Kill Switch

by Neal Baer

  Nick pulled out a mug shot of Quimby. “This one of the guys?” he asked.

  Szabo frowned. “The killer on the TV. I have not seen him in here.”

  “But you’d tell me if you did, right?” Nick pressed.

  The club owner looked straight at him. “I get hundreds of people in and out of here every night. The beautiful women, I notice. This man, he would be just another face in the crowd.”

  Nick knew he was telling the truth. Now came the sales pitch.

  “Mr. Szabo, I need your help.”

  “Whatever I can do.”

  “I’m guessing you have security cameras in the club.”

  “Of course,” said Szabo. “State-of-the-art.”

  “How long do you keep the video from any particular night?”

  Szabo was reading his mind. “It is stored on a hard drive and recycled after two weeks. If you send your computer expert here, he can clone the hard drive for you.”

  Nick smiled. “Thank you, sir. You’ve done this before, I imagine.”

  “I watch the crime drama marathons on cable TV. And you are welcome. But I’m not sure you’ll find what you look for.”

  “Why not?” Nick asked.

  “The girl, Tammy. She hasn’t been here in a while.”

  “We know,” Nick said, “but her credit card’s been used at your bar numerous times in the last few weeks.”

  Szabo’s face darkened. “You are serious,” he replied. “And you think it was the killer using it?”

  “Mr. Szabo, can you tell me the last time you actually saw this woman in the club?”

  Szabo sighed. “I told you, she wanted to leave with me. I declined; then I had remorse. I told my people at the rope to let me know the next time she came in and to send her directly to me. That was three weeks ago.”

  A sudden burst of light from the dance floor drew Nick’s attention to the one-way mirror. The DJ had turned on the bright white lights, illuminating the crowd.

  “Detective, are you okay?” Szabo asked.

  But Nick didn’t answer, his eyes focused on a woman with short blond hair, in a short black dress, dancing. His eyes darted to another woman, taller but with the same short hair, similar black dress. Then another. And another. And another . . .

  Quimby had his pick in this place.

  Nick saw another one, but she wasn’t dancing. She looks too stiff, like she doesn’t belong here, Nick thought. She turned around just as the lights came down and began to strobe, casting a red gash across her face—a familiar face.

  “Can you excuse me?” Nick turned away from the one-way mirror.

  “Do you see your killer?” Szabo asked, alarmed, picking up a walkie-talkie. “I’ll have my people stop him.”

  “No, it’s not him,” Nick retorted, heading for the door. “Just someone I may know.”

  “Your eyes are better than mine, then,” said Szabo. “To me the faces are all the same from up here.”

  “I’ll be back,” Nick said, going out the door and hurrying down the stairs. He knew Szabo was right. How could he trust his eyes from so far away? But he had to be sure.

  He reached the floor of the club. It took a couple of seconds to adjust to the strobing lights and the pounding music as he scanned the direction where he’d seen the woman. Nothing.

  There! Blond hair—as if on fire from the flashing red lights—heading through the dancing crowd. Toward the back. She had a cell phone to her ear. He moved toward the vision, trying not to bump into anyone, hoping the woman didn’t see him.

  Nick grabbed the woman’s arm and roughly turned her around. Claire violently shook it off, dropping her phone, which went crashing to the floor.

  “Get your hands off me!” she said.

  And then she saw who it was.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Nick yelled over the din.

  “You know what I’m doing,” she fired back as she bent over and picked up the shattered phone, displaying it to him. “Look what you did.”

  Nick yanked her toward the front door. “You’re coming with me,” he said, literally pulling her outside.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “To the safe house. Or the precinct lockup. Your choice.”

  The bouncers eyed Nick as he pulled Claire along. He flashed his shield, lest they tried to intervene. She struggled to keep her balance in the black pumps she’d bought at Bloomingdale’s on the way over. She got the black dress there, too, and had put it on in the changing room, asking the store to hold her other clothes until she could pick them up in the morning.

