by Neal Baer
He couldn’t help but think Quimby put her there on purpose, as a message to the police. Or to him personally.
I can steal home base any time I want. And you bastards can’t do a goddamn thing to stop me.
As he and Wilkes ducked under the hastily strung crime scene tape, Nick switched on his video camera and put the viewfinder up to his right eye. Zooming in, he saw immediately the telltale signs of Todd Quimby’s work.
“Short blond hair, rope around her neck’s knotted in a Dutch marine bowline,” he said to Wilkes.
“Son of a bitch,” Wilkes muttered.
As they drew closer, Nick could see the woman was lying faceup, wearing a black Armani cocktail dress. No jewelry. His stomach churned. Like it always did when something didn’t make sense.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked the lieutenant.
“Damn right,” Wilkes replied. “She ain’t no pross.”
“There must be a dozen nightclubs within six blocks of here,” Nick offered. “That scumbag knows we’re looking for him, so he finds the perfect place to hunt for his next victim.”
“Inside some club, where we’d never see him.”
Nearby, two Crime Scene Unit detectives snapped photos of the scene. Nick realized one of them was Terry Aitken, the kid from the Coney Island homicide.
“Hey, Aitken,” Nick called to him.
Aitken lowered his Nikon. “Nick Lawler. Thought you’d be catching this.”
Nick decided to test the kid. “Anything you want to know about what happened here?”
“For a girl who’s been lying in a baseball field, why’s the front of her dress look so clean?” Aitken pondered. “And why are there footwear impressions in the dirt and grass all around her, but no drag marks or signs of a struggle? I think you got a dump job on your hands.”
“Quimby ain’t exactly Stone Cold Steve Austin,” Wilkes growled. “How’d the wimpy bastard carry her from the street all the way here?”
“He had wheels, Lieutenant,” Aitken said, pointing to a spot behind the fence. “Four of them. Got some nice pictures.” Aitken brought the photos up on his digital Nikon and showed them to Nick and Wilkes.
“Shopping cart,” said Nick. “Rolled her up to the backstop, carried her the rest of the way.”
“Were the lights on when the body was found?” Wilkes asked.
“No, we had someone from Parks meet us here to turn them on,” Aitken said.
“That kind of dark, he could’ve carried her in here naked and nobody would’ve seen them,” Nick said. “How many more photos you need?” he asked Aitken.
“We’re done,” Aitken replied. “She’s all yours.”
Nick knelt beside the woman’s body. With a gloved hand, he opened her left eyelid.
“Eyes are white. He burned her. It’s him all right,” Nick said.
He tried to move her right arm. It wouldn’t budge. “Jesus,” he exclaimed, “she’s in full rigor. How long ago did he kill her?”
And then Nick smelled something. Sniffed several times, enough for Wilkes to notice. “What?” asked the lieutenant.
“There it is again. Bitter almonds,” Nick answered.
“You’re crazy,” Wilkes said, kneeling down. “I don’t smell a goddamn thing.”
“Not everyone can smell cyanide,” Nick reminded him.
“ME said he didn’t find any cyanide in any of the victims,” Wilkes replied.
Nick spotted the medical examiner’s van pulling up just outside the fence. “ME just showed,” he said.
Wilkes nodded. “We’ll let him check her out before we roll her—”
“Detectives!” a voice boomed from across the park.
They looked up. The shout seemed to come from the 52nd Street side, where someone was waving a flashlight. “I got a witness!”
“Holy shit,” said Nick, standing up.
“Go,” said Wilkes. “I’ll stay with the ME.”
Nick sprinted across the park to a break in the fence where a patrol cop, D’Ambrosi, waited. “What’ve you got?” Nick asked him.
D’Ambrosi guided him toward a homeless woman sitting on a bench beside her shopping cart. “Her name’s Sonya,” he said, “and she’s wearing a little too much ice for someone of her station in life. If you know what I’m saying.”
He aimed his torch on Sonya, whose earlobes glittered in the light.
