Kill Switch

by Neal Baer

  My bedroom. If only I’d gotten there in time . . .

  He shook his head, thinking of that horrible night as he glanced up at the window of Claire’s apartment. The light was on; nothing seemed to be out of place. And Maggie was there to protect her. Nick waited one more second before he got into the car and closed the door.

  Claire gasped for air as her attacker pulled her violently backward, out of the bathroom. She had one hand between the rope and her windpipe, the other trying in vain to wrench his hand from her mouth. She tried desperately to bite him, but he was too strong. And then she remembered her spike-heeled shoes.

  With everything she had left, she drove one of those spikes as far into his foot as she could.

  He let out a cry of pain, involuntarily loosening his hold on the rope long enough for Claire to catch her breath and yank it away from him. She tried to scream again, but he was too fast for her, grabbing her around the neck in a choke hold and, in a burst of energy and anger, lifting her off the floor.

  Claire flailed, kicking frantically, knocking over everything in her reach, knowing he’d cut off the blood flow to her brain and that she had only seconds before passing out. In desperation, she lifted her legs so the spiked heels faced the murderer behind her and kicked as hard as she could.

  Her third thrust connected squarely with the killer’s thigh.

  Instantly, she felt his arm go limp around her neck as he tried to remain standing. Claire kicked him again, connecting with his knee and driving him backward, but also throwing her off balance and sending her crashing to the ground.

  For the first time, she caught a glimpse of the man. He wore dark clothes, a hood over his head. A ski mask over his face.

  And work boots. Dirty ones.

  Like the ones Todd Quimby wore. It’s him.

  She was on the other side of the living room now, near the windows that looked out onto the street. She struggled to her feet, her eyes on the apartment door. If she could just get there.

  Claire tried to run. But Quimby was too fast for her, latching onto the back of her dress, ripping it as he tried to pull her down.

  She clutched the one lamp that gave light to the apartment but couldn’t get the leverage she needed to whack him over the head with it.

  So instead, with a sudden burst of adrenaline, she heaved it forward as hard as she could.

  It sailed through the plate-glass window, shattering it into a million pieces on its journey to the sidewalk below and plunging the apartment into darkness.

  Even with his police radio blaring, Nick heard the smash.

  He had turned the car around and driven past the safe house one last time. He jammed on the brakes, screeching to a stop.

  He looked in his rearview mirror, just in time to see a lamp land on the sidewalk behind him.

  Nick jumped from the car, his Maglite in hand. He shined the beam up toward Claire’s apartment. The jagged edges of glass that had once been the picture window gleamed like so many daggers.

  Pulling his Glock, he ran for the brownstone. He burst through the front door but was stopped by the interior security door, which was much too heavy to kick in.

  Aiming carefully to avoid ricochet, he fired at the lock. On the third shot it literally flew off the door.

  Nick barreled through, taking the stairs two at a time.

  “Police!” he screamed as he reached the second-floor landing, hoping to scare the hell out of whoever was in the apartment.

  With no thought to his own safety, he kicked in the apartment door. Swept his light across the darkness, illuminating the wreck of an apartment.

  “Police!” Nick screamed again. “Hands in the air!”

  “He’s gone,” came Claire’s weak voice from across the room.

  Nick holstered his gun and ran toward the voice, stumbling over the detritus of the struggle, finally reaching Claire, who was lying on the floor by the shattered window, the rope around her neck tied in what Nick could clearly see was a Dutch marine bowline. He helped Claire to her feet. “Are you okay?”

  “I will be,” she replied.

  “Where’s Maggie?”

  “In the bathroom. Dead.”

  This wasn’t the answer Nick expected.

  “Quimby?”

  “He heard gunshots and ran. Through my bedroom. I heard the window open,” Claire said. “He must’ve gone out the fire escape.”

  “You sure you’re not hurt?” Nick asked.

  “I don’t think so,” said Claire, still in shock.

  “Call nine-one-one,” Nick told her. “Tell the operator you have a ten-thirteen at this address—that’s a cop in trouble. They’ll be here in two minutes.”

