More Twisted

Cape Town, Captain. They’re asking about her now. They think it won’t take too long to get an ID. I mean, she’s not exactly your typical merc.”
    Amen, thought Lincoln Rhyme.
    “This is a mistake,” Kitty growled at Rhyme. Which could be interpreted to mean either he was erroneous or that stopping her was foolhardy and dangerous.
    Whatever the message, her opinion meant nothing to him.
    Lon Sellitto escorted her to a squad car and got in his own Crown Victoria. The entourage headed downtown to Central Booking.
    Soon all the tactical officers were gone. Jed Carter promised he’d call as soon as he heard about anyone who fit Kitty’s description. “Good-bye, Captain. Ma’am.” He ambled off to his green Jeep.
    Rhyme and Sachs were alone on the street. “Okay,” he said, meaning, Let’s get home. He wanted the Glenmorangie whisky Thom had denied him in anticipation of the operation here. (“It’s not like I’m going to be fighting anybody hand-to-hand.” Still, as often, the aide won.)
    He asked Sachs to call Thom now; he was parked up the street in Rhyme’s custom-made van.
    But Sachs frowned. “Oh, we can’t leave yet.”
    “Why?”
    “There’re some people who want to meet you. Ron Larkin’s brother and family.” They had been ushered into an upstairs bedroom with armed guards as soon as Kitty had arrived. She glanced at the third-floor window and waved at the faces of a middle-aged couple looking down at Rhyme and Sachs at the moment.
    “Do we have to?”
    “You saved their lives, Rhyme.”
    “Isn’t that enough? I have to make small talk too?”
    She laughed. “Five minutes. It’ll mean a lot to them.”
    “Well, I’d love to,” he said, offering a rather insincere smile. “But it’s not exactly accessible.” Nodding at the stairs and then his wheelchair.
    “Oh, don’t worry, Rhyme,” Sachs said, resting her hand on his shoulder. “I’ll bet they’ll come to us.”

A D ISH S ERVED C OLD

    W e 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