“Sonya, baby,” D’Ambrosi said as he and Nick reached her. “Why don’t you show the nice detective here your lovely earrings?”
Nick needed about a second to know exactly where the princess-cut diamond studs had come from.
Sonya smiled. “My boyfriend gave them to me,” she said in a husky voice betraying years of nicotine and alcohol abuse.
“Sonya was headed out on the town with those rocks and her new Prada handbag,” said D’Ambrosi, snatching the purse away from her.
“Hey, sonny, you gonna arrest yourself? That’s my property you’re stealing,” Sonya snapped as D’Ambrosi riffled through it.
“Your property?” Nick asked her politely. “Your boyfriend give that to you too?”
“You look like a nice young man,” Sonya said to Nick, coming on to him. “I found that bag in the garbage.”
“Is that where you found the earrings too?” Nick asked, kneeling beside her.
She looked away, ashamed.
“Sonya, dear,” Nick said, “did you see the young lady out there on the baseball field?”
She avoided his eyes as she answered. “She wasn’t breathing. She wasn’t gonna need this stuff.”
“I need it, Sonya,” Nick said. “I need it because someone hurt that girl and I have to find out who. You’d want me to do that for you, right?”
“I guess so.”
“Sonya, did you wheel your cart out there?”
“Couldn’t leave it here. Vultures around here’d take it before I got three steps away. I got all my stuff in there, you know.”
“Detective Lawler,” said Officer D’Ambrosi. “Think we got an ID on the victim.”
He handed Nick a New York State driver’s license he found in her purse. The smiling woman in the photo was absolutely the victim.
“Who is she?” asked Lieutenant Wilkes, joining them.
“Tamara Sorenson, twenty-eight. Address in Bedford.”
“Bedford, huh? Rich girl from the suburbs comes to the big city for a good time, gets more than she bargained for,” said Wilkes.
“Least we know who she is,” said Nick. “Bad news is the shopping cart that made those tracks out by the body belongs to Sonya here, not Quimby. He must’ve carried her out there after all.”
“After he stripped her,” said Lieutenant Wilkes.
Nick shot him a look. “What’re you talking about?”
“When the ME rolled her, there was grass and dirt on the victim’s back. Under her dress.”
Nick realized what that meant. “So she was naked when Quimby raped and strangled her. Then he carried her out here and threw the black dress on her after she died to try to make her look like the whore he wanted her to be.”
Wilkes glanced back to where the medical examiner was working on Tamara Sorenson’s body. “I told the ME to front-burner this one,” he said to Nick. “Finish the scene, then get down to the morgue. If they don’t have her on a table and cracked by the time you get there, light a fire under their asses. I want every piece of forensics they can tweeze or scrape off her.”
Four hours later, at three in the morning, Nick walked into the autopsy suite. Assistant Medical Examiner Ross was just finishing sewing the “Y” incision he’d made in Tamara Sorenson’s torso.
“You’re late and I couldn’t wait,” Ross said, not looking up.
“She was strangled,” Nick retorted. “I needed to be here for that?”
“Yeah, but she would’ve died anyway,” Ross replied.
Nick wasn’t expecting this. “Died of what?” he asked.
Ross lo
oked up. “Lymphoma,” he said.
“Cancer? You’re sure?” Nick asked, staring at the young woman’s face. Her features were delicate. The word that came immediately to Nick’s mind was kind.
“I’m a pathologist,” Ross retorted, “and I know cancer of the lymph nodes when I see it. Except I’ve never seen it like this.”
“What exactly do you mean?”
“It’s everywhere, like it was devouring her. Metastasized to her brain, spleen, abdomen—even her spinal fluid. And that’s not all that’s wrong with this picture.”
Nick didn’t need the drama. “You wanna tell me what the hell you’re talking about?” he demanded.
Ross took off his mask. “She’s in her twenties. I’ve never even heard of such an advanced case of Hodgkin’s disease in anyone, male or female, under fifty. Chickie here wouldn’t have been able to make it to the bathroom, let alone run around clubbing in a dress that ends just above her C level.”
