police were confident they knew the intended method of attack, they'd prepare for that and not the real one.

But what was the real one? How was Trotter actually going to come at York?

Eberhart had taken an extreme step to find out: breaking into Trotter's house. While the landscaper, his wife and their children were out Eberhart had disabled the alarm and surveillance cameras then examined the man's office carefully. Hidden in the desk were books on sabotage and surveillance. Two pages were marked with Post-its, marking chapters on turning propane tanks into bombs and on making remote detonators. He found another clue, as well: a note that read "Rodriguez Garden Supplies."

Which was where Stephen York went every Saturday afternoon to exchange his barbecue grill's propane tanks. Eberhart believed that Trotter's plan was to keep the police focused on a poison attack, when he was in fact going to arrange an "accidental" explosion after York picked up his new propane tank. The security man, though, couldn't go to the police with this information – he'd be admitting he'd committed trespass – so he told Bill Lampert only that he'd heard from some sources that Trotter was asking about propane tanks and where York shopped. There was no evidence for a search warrant but the detective reluctantly agreed to Eberhart's plan to catch Trotter in the act.

First, they'd make it seem that they believed the cyanide threat. Since Trotter probably knew York went to the propane store every Saturday around lunchtime, the businessman would take the cigars and food to the police, apparently for testing, which would occupy them for several hours. Trotter would be following. York would then leave and run some errands, among them picking up a new propane canister. Only it wouldn't be Stephen York in the car, but Detective Peter Billings, the look-alike. Billings would collect a new propane tank from Rodriguez's – though it would be empty, for safety's sake – and then stash it in his car. He'd then return to the store to browse and Lampert and his teams would wait for Trotter to make his move.

"So where's our boy?" Lampert asked his partner.

Alvarado explained that Trotter had left his house about the same time as York and headed in the same direction. They'd lost him in traffic for a time but then picked him up at a Whole Foods grocery store lot within walking distance of Rodriguez's. One officer saw him inside.