by Neal Baer
It had been a frustrating, high-profile investigation with too much press attention, during which the chief of detectives’ hot, cigar-reeking breath bore down on the back of Nick’s neck. But any leads that showed even the slightest promise quickly crashed into a succession of brick walls, and after two months of eighteen-hour days and zero answers, Lizzie’s file had found its way back into the file cabinet, destined for the oblivion of cold-case status. Unless something magically turned up.
Like another victim or two done in by the same dirtbag.
That was Nick’s worst nightmare: catching a fresh homicide done by the stone killer he should have collared a year ago. But Nick could hardly hold himself responsible for the new murders. He had fought tooth and nail to keep the Masterson file active. His efforts were cut short when he returned from bereavement leave following the sudden, tragic death of his wife, only to be summarily stripped of his gun and shield and transferred to Central Booking, where he’d expected he would be left to rot, much like Lizzie herself.
Until now.
As he examined the Masterson photos, Nick realized what bothered him was how Lizzie’s case was different from the recent murders. He laid two photos side by side on his desk. One was a blowup of the square knot tied directly over Lizzie’s trachea; the other was a fresh photo of the thick rope and strange knot looped around the neck of the Coney Island victim, who still remained nameless.
“It’s a Dutch marine bowline,” came a voice from behind him.
Nick turned. Wessel was looking over his shoulder.
“Excuse me?” Nick asked.
“The knot.” Wessel gestured to the photo of Jane Doe. “It’s called a Dutch marine bowline. Dutch Navy uses it.”
Nick was starting to like this kid but had to give him the ritual ball-breaking. “And you know this because, what, you were in the Dutch Navy?”
“No, I looked it up on the Internet,” Wessel replied, not sure if Nick was being serious.
“Wonder how we lived before the Internet,” Nick said, meaning it, as Lieutenant Wilkes dropped some stapled pieces of paper on Nick’s desk.
“ME just faxed over the autopsy report on your Jane Doe at Coney Island,” he said, walking away.
Wessel stood by as Nick picked up the report and started reading. Wessel waited a moment, then walked back to his desk.
“You thinking this is the same perp as last year and he’s evolving?” Nick asked him.
Wessel wondered if this was a test. “Could be,” he answered. “Could also be three unrelated crimes . . .”
“I don’t think so,” Nick replied. “ME says there’s a bruise resembling a hickey on Jane Doe’s left breast.”
Wessel looked down at the autopsy photos from last year’s homicide.
“Same as on the girl from last year,” he said, covering his surprise. “Anything else in there?”
“No fluids, even though she was raped,” Nick replied. “And no cyanide in the tox report.”
“Cyanide?”
“I smelled bitter almonds at the crime scene. Guess I was wrong . . .”
“Times Square murder . . . Her name is Catherine Mills,” came a female voice from across the room. “I was told to ask for Lieutenant Wilkes.”
Nick’s head turned toward the voice just as Savarese pointed him out to Dr. Claire Waters. “Detective Lawler’s handling that case,” Savarese said to her.
“That’s me,” Nick shouted, crossing the room quickly at the sight of a woman who looked too much like his dead victims. He held out his hand. “Nick Lawler.”
“Claire Waters,” she replied, shaking hands with him.
“Why don’t you come back to my desk, Ms. Waters. Did you know Ms. Mills?” he asked her as they walked.
“No,” replied Claire, “but I may know the person who killed her.”
“Please, have a seat,” Nick said, indicating the chair beside his desk as he sat down.
Claire couldn’t help but notice that Nick’s desk was clean in contrast with the others, which were piled with frayed files and stacks of papers. “Did someone tell you he murdered Ms. Mills?”
“Not in so many words,” Claire offered, relieved to get this off her chest. “He told me he paid her to have sex with him last night. In the Theatre District.”
Nick was hopeful. This was good information, if it was accurate. “Not to be rude, but why would he confess that to you?”
“I’m sorry. I should have told you,” Claire said. “I’m his doctor.”
