Kill Switch

by Neal Baer

  The mail wasn’t interesting, just announcements of events that had already passed and the usual mass mailings from drug companies hawking their newest pills. Claire threw out the numerous envelopes and cards she’d ripped in half, having gotten them out of the way before she opened what she really wanted to look at—Tammy Sorenson’s medical file.

  She almost wanted to laugh at herself. In the trauma of the attempt on her life, Ian’s murder, Quimby’s death, and then the stress of finding Amy, she’d forgotten that she’d asked Tammy’s mother to get the file from her daughter’s internist. Even now, she was still intrigued by this medical mystery. How had this woman carried on an active—perhaps overactive—sex life when she was dying of lymphoma?

  But if she was hoping the answers to her questions were in the file, she was not only sorely disappointed, but also shocked—not by what was in the paperwork, but by what wasn’t. Tammy’s medical records revealed nothing out of the ordinary, only regular checkups with no major illnesses. Claire flipped to the end of the chart and found that Tammy’s last visit to her doctor had been for hay fever, three months before she died. There was no mention of her lymphoma. And the physician who performed her insurance physical two months before her death had found nothing as well, giving her a clean bill of health.

  She couldn’t believe it. Any physical examination of someone that close to dying from lymphoma would have revealed enlarged, hardened lymph nodes. How could Tammy’s doctor not detect such a serious illness, or if he had, not mention it? The only reason could be that he never knew about it.

  And that could only mean someone else must have been treating her. But why wouldn’t they have reported her unusually virulent tumor to the Tumor Registry?

  She flipped through the file again, looking to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. Frustrated, she closed it—a little too hard—and some papers fell out. Angry at herself, she bent over to pick them up, and only then saw what she hadn’t seen before: a phone message, paper-clipped to the bottom of another piece of paper, dated two weeks before Tammy died. All it said was Call Dr. Charles Sedgwick, with a number written beneath it.

  Claire picked up her cell phone and punched in the number.

  “You have reached Biopharix,” came the automated voice at the other end of the phone. “Our offices are now closed. Please call during our normal business hours of—”

  Claire hung up, stunned. Biopharix. That’s where Tammy worked, she thought. That’s hardly a coincidence.

  She pulled out her iPad and Googled Biopharix and Charles Sedgwick. Up on the screen came a long list of citations.

  She opened the first one, Sedgwick’s official biography on his company’s Web site. His credentials are stellar, thought Claire as she read through. Sedgwick was a noted researcher in molecular genetics, who received both his MD and PhD from Yale. He’d presented an impressive list of papers all over the world on oncogenes—the genes in human cells which, when mutated, can cause cancer—all in addition to being the CEO of Biopharix.

  He has the expertise, Claire thought. He must’ve been treating Tammy. Maybe with an experimental drug.

  She knew it wasn’t unusual for desperately ill patients to turn to researchers for any last ray of hope. And if the patients met certain qualifications, they could receive an experimental drug for free. These phase II drug trials provided researchers with data they needed to assess the efficacy of their new drug, along with any side effects, and gave many terminally ill patients extra months, sometimes even years of life.

  Tammy Sorenson would have been a natural candidate to enroll in a phase II study at Biopharix. She worked there and had access to the newest and most promising drug treatments.

  Claire picked up her phone and punched in the numbers she’d come to know by heart.

  “Hello,” Nick said, answering on seeing Claire’s name come up. “What the hell took you so long to call?”

  “I didn’t see Curtin,” Claire said, without even saying hello. “He’s got the flu. But I found something really interesting, and I need your help.”

  The modern glass box that was Biopharix sat sparkling in the morning sunlight on the north end of a promontory jutting off the eastern bank of the Hudson River in Cold Spring, New York, about fifty-five miles north of Manhattan. Over the objections of pretty much everyone, the out-of-place structure had been built on what was once open parkland with the blessing of local politicians, who could hardly refuse the opportunity of such a high-tech, high-tax-paying industry.

  Nick and Claire were escorted through the glassed-in entry corridor, giving them a magnificent view of the glorious Hudson Valley and the army’s vaunted West Point Academy just across the river and slightly to the south. Below them, through the transparent floor, flowed a stream that emptied into the river itself. Cobalt-blue trusses held the walkway aboveground, giving Claire and Nick the sensation that they were walking on air.

  As they neared Sedgwick’s office, which was located at the center of the facility, Claire noticed an array of similar glassed-in tubes emanating from the laboratories, also at the center of the complex, making her feel as if she were inside the tentacle of a huge octopus.

  They reached the office complex, where Sedgwick waited outside his door. He was trim, of average height and with thinning hair, which he’d tried to correct with obvious hair plugs in the front that turned out to be spaced too far apart. For someone so rich and vain, Claire thought, he really should have gotten himself a better hair transplant.

  Sedgwick reached out and shook both their hands with a powerful grip. “What’s New York’s finest doing all the way up here?” he asked Nick with a friendly smile.

  “We’re interested in one of your employees,” Nick answered with the same friendly smile.