“I got there around nine last night,” Nick said, “and she was already stiff as a board.”
“Factor in lividity and core body temp and I’ll put actual time of death soon after eleven o’clock two nights ago.”
“You’re saying Quimby murdered this one late Monday night or early Tuesday morning before Sharon Corbett in Central Park.”
“Glad we’re speaking the same language, Nicky,” Ross said affably.
Nick wasn’t satisfied. “Do me a solid,” he said to Ross. “Check her for cyanide, too, like the others. And tox screen her for everything you can.”
“Everything like what?” Ross asked.
“Everything like everything,” Nick said impatiently.
“No need to get snippy,” Ross retorted. “We aim to please.”
“Sorry,” Nick said. “Guess this one’s just getting to me.”
He wasn’t lying. His stomach was churning again. Something was way out of place with Tamara Sorenson.
CHAPTER 13
“You want me to see your patients tomorrow on morning’s rounds?” Eddie Sanchez asked Claire as they exited the secure double doors of Manhattan City’s psych ward. It was a muggy Thursday afternoon, and the heat hadn’t dissipated over the first week of Claire’s fellowship.
“Thanks, Eddie,” Claire answered as she signed out at the security desk, “but if I don’t get back to some kind of normal routine, Curtin’s gonna be all over me.”
“If it’s any consolation, all the fellows think you rock,” Eddie said with a smile. “I don’t know how any of us would’ve dealt with a serial killer as our first patient. If there’s anything we can do . . .”
The attention made Claire feel deeply uncomfortable. After the glare of interest she received when Amy was kidnapped, she spent her whole life avoiding any kind of attention, and now she was under the spotlight Todd Quimby had cast on her.
“I appreciate everyone’s concern,” Claire said. “But I just want to move on.”
Eddie nodded, giving her the space she obviously wanted. Claire walked away toward the hospital exit. “See you tomorrow,” she said, without looking back at Eddie.
Quimby’s name had barely passed through her mind when she felt a hand grab her so fast she didn’t have time to scream in terror before she saw who it was.
Nick Lawler.
“What is wrong with you?” she demanded. “You scared me.”
“Sorry,” Nick said, meaning it. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.” He pulled Claire through a doorway into the staff lounge.
“Trouble’s exactly what I’m going to be in if Curtin sees us talking. I thought you were out chasing Todd Quimby.”
“I was,” he replied, “until last night’s murder.”
“Oh, God,” Claire muttered, feeling a mix of terror and nausea wash over her.
“You didn’t know?”
“No,” she answered. Claire had avoided the newspapers and television for the last twenty-four hours for exactly this reason. She didn’t want to know, but now she had no choice. “Another prostitute?”
“That would be too easy,” Nick began. “Her name’s Tamara Sorenson, and I need your help on this one.”
“If Curtin even hears we spoke, I’m out the door.”
“He took her clothes,” Nick said quickly, “threw a black cocktail dress on her before he dumped her body—but that was after he raped and killed her. Which he did a day before he took Sharon Corbett for her moonlight swim in the Central Park lagoon.”
“Hold on,” Claire said. “Quimby hasn’t taken any trophies that we know of. And he would have had to stash Ms. Sorenson’s body somewhere for an entire day. None of this is consistent with his MO.”
“That’s not even the half of it,” Nick continued. “Tamara Sorenson had terminal cancer. Hodgkin’s lymphoma. ME said she had tumors the size of lemons in her spleen, liver, and brain.”
“This woman was how old?” Claire asked as she sifted through her mind all the symptoms and treatments for the disease.
“Twenty-eight.”
Claire’s mind was already racing. Tamara Sorenson was so young to have such advanced disease. Someone must have been treating her. But who? Or was she in complete denial about it, pretending it wasn’t happening?
The saga of Todd Quimby had just become more than the hunt for a serial killer. He was now part of a bona fide medical mystery, something Claire could really sink her teeth into. But she had to be careful not to let Curtin, the five-hundred-pound gorilla, land on her head.
