C
HAPTER
15
N
ick awoke with a start, his eyelids open but his eyes seeing nothing. A brief, terrifying thought overtook him before he remembered the windowless room in the precinct where he'd chosen to grab a few hours of much-needed sleep.
He fumbled for the button that lit up his watch. The numbers on the face slowly came into focus: 9:17 p.m. Shit. He sat bolt uprightâand promptly hit his head on the underside of the top bunk.
Rubbing his head, Nick swung his feet to the floor. He shook off the ever-increasing soreness of middle age and cursed the city of New York for forcing the best detectives in the world to nap on decrepit bunk beds, purchased no doubt from some nameless discount warehouse at least a decade before Nick was born. He breathed in the stale air and felt a twinge of panic. The last time he was here, a year ago, he could see the outlines of the beds from the light leaking under the door. Tonight he saw only black.
He maneuvered carefully around the dark room, which was no bigger than a large closet; in fact, Nick thought, it probably
was
a closet before it was commandeered as the precinct “crib.” He peeled off his gym shorts, put on his jeans, undershirt, and sweater, and laced up his black Reeboks. No need for his usual suit tonight. He was going hunting.
In the forty-eight hours since Tammy Sorenson's body had been found on home plate in De Witt Clinton Park, Todd Quimby had become the most feared criminal in New York since David Berkowitz, the notorious “Son of Sam” serial killer, murdered seven young people parked in lovers' lanes thirty-five years earlier. Quimby's body count was now four women (and one critically injured detective, Tommy Wessel), causing the police commissioner, a raging control freak on a good day, to declare war. The PC, a sergeant back in '77, remembered all too well what the Son of Sam cost the Big Apple back then. No way was he giving Quimby carte blanche to scare the masses away from his turf. Not on his watch.
His orders were clear: screw the city's budget deficit. Blanket overtime was approved, vacation days and time off revoked for every cop in the Five Boroughs. Todd Quimby would be captured at all costs; they would pursue him until he was either locked up or, as the PC was heard to say to a select few, dead. The Boss of Bosses let it be known that the cop or cops who stopped Quimby from dropping another corpse would be rewarded with promotions and plum assignments.
Damn him for saying those exact words to the press,
Nick thought.
He hadn't been home since Tammy's murder, running down every possible lead, each one leading nowhere. Even worse, though, were the now-constant, always-annoying encounters with the New York news media. Cops loved tipping off their “friends” in the press, and in a high-profile case like this, the NYPD leaked like Hoover Dam had burst. Every reporter worth his salt knew Nick was the lead detective on the case, which translated into at least a dozen microphones and TV cameras being shoved up his nose every time he walked in or out of the precinct. Always polite (because you never knew when you'd need them), Nick gave a friendly “No comment” unless the reporter “went Geraldo” (the cops' term of derision for any bastard who got in their face), to which he would give a glare and walk away.
Of course, what he really wanted to tell them was to get the hell out of his face so he could do his job. And after two relentless days without sleep, Lieutenant Wilkes had ordered Nick to the crib. Nick chose not to argue with his savior, the man who literally resurrected his career, and went without protest to catch three hours of shut-eye.
Now, four hours later, Nick emerged from the bunk room, clipping his holster to his belt and adjusting his eyes to the much brighter light of the hallway just in time to see Savarese bounding toward him.
“Just coming to get you,” he said to Nick.
“What's up?” Nick replied.
“Heard back from Tammy Sorenson's employer, Biopharix. Human Resources confirmed she took two weeks' vacation.”
“Did she tell them where she was going?” Nick asked, hoping for even the smallest lead.
“Nope,” Savarese said. “We checked her credit cards. No plane, train, or hotel reservations. For Hawaii or anywhere else.”
They entered the buzzing squad room, which was too small to handle the sheer number of bodies assigned to the case. Detectives doubled up at desks, almost falling over one another as they walked in and out. Phones rang off the hook as Wilkes, in his tiny office at the far end of the room, screamed expletives into his phone and then slammed it down on the cradle.
“You think Tammy checked in somewhere secretly for treatment?” Savarese asked. “Some kind of private clinic or something?”
Nick couldn't help but think of his secret trips to the ophthalmologist in Boston.
“If she did, it's gonna be a bitch finding out where, what with the federal privacy laws,” Nick replied. “When was the last time she used a credit card?”
“The night we found her,” answered Savarese.
“Which was two nights after she was murdered,” Nick replied, grabbing a marker and writing
credit cards
in dark blue ink on the dry-erase board. “Means Quimby used her credit cards. For what?”
“Bar tabs at every hot club in Manhattan. Guy's been busy. He hit the Iguana, Baby Face, South of SoHo, Red ...”
Nick scribbled the club names on the board. “Hold on. That's the same club Tammy went to three weeks ago,” he said, circling the name
Red
.