  Sedgwick’s smile melted. “You mean Tammy Sorenson. Terrible tragedy.”

  “Are you referring to her murder or to her illness?” Claire asked wryly.

  “What illness?” Sedgwick replied, a look of confusion crossing his face. “I thought you caught her killer. Was she sick too?”

  “Mortally,” Claire replied. “If she hadn’t been murdered, she would have died anyway.”

  Claire and Nick studied Sedgwick’s reaction. He took a step back, as if trying to get away from some bad news.

  “I never knew,” he said. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

  “So you had no idea that Tammy was dying of Hodgkin’s lymphoma?” Claire asked, pressing him.

  “No. If I had, I would’ve made sure she got the best treatment. But it does explain a few things.”

  “Like what?” Nick asked.

  “Why she stopped showing up for work one day without telling anyone. I tried to reach her—she worked in my lab and we were close.”

  “How close?” Nick asked, insinuating the worst. “I believe she had a number of boyfriends.”

  “Our relationship was strictly professional,” Sedgwick said bluntly. “I was worried about her. When I called her parents, they said she was on vacation. But she’d used up all her vacation time, so it didn’t make sense.”

  “Why didn’t you call the police?” Claire asked, trying to trap him.

  “I did. They said she wasn’t missing if her parents confirmed she was on vacation. So I got her internist’s name and number from her employee file, just to make sure she wasn’t sick in some hospital.”

  That explains the phone message in Tammy’s medical record, Claire thought.

  “Did he ever call you back?” Nick asked.

  “No. We didn’t know what happened to her until someone from your office called our human resources department. Now, is there something else you need?” Sedgwick asked them. “I’ve got a crazy day ahead of me.”

  “Yes,” Nick replied. “One last thing. Do you still do research?”

  “I oversee all the research here,” Sedgwick responded impatiently. “But if you mean do I still do bench science, no, I don’t have the time.” He opened the door to his office. �
�If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go. Please don’t hesitate to call if you need anything else.”

  “Thanks for your time, Doctor,” Claire said as Sedgwick darted through the door, leaving Nick and Claire alone in the spacious glassed-in hallway.

  “He’s lying,” Nick said.

  “What are you talking about?” Claire asked, confused.

  “The bastard smelled like bitter almonds. Just like the women Quimby killed.”

  “Oh God,” Claire said. “What the hell have we stepped into?”

  CHAPTER 26

  Tony Savarese looked up from his desk as Nick barreled into the squad room he hadn’t seen for two weeks. “Hey, man,” Savarese bellowed, “good to see you back.”

  “You too,” Nick barely replied as he headed for his desk, which was still cluttered with the detritus of the Quimby investigation. It was exactly as he’d left it: seven thick, multicolored files awaited him, each representing a homicide Quimby committed.

  Or so he’d thought. Until this morning.

  Quickly but carefully, he sat down and began returning papers to the files in which they belonged. He would then gather up the files and put them in the trunk of his police Impala. If anyone asked him, he’d say he was taking them to the NYPD’s huge evidence storage facility out in Queens. After all, that’s where they belonged, right? The cases were closed, weren’t they?

  Hell, no. Not anymore.

  Nick had no intention of taking the files to Queens. They were headed straight for Claire Waters’s hotel room. Technically he’d be committing a crime—stealing official police documents and evidence.

  He mused at the irony of it all. For nearly a year, he had been suspected of murdering his wife, a crime he never committed. Now, in service of the truth, he was knowingly violating the law and, because what he was doing was a felony, risking his career—which would be over soon anyway if Dr. Mangone followed through on his threat.

  Nick stared at the seven files of lives snuffed out early and added the eighth file to the pile for Quimby. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts he didn’t see or hear the figure approaching until he was almost at Nick’s desk.

  “Nice of you to show up,” said Lieutenant Wilkes.

  Nick looked up to see his boss standing before him. In full dress uniform—a sharp blue suit with brass buttons, gold braiding, and medallions across his chest announcing all of Wilkes’s citations.

  “Big meeting with the boss at One PP?” asked Nick.

  “Don’t you check your voice mail?” asked Wilkes, more irritated than usual.

  Nick looked at his cell. Four messages waiting. “Sorry,” he replied.

  “I tried you at home too,” said the lieutenant. “You know what your mother said? That you were out of town, working on some case. That’s what you were doing on your vacation?”

  Dammit, thought Nick. He’d been honest with his mother, telling her he was going to help a friend upstate.

  “Just helping a friend, Lou,” Nick said, making light of it. “I kept my name out of it so nobody would ask questions.”

  Indeed, he had managed to circumvent any media mention of his involvement in the search for Amy Danforth, making sure all the credit went to Claire. Al Hart had been his partner in this effort, knowing the last thing Nick needed right now was any notoriety for something he technically shouldn’t have been doing even on his own time.

  “As long as it doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass,” Wilkes said. “Now go change so we can get downtown.”

  “Downtown?”

  Wilkes gave him The Look. He obviously didn’t have a clue.