“What do you need me to do?” she asked Nick.
“For starters, I have to tell the victim’s parents. I was hoping you’d come with me.”
“To make a death notification?”
“You’re a doctor. I want to know more about Tamara’s condition, and you know what questions to ask.”
Claire hesitated, Curtin’s admonition looming large. She knew she was playing with fire, but this was worth a little heat.
“I just have some charts to sign and then I’m off shift,” she said. “But we can’t be seen anywhere around the hospital together, including outside, or I’m toast with Curtin.”
“Maggie’s in on this,” Nick answered, referring to her bodyguard, Detective Stolls. “Just get in the car with her and she’ll bring you to me.”
The Sorenson home was a huge, stately colonial in the super-upscale Westchester County suburb of Bedford, about thirty miles from Manhattan. Claire stood uncomfortably beside Nick as he rang the doorbell.
“How are you going to explain bringing a doctor with you?” she asked.
Nick hadn’t thought about that. “Just go with the flow,” he said as the dead bolt turned and the door opened. A trim, toned, casually dressed woman stood before them.
“Mrs. Sorenson?” asked Nick.
“Yes, Gloria Sorenson,” she answered. “Can I help you?”
Nick displayed his shield and ID card. “I’m Detective Lawler from the New York City Police Department, and this is Claire Waters,” he said.
He wants her to think I’m his partner, Claire realized, even more uncomfortable about the charade.
“Police?” Gloria said. “Is something wrong?”
“May we come in?” Claire asked gently.
“Oh, of course,” said Gloria, standing aside and allowing them to enter. The house was gorgeous, immaculate, beautifully furnished with large canvases of color-drenched abstract art.
“Michael!” Gloria shouted upstairs as she closed the door. “I need you, now. The police are here.”
“What happened?” exclaimed Michael Sorenson as he hurried down the stairs. He was a handsome, fit fiftysomething. They’re the perfect couple, Claire thought, and we’re about to shatter their world.
“We’re here about your daughter, Tamara,” said Nick.
“What about Tammy?” Michael asked, concerned.
Nick had done this many times, and it never got any easier.
“There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to t
ell you. We found your daughter in a park on the west side of Manhattan. Unfortunately, she’s deceased.”
The Sorensons exchanged looks. Not of horror, but of confusion.
“There must be some mistake,” Gloria said. “Tammy’s on vacation in Hawaii.”
Now it was Nick’s and Claire’s turn to be confused.
“The woman we found had a driver’s license in her purse identifying her as Tamara Sorenson at this address,” Nick said. He handed the license to Tammy’s father, who showed it to his wife.
“That’s Tammy,” Michael Sorensen replied. “But she never even goes to Manhattan. And she’s five thousand miles away. . . .”
His voice trailed off, fearing the worst. Nick took out a photo from his coat pocket.
“This was taken by the medical examiner. We need you to make a positive identification.”
Gloria grabbed Michael’s arm as Nick showed them the picture of their lifeless daughter’s face.
“Yes, that’s her. Oh, God. Oh, God,” cried Gloria, falling into Michael’s arms. Michael looked around in shock, as if someone else would walk in and tell them it was all a horrible mistake.
“We’re terribly sorry for your loss,” Nick said.
“How did she die?” Michael asked, tears in his eyes.
“I’m afraid she was murdered,” Nick said.
“That’s just too horrible!” Gloria exclaimed.
“Do you know who killed her?” Michael asked, barely getting out the words.
“We think we do. And every cop in New York is looking for him right now,” Nick assured them.
Gloria turned to Michael. “Why did she tell us she was in Hawaii?”
Claire was wondering the same thing. “Was your daughter well enough to travel?” she asked them.
“Of course,” Michael said. “What kind of a question is that?”
The realization hit Nick and Claire at the same time.
They didn’t know.
Nick nodded to Claire. “Mr. and Mrs. Sorensen,” she said carefully. “The medical examiner performed an autopsy on your daughter. He found she had terminal cancer.”
