Kill Switch by Neal Baer

side of the opening—you never knew what was behind a door—and Nick knocked.
    â€œWho’s there?” came a female voice from inside the apartment.
    â€œPolice. Mrs. Quimby?”
    â€œI don’t see anyone,” said the voice, obviously referring to the peephole. “Show me some identification.”
    Nick held his shield in front of the peephole.
    â€œYou could’ve bought that badge,” said the voice. “I want something with a picture.”
    Nick and Wessel exchanged bemused looks. Mrs. Quimby was either on the ball or breaking theirs.
    Nick held his ID up to the peephole. One unlatched safety chain and two dead bolts later, the door opened, revealing Florence Quimby. She looked to be in her late seventies. Her undone white hair, housedress, and testy attitude made it clear she didn’t expect visitors and didn’t want any. Especially cops.
    â€œWhat is it?” she demanded.
    Nick’s nostrils were suddenly violated by the stench of stale tobacco, no doubt the result of decades of nicotine buildup in the apartment. “I’m Detective Lawler and this is Detective Wessel. Is your grandson Todd home?”
    â€œWhat do you people want with Todd now?” Florence asked.
    â€œWe just need to talk to him, ma’am,” said Wessel.
    â€œYeah, right,” said Florence. “Last cops who said that took my Toddy away and I didn’t see him for a year.”
    â€œIs he here now?” asked Wessel.
    â€œNo, and he hasn’t been for a couple of days,” answered Florence.
    Nick and Wessel looked at each other. “Any idea where he might be?” Nick asked.
    â€œHe doesn’t tell me where he disappears to,” Florence replied, sounding frustrated. “Are you here to take him back to jail?”
    â€œMay we come in?” asked Wessel.
    â€œUnless you have a warrant, the answer’s no.”
    Nick peered into the apartment, in which time appeared to have stopped somewhere around 1972. The garish wallpaper was peeling, Formica furniture looked beaten to an inch of its life, and the rust-colored shag carpeting was so peppered with worn spots the padding underneath was exposed.
    â€œToddy’s not a bad boy,” Florence said to them. “Why don’t you just leave him alone?”
    Wessel looked past her into the apartment. “All right if I have a drink?” he asked.
    â€œI got water. I can bring it to you.”
    â€œI’d rather have a beer if that’s okay.”
    Nick shot him a look.
    â€œI don’t keep beer in the house.”
    â€œThen whose bottle of Pabst is that?” Wessel demanded.
    He gestured to the coffee table in the living room. The bottle was nearly full, its outside covered with condensation as if someone had just taken it from the refrigerator. Florence turned and looked. A panicked expression appeared on her face.
    â€œI don’t know where that came from.”
    And then the detectives heard it—the unmistakable creaking of an old, beat-up wooden window opening.
    â€œI’ll take the back,” Wessel said, running out as Nick shoved Florence aside, pulled his gun, and dashed into the apartment.
    â€œYou can’t go in there!” Florence shouted after him as he ran down the hallway.
    But Nick already had the bedroom door open. Across the room, a faded yellow curtain flapped in the breeze. He ran to the window just in time to see Todd Quimby sprinting through the construction site next door. As quickly as he could, Nick climbed through the window, jumped without hesitation to the dirt below, and tumbled to the ground.
    He got up and dove for cover just as a steel girder hanging from a crane came within inches of snapping off his head. Nick saw the workers in hard hats yelling at him, the noise drowning out their voices but their lips clearly warning him to get the hell out of the way before he got himself killed.
    And then, three sharp blasts from a