Nick was thrown. “If I murdered someone, I wouldn’t confess to my doctor.”
“I’m really sorry, but I had a bad morning,” Claire said. “I’m a psychiatrist.”
The word psychiatrist set Nick off. “You’re a shrink and he’s one of your patients,” he said with open hostility.
Claire didn’t know what to make of this, but it came pouring out of her like a flash flood. “He called me in the middle of the night, and I met him in the emergency room at Manhattan City Hospital. He told me he’d done something bad. He described Ms. Mills perfectly. When I got home this morning, I saw a photo of her on the news. Then I made myself look like your victim and went back and confronted him, and . . .”
Claire was showing all the signs of having been victimized herself. But Nick felt only anger toward her. “And?” he asked.
“And . . . he freaked out.”
“Freaked out,” Nick uttered in disgust. “Is that what shrinks call it?”
Claire couldn’t understand why this cop was being so nasty. “I was scared. He tried to kill me.”
“Thanks. Why don’t you go downstairs and see the desk sergeant. He’ll have someone take a report.”
Now Claire was getting angry. “Don’t you believe me?”
“Sure I do, lady, but I have two dead bodies I need to investigate,” Nick said.
“Look, Detective, I know when I’m being blown off. You have a madman out there, and I know a lot about him—”
“And I’m telling you to take your story downstairs,” Nick interrupted.
“Do you have a problem with me?”
“And everyone like you,” snapped Nick. “I don’t like shrinks.”
Claire glared at him. “Not to be rude, Detective, but people who don’t like shrinks are often the ones who need us the most.”
By now everyone in the room was looking at them.
“Nice talking to you, Doctor,” Nick muttered as he pretended to bury his head in the file. Claire shot daggers at him. Finally, she stood and walked away—but stopped when she got to the door and turned back.
“His name is Todd Quimby,” Claire shouted across the room. Then she walked out.
Nick looked up from the file. Wessel was staring at him.
“You got a problem too?” Nick asked him.
“Nope, no problem,” Wessel answered, turning away to look at some papers.
Nick glanced over at the empty doorway. “Damned shrinks think they know everything.”
CHAPTER 7
Two cops dragged a wino past Claire, who was still fuming as she sat in a cramped cubby with an officer whose nameplate identified him as Kaplan. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-two, and his crisp uniform looked brand-new. Claire was growing frustrated as he muddled his way through the police report.
“And where did you say this happened, ma’am?”
“At Manhattan City Hospital.”
It seemed to take the young cop minutes just to write down this simple piece of information. “Didn’t Dr. Paul Curtin call and give you all this?” Claire asked impatiently.
“We need to speak to the witness, ma’am. And the man who attacked you, what’s his name?”
“Todd Quimby.”
“Can you spell Quimby?”
This was more than Claire could bear. “How much longer is this going to take?”
Officer Kaplan gave her a rueful look. “I’m sorry, Doctor Waters. I’m two days out of the academy, and I don’t wanna
screw this up.”
Claire realized she was displacing her anger with Detective Lawler on this helpless kid. “No,” she said, catching herself, “I’m the one who should be apologizing to you. I’m pissed off and it’s not your fault.”
Kaplan seemed relieved. “I promise, I’ll have you outta here in the next ten minutes. Now, if you could just run me through what happened one more time . . .”
Claire sighed and began telling her story once again.
Upstairs in the squad room, Nick sat at his desk, still fuming. Damn that shrink, he thought, coming in here and telling me my business. And in the next moment, he was pissed at himself. He’d lost control. His words to Claire had shot out of his mouth before he could stop them. Nick started to worry. Shrink or not, it wasn’t every day someone walked in the door and handed you the answer to two, possibly three, murders.
That story of hers is crazy, he thought as he stared at the morgue photos of the three victims. Playing dress-up to lure a patient into confessing. Who the hell does that? A shrink with more than a screw loose, that’s who.
“You okay, Detective?” Wessel asked, standing across from Nick’s desk.