  He ran toward the bedroom. “Be careful,” Claire shouted after him.

  Nick climbed through the open window onto the fire escape. He climbed down the ladder, landing on the ground in an alley behind the brownstone. He shined his light in both directions. Quimby was gone.

  Nick ran to where the alley spilled onto the sidewalk. He looked up and down the poorly lit street. There wasn’t a soul out at this hour. Not that his failing eyes could make out, anyway.

  And then he heard it. The distinctive groan of a car engine turning over.

  He aimed his light in the direction of the sound. Near the end of the block, a car was pulling out of a spot beside the curb.

  Nick squeezed between two parked cars out to the street. The car headed toward him. Though its headlights were off, Nick could make out its shape. A ’90sera Buick Century sedan.

  Quimby’s grandmother owns a Buick Century. . . .

  The car picked up speed, veered to the left, and bore down on him.

  He’s aiming for me!

  With a second to spare before the car flattened him, Nick dove across the hood of a Hyundai, landing on the sidewalk as the speeding Buick sideswiped two other cars and kept on going.

  Nick could hear the approaching sirens as he picked himself up and ran for the Impala, double-parked right where he’d left it, the engine still running. He jumped behind the wheel, threw it into gear, and jammed his foot on the gas, spinning the car into a screeching U-turn.

  With one hand he palmed the wheel, straightening out the car as he put the red bubble light in the window with the other. Suddenly, Claire ran out into the street, her torn dress flapping in the wind, her feet bare. Nick slammed on the brakes as Claire yanked the passenger door open and all but fell in.

  “Go!” she yelled at Nick.

  She pulled on her seat belt as Nick stomped the gas pedal and flipped on the siren.

  “Where’s the Buick?” he demanded.

  “Why the hell are you asking me?”

  “Just answer the question!”

  Claire could see it clearly, a block ahead of them. “End of the next block.”

  The Impala lurched to the right, sideswiping a parked pickup truck.

  “Are you trying to kill us?” Claire asked.

  “I don’t see the car,” Nick said.

  “He turned right at the corner,” Claire shouted, now scared. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “I can’t see at night!”

  “Then pull over!”

  “We’ll lose him,” Nick said. “We have to switch.”

  “While the car’s moving?”

  “I’ll keep my foot on the gas. You grab the wheel and come under me.”

  Claire looked at him like he was nuts.

  “Now!” he said.

  She unlatched her seat belt and slid toward him as he lifted himself up off the seat, allowing her to slide under him.

  They completed the maneuver and Claire could see the Buick careening into another right turn two blocks ahead of them.

  She stomped on the gas as if she was born to drive. Made the two blocks in ten seconds, effortlessly turning the car around the next corner.

  “Who taught you how to drive?” Nick asked incredulously.

  “My father,” said Claire. “Who hires a
cop who’s night-blind?”

  “They don’t know.”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “I have retinitis pigmentosa.”

  Claire looked at him sharply.

  “Eyes on the road,” Nick said to her.

  “Retinitis pigmentosa? And you’re carrying a gun?”

  “Shut up and drive.”

  Ahead of them, Claire saw the Buick swerve onto an off-ramp for the FDR Drive.

  “Jesus. He’s going the wrong way.”

  “Where?” asked Nick.

  “South on the northbound lanes of the FDR.”

  “Don’t follow him. Too dangerous.”

  “One step ahead of you,” Claire said.

  She spun the wheel, expertly maneuvering the Impala onto the on-ramp for FDR Drive. “We’ll parallel him,” she said.

  “You should’ve been a cop,” Nick said, grabbing his handheld radio: “Central, seven-two-three, in pursuit of a nineties-model Buick Century heading south in the northbound lanes of the FDR Drive from Twenty-Third Street. Driver is a suspect in six homicides. Get Highway to shut down the FDR!”

  Nick could hear the dispatcher clearing the frequency. Putting this out over the radio was the last thing he wanted to do because this would draw the media. But he had no choice.