“And there's a charge here to Red the night she was killed,” Savarese said, scanning the printout.
“What? Why didn't you tell me?” Nick challenged him.
“I only just got her financialsâ”
“I got it!” Nick interrupted with an excitement Savarese hadn't seen in over a year. “Tammy kept a diary of all the clubs where she picked up men. She went back to Red the night she was killedâit's only two blocks from De Witt Clinton Park.”
“Which means Quimby met her there,” Savarese added.
“The clubs are his hunting ground,” Nick said, underlining
Red
on the board for emphasis.
“Then we'd better get detectives into every one of them, right?” growled Wilkes, now beside them. Neither detective had seen him come over.
Nick grabbed his jacket from his chair. “I'll take Redâ”
“Not so fast,” Wilkes interrupted. “Maggie Stolls just called in. Your shrink gave her the slip.”
The news worried Nick and pissed him off. “Did Maggie say how?”
“She told Stolls she was working late and then took off,” Wilkes replied.
Claire wouldn't intentionally ditch her protection after everything that happened,
Nick thought
. Or would she?
“Maggie's gotta get back to the safe house in case Dr. Waters shows up,” Nick said.
“She's on her way,” replied Wilkes. “And you've gotta get out there and find that crazy shrink. Before Quimby does.”
“I need to find Quimby,” Nick shot back, turning for the door.
“And I don't need a murdered psychiatrist,” Wilkes shouted back, turning all the detectives' heads. “I got enough problems as it is. Find her, Nick. Now.”
Nick stopped and turned back to face Wilkes, knowing it was useless to argue.
“Okay,” he said simply, and headed out.
Â
Total darkness. Then searing bright red lights, flashing on, off, on, off, against the pounding beat of hip-hop as Nick pushed his way into the club, struggling to see.
Then the lights came on low, allowing his eyes to finally focus on the sea of bodies gyrating against one another like bacteria in polluted waters. He was in Red, one of the clubs that appeared in Tammy Sorenson's sex diary and, posthumously, on her credit card statement.
As he flashed his detective's shield to the bouncer outside the club, Nick couldn't help but notice the thick red velvet rope that held back the waiting crowd. He knew he was crossing the line in more ways than one. He was actively disobeying Lt. Wilkes's order to find Claire. Violating a direct command from his superior, the one who'd saved his ass. An offense punishable by loss of vacation, pay, or, if they really wanted to get you, termination from the police department and forfeiting one's pension.
Or, if he found Todd Quimby inside the club, a promotion.
Until the job learned about his secret disability.
How long can I keep it from them?
Nick thought as he moved through the crowd, passing patrons who looked at him like he was a freak of nature. Did they make him for a cop? In a room full of Armani and Hugo Boss, did his Men's Wearhouse Super 180 wool pinstripe pants and turtleneck peg him as a wannabe? He'd stopped at home to change, putting on the hippest outfit he owned.
What was I thinking? I'll never fit in,
he thought as he felt someone bump him in the shoulder.
“Sorry,” Nick said instantly to a good-looking guy in his thirties dancing with a woman wearing a dress that barely covered her obviously enhanced breasts.
“Watch where you're going, asshole,” the guy said.
Nick wasn't in the mood. “
Sorry
doesn't work for you?” he asked in a way that sounded like a dare.
The guy, who was obviously trying to pick up the woman, got in Nick's face. “You need to apologize to the lady too.”
“And what if I don't?” Nick returned.
“You the cop?” came a voice from behind them.
Nick turned to face a man in his late forties, the lines in his face a testament to years of hard partying. “I'm Andros Szabo. The owner.”
Nick displayed his shield. “Detective Nick Lawler,” he said. He shot a look to the jerk, who made the prudent decision to step back. Nick caught the wink the woman with the fake breasts shot him as she walked away from the troublemaker. Nick then turned to Szabo. “Somewhere we can talk?” he yelled above the din.
Szabo nodded, parting the crowd and leading Nick up a flight of stairs and into a plush office with a huge one-way mirror that looked out over the gyrating bodies.
“Appreciate the time,” Nick said, pulling a photo of Tammy Sorenson from his pocket and handing it to Szabo. “Have you seen this woman in here?”
Without missing a beat, Szabo nodded. “A shame. Such a beautiful girl,” he replied in his Eastern European accent, looking up at Nick. “I see the news.”
“You know her,” Nick said.
“Tammy,” Szabo replied. “Everybody knows Tammy,” he said with a smile.
Nick knew exactly what he meant but wanted to hear it from him. “Can you be more specific?”
Szabo looked at him like he was a rube. “Every night, she come in. Have a drink, go on the dance floor. Pick up a guy. Leave with guy. Every night, different guy. Tried to leave with me one night,” he said wistfully. “I know better.”
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.”