Nick looked up, blinking away the glare from his desk lamp. “Why the hell are you just standing there?” Nick lashed out.
Wessel seemed unsure of himself as he put a printout on Nick’s desk. “Pulled the priors on Todd Quimby—the guy the shrink mentioned. Thought you’d want them.”
He was waiting for Nick to explode. But Nick held back, knowing the kid was only doing the job he was paid to do. The job Nick knew he should be doing himself.
“Thanks, kid,” Nick said, almost cracking a smile.
Wessel nodded in return. “Hey, can you do me a favor?”
“Like what?” Nick asked, eyeing Wessel. What the hell does he want from me? Nick wasn’t interested in breaking in a new partner—or any partner, for that matter. He liked going solo. Made things a lot easier.
“I got eight years on the job. You said first names, right?”
Translation: Wessel disliked being called “kid.” Nick got it.
“Tommy, right?”
“Thanks.” Wessel nodded, still looking serious. “Mind if I ask you a question?”
“We’re partners,” Nick said, trying to clear the air. “Shoot.”
“How come you don’t like shrinks?”
Now Nick was pissed again. “Look, everybody knows what happened, so if you don’t, you’re either ignorant or you’re patronizing me.”
Wessel realized his mistake. “I’m sorry. I get it. What you went through would mess anybody up.”
“I’m glad you understand. You’re a nice kid, Tommy, and you’re starting off like a champ. Don’t screw it up with your mouth, okay?”
Wessel nodded and headed back to his desk, tail between his legs. Nick picked up the printout. The first sheet held Quimby’s mug shot. He studied Quimby’s face. Ordinary. A face you see everywhere—manning the counter at a 7-Eleven, working construction, or driving a delivery truck. Like millions of guys you never pay a moment’s attention to. He doesn’t look like a sex offender. But what does a sex offender look like?
Nick turned the page, perusing Quimby’s history of arrests. Went to the next page, where two words immediately caught his eye:
Merchant marine.
Nick read further. Quimby had washed out of the Merchant Marine Academy on Long Island in the middle of his freshman year.
Long enough to learn how to tie maritime knots. Like a Dutch marine bowline.
Nick flipped through the pages of the printout. “Where the hell is it?” he said out loud.
“What are you looking for?” Wessel asked.
“When Quimby last did time. I got only his arrests,” Nick replied, feeling the old adrenaline rush.
“I can tell you that,” Wessel said. “He was in Rikers from September of last year till last week—”
Which sent Nick bolting from his desk and for the door.
“What is it?” Wessel called after him, catching up at the stairs.
“This prick Quimby went to jail after the St. Jude’s murder last year and got out right before the Jane Doe at Coney Island. That’s why there were no similar murders in between.”
Claire stood in the street across from the precinct, trying to hail a cab. She was still angry. It was late afternoon on Sunday, and the July sun was so bright she had to squint to keep the burning glare out of her eyes. Everyone seemed to have fled the city to escape the heat except for two little girls who were jumping rope across the street. Claire watched them.
How long had it been?
The heat sent a vaporous haze around the girls as they jumped over and over until the one with blond hair tripped. The other girl stopped jumping and hugged her, as if to tell her that everything would be all right.
Why hadn’t she stayed with Amy?
The sound of a car approaching made Claire turn away from the little girls. It was a cab, heading toward her with its OFF DUTY light on. She waved for the cabbie to stop.
He pulled over and rolled down the window. “Where you going?” the cabbie asked.
“Eighty-Eighth and West End,” Claire answered.
“On my way to the barn. I’ll take you,” the cabbie replied.
“Thanks,” Claire said as she got in. It was the first break she’d had all day, and all she wanted to do was go home and forget. Suddenly the door jerked open.
“Police. Stop,” Nick said breathlessly to the cabbie, who threw the car into park.
“What do you want? You scared me,” Claire exclaimed.
“Why’d you try to bait him?” Nick asked. “This Quimby guy.”
“I thought you weren’t interested,” Claire answered as she got out of the cab to confront Nick.