  Fortunately, it was the middle of the night and traffic on the Drive was light. Claire could see the Buick up ahead in the opposite lanes, dodging cars right and left.

  Nick screamed into the walkie-talkie. “He just passed Houston Street. Shut him down at the Brooklyn Bridge!”

  They came around the curve under the Williamsburg Bridge. Claire floored it, gaining on the Buick, coming nearly abreast of it when the Buick put on a burst of speed, lurching forward and away.

  Nick glanced at the Impala’s speedometer. Its needle was approaching triple digits.

  “Don’t lose him,” Nick urged.

  The Buick lurched left, hugging the guardrail along the East River, sparks flying.

  “What the hell is he doing?” Nick asked.

  They were just about to pass under the Manhattan Bridge, Claire realized. “He’s going to take the Brooklyn Bridge exit.”

  “He’s going too fast. He’ll never make the turn at the top of the ramp.”

  They were almost upon the exit. Inexplicably, Quimby sped up, pulled away from Claire and Nick, and shot up the exit ramp.

  “Stop the car!” Nick ordered. “He’s gonna crash!”

  Claire slowed the Impala to a stop just as the Buick breached the concrete guardrail and sailed into the air.

  Nick was already screaming into the radio for harbor rescue as Quimby’s car did a perfect arc into the murky water of the East River and vanished beneath the surface.

  CHAPTER 17

  The sun was just peeking over the horizon as a barge with a crane on board approached three NYPD harbor launches idling near the site where Todd Quimby’s car had sailed into the river. Bubbles skimmed the deep purple water as two scuba divers surfaced with a body in tow.

  Claire and Nick watched the activity with Deputy Medical Examiner Ross from the pier of the South Street Seaport, just a few hundred yards away, as the cops heaved Quimby’s bobbing corpse onto the nearest of the boats, which started its engines and headed toward them.

  “What a cluster,” Nick muttered under his breath.

  It had been nothing less. The NYPD’s Harbor Unit, long proud of its rapid response time, was tied up on a 911 call off Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. The first launch showed up twenty minutes after Nick radioed for help, all but ensuring that Todd Quimby would drown.

  “If anyone asks—” Nick whispered to Claire.

  “You were driving,” Claire interrupted. “Got it.”

  Claire saw a look on his face she hadn’t seen before but knew well. She’d seen it in the mirror herself too many times since her friend Amy had disappeared.

  Fear.

  But as the launch eased up beside the pier, Claire was feeling something else. Relief. Because in just a few moments, she would positively identify the serial killer who’d scared the hell out of not only her, but also all of New York City.

  The launch’s engines went silent. Quimby’s body lay faceup on the aft deck, intact. Claire couldn’t take her eyes off him as she spoke the words that would end this nightmare once and for all.

  “It’s him.”

  “For the record,” Nick said, “can you tell me who you know the deceased to be and where you know him from?”

  “His name is Todd Quimby,” Claire replied without emotion. “He was one of my patients.”

  “Good enough for me,” ME Ross said as his techs stuffed Quimby into a body bag, hoisted him onto a gurney, and rolled him away.

  Nick turned to Claire. “It’s over,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  He walked toward the Impala. Claire fell into step beside him, surreptitiously passing him the car keys.

  “What now?” Claire asked him.

  “Crime Scene Unit will supervise the recovery of the Buick, transport it to the garage at the lab. They’ll go over it from stem to stern for evidence—if it hasn’t been washed away.”

  A pang of regret hit Claire as she realized she’d never be able to interview Quimby and ask him why he murdered all those women. But more importantly, she’d never get to ask him if he knew how sick Tammy Sorenson was when he raped and killed her. She stopped beside the Impala as Nick remote-clicked the locks.

  “Can I borrow your phone?” Claire asked.

  “Sure,” Nick replied, pulling it out of his pocket and handing it to her.

  “I’ll only be a minute,” Claire said as she moved away from him for privacy.

