More Twisted

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 therewas 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 employeesat 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