  “I’m trying to help you,” Claire said, trying to catch her breath as Nick pulled her along.

  “You’re trying to help yourself into an early grave.”

  They reached the car. Nick let go of her.

  “That hurt,” Claire said, rubbing her arm.

  “Not close to how much Quimby would’ve hurt you if he saw you in that getup. You want to get yourself killed?”

  “I have to find him.”

  “That’s my job, not yours.”

  “He met Tammy here before. I thought maybe he’d come back to Red for his next victim.”

  Nick had to admire her logic. If she wasn’t a shrink, he thought, she might make a good cop. “I thought the same thing, but something’s wrong.”

  Claire looked at him. She could see he was disturbed, which drained away the anger she had felt toward him for pulling her out of the club. “What is it, Nick?”

  “Tammy used her credit card at Red the night she was killed. But the owner says she hasn’t been there for three weeks.”

  This stopped Claire short. “Tammy’s parents said she left three weeks ago for Hawaii, and we know she never went there.”

  “And Quimby murdered her two nights before her body turned up,” Nick replied, opening the door for Claire.

  “So Quimby met her two nights earlier,” Claire said. “But I don’t see how she could have gone to the club in her condition.”

  “According to the club owner, she didn’t,” Nick added, perplexed. “But he could be wrong. We’ll know for sure when I get the surveillance video from the club. But Quimby’s face has been all over the media. He’d be stupid to show up in public, and so far he hasn’t been stupid.”

  Nick closed Claire’s door and headed to the driver’s side. He got in and stared out the windshield at the club’s sign. Bright red neon dots exploded like balloons popping.

  Claire looked at Nick. He was calmer now. “Tammy’s cancer wasn’t on the Tumor Registry,” she said, watching for his reaction.

  “What does that mean?” Nick asked, turning toward her. Their faces were inches apart, and Claire could see deep sorrow in his eyes.

  “Anyone with an aggressive cancer like Tammy’s would have been presented to a board of oncologists,” Claire replied. “Her case was unusual, and her doctor would have wanted the best minds to give their opinions.”

  “And you know this how?” Nick asked.

  “Ian found out for me,” Claire answered. “That was him on the phone back at the club, saying none of it was making any sense.”

  “Did he say anything else?” Nick asked.

  “I didn’t get the chance to ask him anything,” Claire said, exasperated, “because you made me drop my phone.”

  Nick looked at her. He handed her his cell. “Call him back,” he said.

  “He won’t answer if he doesn’t recognize the number,” Claire replied.

  “Then we’ll ask him in person,” Nick said evenly, turning the ignition. A blast of chatter from Nick’s walkie-talkie squawked on the front seat between them.

  “Midtown North Commander, responding from Queens.”

  “Car eight-oh-two, responding, Central.”

  Car 802 was the handle for Wilkes’s unmarked Crown Vic. Nick grabbed the walkie.

  “Car seven-two-three to Central,” he said into the mouthpiece.

  “Seven-two-three,” came the re
sponse from the dispatcher. “Ten-two your commander at the West Side Rail Yards. Other units responding.”

  Nick looked at Claire. From the expression on his face, Claire knew what it meant.

  “Oh, no,” she said.

  Savarese walked Claire and Nick into the crime scene. “Sector car found her. Cops said she was a regular on the stroll up in the forties, but they don’t know her name. Detective from Manhattan North is coming down to ID her.”

  “Heads up,” warned Savarese. “The boss is on fire.”

  Nick didn’t even have time to reply when Lt. Wilkes spotted him and stormed over.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded.

  Nick indicated Claire. “You told me to find her, right?”

  Wilkes eyed Claire’s outfit and decided not to ask. “Guess it’s a good thing you’re here, Doc, because he’s escalating.”

  He led them over to a body covered by a white sheet. Wilkes pulled the sheet down so they could see.

  The victim was again a pretty blond girl, in an outfit that screamed hooker—gold sequined top, skirt slit up the sides to the waist. Once again, a rope secured with a Dutch marine bowline knot was looped around her neck. But her face was a red, blotchy mess, making her unrecognizable.