“Look, I’m sorry about what I said upstairs. I should talk to Mr. Quimby.”
“Oh, now you think I’m right?” Claire smirked.
“I don’t need an argument from you, Doctor. . . .”
“Waters. Claire Waters.”
“Right. Dr. Waters. I just need this Quimby’s address. If you have it.”
Claire eyed him. Then she pulled the file from her bag and opened it on the trunk of the taxi. Started to write on a piece of scrap paper.
“I should go with you,” she said to Nick.
“No, you shouldn’t,” he returned.
“I know how to talk to him,” Claire offered.
“If that were the case, you wouldn’t be here right now, would you?” Nick said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means that next time you have a patient who you think is going to hurt somebody, stop trying to be Nancy Drew and leave the police work to the people who know how to do it.”
Claire glared at him. “Next time I’ll make sure I go to a detective with an open mind.”
She all but flung the piece of paper at Nick. “Quimby moved in with his grandmother,” she said as she got back into the cab and slammed the door.
As the cab took off, she couldn’t help but glance back at Nick Lawler, whose figure shrunk in the rear window until the taxi turned the corner and he vanished.
CHAPTER 8
The sun was setting by the time Claire dragged herself into the apartment, letting the heavy, prewar door slam shut with a bang. She dropped her bag on the parquet wood floor, not caring where it landed, and collapsed onto the overstuffed sofa. Claire had bought their furniture, upholstered in muted beiges and comforting sky blues, on special weekend trips with Ian to Dutchess County. Every month, they would stay at a different small B and B and hunt for bargains, each item reminding Claire of a wonderful time spent together. She knew that someday she would leave her fellowship in DC and move in with Ian, and she wanted the apartment to be a respite from her patients’ psychic traumas.
“You okay?” came Ian’s voice from the bedroom.
She didn’t answer. He’ll come out to check on me. He always does.
> Which, in the next instant, was exactly what Ian did. He wore a light blue T-shirt and black gym shorts, and planted himself on the rug next to her. Claire looked down at him and smiled. He looked so calm sitting on a pattern of azure waves. He gently took her hand in his.
“You’ve had a helluva day,” he said, stating the obvious.
Claire just nodded and closed her eyes. There was a long silence between them, which Ian finally broke. “Everybody’s asking me what happened,” he said.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Claire managed.
Ian nodded, understanding. “Can I get you anything?”
“I’m good, thanks,” Claire replied.
But as she heard him stand, she cracked her eyelids just enough to watch him walk into the kitchen. On any other day, this view of him might have aroused her. Tonight, however, the thought of having sex made her think of Quimby and what he’d done to those women.
Though it had always been good with Ian. They met during their psych residency at Harvard’s prestigious Massachusetts General. Claire was encouraged to apply there and was all but assured of a spot. Ian, a strong, but not stellar, medical student from Stanford, had no such guarantees but matched nonetheless. They circled each other for the better part of their four-year stint, their mutual attraction palpable. The only thing holding them back was Claire’s desire to keep things professional between them. Until, as their time together wound down, Claire stopped fighting Ian off and gave in to his shameless advances. He had clearly fallen in love with her. And she realized she was in love with him. She was strongly attracted to him, and the sex was the best she’d ever had in her limited experience with men. He knew how to make her relax—he’d give her a crooked smile, rub her neck, or run his fingers through her hair. And the tension that was always there somewhere deep inside her would drain away, at least for a few short, peaceful moments.
They lived apart while Claire completed her fellowship at the NIH in DC, since Ian had joined the psychiatry house staff at New York’s Bellevue Hospital, one of the busiest in the nation. Claire’s fellowship provided her with a reasonably normal work schedule, so she was the one who traveled to Manhattan on weekends. Depending on whether Ian was on call, these trips often amounted to little more than conjugal visits. But Claire needed to connect with him physically, as if to be recharged for the nights she spent alone with dreams of Amy being swallowed up by the earth or sucked into a whirling eddy, calling out for Claire to save her.