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 above ground, 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 herâshe 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?”
C
HAPTER
26
T
ony 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 crimeâstealing 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 careerâwhich 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 uniformâa 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. Weâ
you
âjust 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.”
Â
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.”
Â
“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 together 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 minuiscule 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.
“The ME looked for cyanide during the autopsies and didn't find any,” Claire said. “It must be some other lab reagent or chemical he uses in his research.”
Nick peeked over her shoulder at the screen. “He's on the faculty at Yale School of Medicine?” he asked.
Claire opened the link. “No, he attended Yale and just gave a talk there,” she corrected.
“What about?”
“Apoptosis,” Claire said, trying to skim.
“What the hell's that?”
“Programmed cell death,” she explained, looking up at him. “The average adult loses between fifty and seventy billion cells every day.”
“Billion?”
“They're replenished. It's a normal process by which the body eliminates stressed or damaged cells. When it's not working properly, mutated cells can become cancerous.”
“Okay, but what does this have to do with this mess we're in?”
Claire turned back to the computer. “Sedgwick's talk was about a breakthrough in cancer pharmacology. For years we've been killing tumors with chemotherapy, which is basically a poison that also kills healthy cells. If a way could be found to stimulate apoptosis to kill cancerous cells ...” She looked up at Nick. “My God, that's it.”
“Please, Claire,” Nick begged. “Remember, I'm not a doctor.”
“I think Sedgwick's looking for a drug that will turn on apoptosis in cancer cells to make tumors literally kill themselves.”
“I hope this has something to do with the bitter almonds.”
Claire scanned the citations and found the article she was looking for.
“It does. He uses a chemical called
dithiothreitol
to separate and isolate the proteins in the cancer cells,” she said with excitement growing in her voice. “Dithiothreitol has a bitter almond smell.”
Nick thought he had the answer. “Maybe Quimby worked alone after all,” he suggested. “Follow me here. Tammy Sorenson worked with Sedgwick in the lab. So it makes sense she'd smell of something bitter, too, right?”
“Go on,” Claire urged.
“And it would make sense that in manipulating and dressing her corpse, the bitter odor could transfer to Quimby.”
“Yes,” Claire said, eager to hear more.
“Okay. Tammy was the fourth victim we found, but according to her autopsy, she was the third woman murdered. The medical examiner said Quimby probably kept Tammy on ice or refrigerated her for two days before he dumped her on the ball field.”
“I'm with you,” Claire said.
“What if Ross was off by a day?” Nick asked, referring to the medical examiner, “and Tammy was actually the
first
woman Quimby murdered?”
Claire considered this. “It would explain how Quimby transferred the bitter smell to the other women because he would've still been in contact with Tammy and her clothing.”
“And it sure as hell wouldn't be the first time Ross screwed up,” Nick observed.
They looked at each other. There was a piece missing. And they both knew what it was.
“Quimby lived with his grandmother,” Claire said. “I doubt he kept Tammy's body there for three minutes, let alone three days.”
“We never looked for where he might've stashed her because we thought we broke the case,” Nick replied. “We'll have to look now.”