  “He burned her face off,” Nick observed grimly.

  “Like he threw the lye right on her. He’s getting sloppy, Nick,” Wilkes said.

  “Or he’s getting to the end of his rope,” Claire added, drawing looks from the detectives at her unintended pun.

  Nick scanned the surroundings. “No signs of a struggle.”

  “He picks her up in a car, does the deed, and dumps her here,” offered Wilkes.

  Nick knelt beside the body. Took a few quick sniffs. Turned to Claire. “You smell anything?”

  “Bitter almonds? Again?” asked Wilkes.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re nuts,” said Wilkes. “No pun intended,” he added.

  “What does this lunatic have in store for us next?” asked Savarese.

  “Me,” said Claire, choking on the word.

  CHAPTER 16

  “I talked to my boss,” Nick said, swallowing the last of his midnight bacon and eggs. “We’re upping your protection.”

  Claire simply nodded, eyeing the nearly full bowl of salad greens that she hadn’t wanted to order in the first place.

  “You should eat something,” Nick said.

  “You’re starting to sound like my mother,” Claire answered.

  They had come to the all-night diner on 11th Avenue directly from the crime scene. Other than the victim displaying Quimby’s MO and signature, the Crime Scene Unit found nothing to explain how he transported the body to its final resting place. All Nick was able to determine was that nineteen-year-old Lucy Chapman, a runaway from Indianapolis, known on the hooker stroll as “Cookie,” was a fresh kill, dead no more than an hour before being discovered by a guy in a late-model BMW parked just yards away. He’d spotted her body after one of Cookie’s competitors listlessly gave him the “service” he had paid fifty bucks for. The john, a businessman from Teaneck, New Jersey, was assured by responding patrol cops that they were interested only in what he saw before noticing the body. He said that he had been concentrating on getting his money’s worth and didn’t even see the dead hooker until he’d exited his car to grab a towel out of the trunk.

  “You’ll have a cop with you at all times,” Nick told Claire, “both in and out of the hospital.”

  “I can’t take a cop on rounds,” Claire said. “And how will I explain the extra protection to Curtin?”

  “I’ll explain it,” Nick said calmly as his phone spewed Lady Gaga.

  “Hi, sweetheart . . . I miss you too . . . I’ll be home in an hour. I can’t wait to see you. Bye, sweetie.”

  Claire stared at him as he hung up. It was the first time she’d seen this side of Nick. “Your kids,” she said.

  “My oldest daughter, Jill,” Nick answered. “She woke up and saw I wasn’t home. Wanted to know if she’ll ever see me again.”

  “You’ve been working some long hours,” said Claire.

  “Haven’t been home in three days,” he said, reminding himself.

  Claire noted the lack of a wedding ring on Nick’s hand. “You’re divorced.”

  “Widowed,” Nick corrected.

  “I’m sorry,” Claire replied, embarrassed by jumping to conclusions—something as a psychiatrist she tried not to do.

  “Don’t be. She killed herself,” Nick said flatly.

  Claire looked at him. That was an odd comment.

  “Surprised you didn’t hear about it.”

  “Why would I?”

  “It was all over the media. You want to know how she did it?”

  He’s not looking at me, Claire noticed.

  “If you want to tell me,” she answered.

  Nick took a quick gulp of coffee, as if it were a scotch and he was about to confess to something awful. “She shot herself. With one of my guns. Eight months ago.”

  “Did you know she was suicidal?” Claire asked reflexively.

  The question caught Nick off guard. He looked at her sharply. “How would I know that?”

  “Sorry. None of my business,” Claire said.

  But in her head, she knew he’d made it her business. She could feel the guilt inside him, ready to burst. And though she wanted to help him, this was neither the time nor the place for an impromptu therapy session.

  He needed to tell someone. He chose me.

  “No, I’m sorry,” Nick said, realizing the position he’d put her in. He glanced at her. She looked sad to him. “You’ve got enough problems without hearing mine.”

