A Dish Served Cold

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"We 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?"

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