  Nick got in the car and watched Claire press the numbers. Then she turned her back to him.

  Claire realized she hadn’t even thought about Ian in the adrenaline rush of the chase and the aftermath of the crash. The phone rang until she heard his quiet, soothing voice come on, asking callers to leave a message. Claire hung up before the beep and checked her watch: 6:23 a.m.

  I called too late, she thought, realizing that he was on rounds before Curtin’s Last Supper. Frustrated, she got into the car.

  “I’m going to have to write this all up,” Nick said, now weary. “There are a couple things I’ve got to ask you.”

  “Go ahead,” Claire said as she watched the sun break through streaks of red across the horizon.

  “How’d you get into the safe house this morning?” Nick asked, taking out a small notebook.

  “I unlocked the door and walked in,” Claire said, confused. “Why?”

  “When I got upstairs last night, I just kicked the door in. I didn’t look to see if it was jimmied.”

  “The door wasn’t forced. That means Maggie let Quimby into the apartment,” Claire said. “But why would she do that?”

  “Maggie was a good cop,” Nick reassured her. “I’m sure she saw him through the peephole, recognized him, let him in thinking she could collar him, and he overpowered her.”

  They looked at each other, knowing what this meant.

  “He was following me,” Claire said, letting out a breath.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” he said. “You’re safe.”

  Safe? She’d never felt completely safe. Not after Amy. And Quimby’s death still left her with a nagging question: What about Tammy? The story of her cancer didn’t make sense. Then she remembered that Ian had found something last night but didn’t have the chance to tell her before her phone broke.

  “Can you drop me off at my apartment?” she asked Nick.

  “You don’t want to come up to the safe house with me?” Nick answered. He seemed to want her to go with him.

  “I need to answer some questions about Tammy Sorenson,” Claire said. “Ian has the information and he’s gone to work. Maybe he left something at home for me.”

  “Quimby’s dead. What difference does that make now?”

  “It makes a big difference to me.”r />
  Nick shot her a look. “Keep your eyes on the road,” Claire warned him.

  He looked straight ahead.

  “It’s on the way,” he said. “I’ll drop you off.”

  For some reason Nick couldn’t explain, his gut churned as the words came out of his mouth.

  What’s that about?

  “Thank you,” Claire replied.

  “I’m walking you upstairs,” Nick said.

  Claire looked at him, perplexed. “Why?”

  “Because if Ian left information about Tammy, I want it too,” Nick answered.

  “Okay,” said Claire with a sigh of relief. We’re in this together. Nick will help me find the truth.

  Claire and Nick arrived at the door to her apartment. She was one step ahead of him and put the key in the lock.

  Nick looked at her as she fumbled with the uncooperative dead bolt. She twisted the key back and forth, and it finally gave way. She pushed the door open a crack.

  “I have to get over to the safe house. Boss is waiting for me.”

  And then he stopped. Like something slapped him in the face. His sense of smell had become more sensitive since his eyesight began to deteriorate, and the odor he now detected emanating from Claire’s apartment made him wince.

  “If Ian left anything, I’ll bring it to your office,” Claire said, about to step inside when Nick roughly pulled her back.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  “Stay here,” Nick ordered, reaching for his gun.

  “There’s nobody inside, Nick,” Claire argued. “Ian’s at work and Todd Quimby’s in the morgue.”

  “Please,” Nick said. “Just do what I say.”

  The look on his face frightened Claire, which Nick caught immediately.

  “It’s probably nothing,” Nick said.

  Claire nodded, now alarmed.

  With his gun pointed down and at his side, Nick entered the apartment. He closed the door all but a crack. Across the room, a curtain billowed from the breeze entering through an open window.

  The window to the fire escape.

  Nick felt the adrenaline course through his body.

  Something happened in this apartment.

  With his free hand, he yanked an ever-present pair of latex gloves from his back pocket. As he put on the gloves, he noticed his hands were shaking. He reached the end of the entry hall where the living room began and switched on the light. Nothing was out of place.