  A hint of a smile crossed Claire’s face. “I’m a shrink,” she said. “Not a very good one, maybe. But I get dumped on for a living. Don’t worry about it.”

  Nick stood. “C’mon,” he said. “I’ll take you home. Such that it is.”

  They walked into the vestibule of the brownstone that was Claire’s safe house. Claire was nervous as she fumbled for the key to the security door. My turn to confess now, she thought.

  “I like Maggie,” she said to Nick. “I don’t want there to be any . . . you know, bad blood.”

  “She’s okay. She didn’t get into any trouble,” Nick said.

  What she didn’t know, and what Nick would never tell her, was that it was anything but simple. It had taken no small amount of skill on Nick’s part to calm his boss down and assure him that there was no harm done because Claire was safely with him. Once calm, Wilkes promised not to give Maggie a rip, after Nick embellished how mentally fragile Claire was and that firing Maggie might push Claire over the edge.

  “You sure she’s not mad at me?” Claire asked Nick.

  “She trusted you,” Nick replied. “But her job is to protect you. She would never walk out on you. None of us would.”

  Claire found the key to the security door. She opened it and Nick held it for her as she walked through. He looked at her, hesitating. Claire knew what he was thinking.

  “The only way out of this place is the way we came in, and I’m not going to make it down the fire escape in these heels,” she assured him. “And Maggie will never let me out of her sight again.”

  “Okay. I guess I can trust you getting upstairs by yourself,” Nick said, relenting. “Get some sleep.” He opened the security door and turned to leave.

  “Nick.”

  He turned back, a troubled look on his face, which Claire couldn’t help but catch.

  “Something wrong?” she asked him.

  “Just tired, I guess,” he replied. But it was more than that.

  I’m ashamed. She said my name and I liked the sound of it.

  “Thank you,” Claire said, meaning it.

  Nick turned away. “Try to get some rest,” he said.

  Claire watched him leave, then walked up the flight of stairs to the apartment door. She gingerly inserted the key in
the lock and turned it, pushed the door open, and stepped through into the darkness. The apartment was dark but for a sliver of light coming through the slightly ajar bathroom door, through which Claire could hear water running. She wasn’t looking forward to the confrontation but decided to make light of it nonetheless.

  “Hey,” she shouted toward the bathroom. “Hurry up in there—I’ve got to pee.”

  If Maggie heard her, she wasn’t acknowledging. Claire walked into the living room, reached in the darkness for the lamp. She located the small knob just below the lightbulb and switched it on.

  She threw her coat over a chair, wanting to collapse into it. Instead, she headed toward the bathroom door, hoping Maggie wasn’t so pissed off she wouldn’t talk to her.

  “Look,” she shouted over the running water, “I just want to say how sorry I am.”

  Claire stopped cold, hearing a squish under her pumps as if she’d stepped on a wet sponge. She looked down. The carpet was soaked. Her eyes darted toward the bottom of the bathroom door.

  Water. Seeping out under the door.

  She glanced toward the door to Maggie’s bedroom. Closed.

  Claire realized what must have happened. Maggie had run herself a bath, gone into her room, probably stretched out on her bed waiting for the tub to fill, and fallen asleep. Hoping the water hadn’t yet leaked through to the apartment below, Claire hurried toward the bathroom door.

  “Maggie,” she yelled, “wake up. I need you out here . . .”

  She pushed the door open. And for a moment she wasn’t sure she was seeing right.

  What she saw was Maggie, naked, hanging dead from a rope thrown over the metal shower curtain rod and tied around her neck. With a Dutch marine bowline.

  Claire let out a bloodcurdling scream, which lasted only a second before a gloved hand cut off what was left of her air and a rope looped around her neck and tightened.

  Nick was getting into his car across the street when he heard it. A scream.

  But by the time his head spun around, it had stopped. He stood there, leaning against the open car door, wondering if he’d imagined it.

  Then he thought of the telltale click of a gun being cocked.