  “Let me fill you in. We—you—just closed the biggest case of the decade, if not the millennium. One of those messages you blew off was Headquarters ordering you down to One PP this afternoon at two, in full uniform. Same call I got last night.”

  Nick knew full well what that meant, as did every cop on the job.

  He looked up at Wilkes, whose face broke into a huge smile. “I’m getting captain’s bars, Nicky, and you’re getting first grade.” He stuck out his hand. “Congratulations.”

  Nick shook his boss’s hand, stunned. To make first grade was the dream of every NYPD detective. The designation would put him among the elite of the city’s elite. First-grade detectives not only worked the choicest assignments, but they also were often given command responsibility. And pay equal to that of a lieutenant. And yet he couldn’t make himself even grin.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” Wilkes demanded playfully. “You’re the effin’ prince of the city. Chief of D’s would knight you if he had the power. I took a flyer on you and you paid me back in spades. All of us, everyone in the squad, are getting bumped up a notch. For Christ’s sake, Nicky, enjoy it. You earned this.”

  Nick could only look down at the eight files on his desk. You won’t be saying all that when I tell you Todd Quimby may not be the killer. Or that I’m going blind.

  How could he not be truthful with Wilkes? How could he not trust this man who’d literally given him his career back? His very life?

  He looked up at the lieutenant. And Wilkes, sharp in his dress blues, wilted slightly. For he’d seen that look on Nick’s face before.

  “What is it, Nicky?” he asked.

  “Boss,” Nick said seriously, “let’s go into your office. There’s something you should know.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Wilkes looked up from his desk at Nick, like a man who’d just been hit with a two-by-four.

  “Are you sure about this?” he asked.

  Nick had told him everything (except for his impending blindness), including that Dr. Charles Sedgwick might somehow be connected to the death of Tammy Sorenson.

  “How?” Wilkes asked, becoming more alarmed.

  “I smelled bitter almonds on him. The same odor that was on most of Quimby’s victims.”

  “Is it possible Quimby had an accomplice?” Wilkes asked, incredulous.

  “Yes,” Nick said. “I don’t know how to connect all the dots, but I swear to God I’m going to find out.”

  “Nicky. Do you know how crazy this sounds?” the lieutenant asked.

  Nick knew what his boss was really worried about. Wilkes was a political animal, which was necessary in order to survive as a commander in the NYPD. The truth Nick had just laid on him would make everyone look incompetent or, even worse, like blundering fools. Which is why Nick knew exactly what he had to say next.

  “Look. You said it yourself. You took a chance on me. Just say the word and this dies right here, right now, in this room. And life goes on.”

  Wilkes returned his look, considering the offer. “What about Claire Waters?” he asked.

  “Claire Waters owes me. The caper I was on upstate was helping her find her friend’s killer and where he buried the body. And we did. She’ll do anything I ask.”

  There. He’d given his boss an out. Wilkes took but a second to make his decision.

  “Here’s what we’ll do,” the lieutenant began. “Go home, put on your uniform, and get your ass down to the Puzzle Palace so they can promote us.” He paused, deciding what to say next. “And then you’re going to take those files on your desk, and that shrink, and disappear.”

  It was exactly what Nick thought he’d say. Brian Wilkes was a lot of things, but a coward wasn’t one of them.

  “How long can you give me?” Nick asked.

  “Three days, on the q.t. I’ll cover you with the guys, tell them you took some more vacation time. Bring me something I can use to convince the chief that if Quimby’s not the only killer, he’s the tip of the iceberg. Otherwise, Nicky, we’ll have to do what you said before. We’ll have to let the case die.”

  “We’re not letting this die,” Claire said as she sat down at a desktop computer and turned it on.

  “Calm down,” Nick urged. “We’ve got three days.”

  They were in Claire’s hotel room, both knowing that three days was precious little time to put toget
her what had become a confusing puzzle. Nick hadn’t even bothered to change out of his dress blues from the promotion ceremony.

  “You look pretty handsome in that monkey suit,” Claire said, giving him a smile.

  “Never thought I’d make it to first grade. I better enjoy it while I can,” Nick answered.

  Claire knew he was referring to his impending blindness. “If you want to stop now, Nick, I’ll understand,” she said, knowing he’d never stop.

  “Where do we start?” Nick responded, not even going there.

  “The bitter almonds,” she began. “That connects Sedgwick to Quimby. You smelled it on Sedgwick and several of the victims.”

  “And I’m the only one who did,” Nick reminded her.

  “Because the amount that was transferred was so minuscule that only someone with a highly developed sense of smell would be able to detect it.”

  “You mean, like someone who’s going blind.”

  Claire didn’t want to come out and say it, but that’s exactly what she meant.

  Nick read the look on her face. “It’s okay,” he reassured her. “It’s not like I don’t know it’s going to happen.”

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “So,” Nick continued, “the question is, why does Sedgwick smell like bitter almonds in the first place?”

  Claire had already entered Sedgwick’s name into a search engine. “I’m looking for anything about his current research, for something that emits the odor of bitter almonds.”

  “What about cyanide?” Nick asked.