“Have you taken Colin there?” I straightened, gesturing for Quentin to come. He moved to flank me, silent.

Jan nodded. “Peter and Gordan will have finished moving him by now.”

Those two were toting bodies down the stairs while the full-sized people sat around? Oh, that was a fair division of labor. “Good. Let’s go.”

“Go where?” Elliot asked. It was clear he knew the answer but was hoping to be wrong.

Tough. “The basement. I need to see the bodies.”

“Right.” Jan straightened, taking her hand off Elliot’s shoulder. “Follow me.”

“Can I stay here?” Elliot’s voice sounded shaky. “I don’t want to go down there.” Jan gave me a pleading look, and I nodded. With the way the morning was going, he’d throw up on the bodies. I’m no forensics expert, but even I know that vomit doesn’t usually improve the evidence.

“You can stay here,” I said. When he brightened, I continued, “I want you to get me everything you have on the victims. Personnel files, medical records—anything.”

“I can do that,” he said, tone almost painfully grateful.

“I’m going to want to search their offices and work spaces. I’ll also need to examine the murder scenes.” There might be something, unlikely as it was starting to seem. “All right?”

“No trouble at all.”

“Good. Jan, Quentin, let’s go.”

“All right.” Jan looked over her shoulder, asking, “Elliot, will you be okay?”

“No. But I don’t think it matters right now. I’ll cope.” Elliot stood. “Take them to the basement. I’ll start finding the stuff they need.”

“Do you need anyone to help?” They spoke like equals, but there was an underlying unease there—I got the feeling he was usually the one taking care of her, not the other way around.

“I’ll call April if I need help,” he said, forcing a smile.

“All right, Elliot.” She moved toward the door. We hurried to catch up.

“What do you think?” I murmured to Quentin.

“I think we should leave a trail of bread crumbs,” he replied.

I barked a humorless laugh and picked up the pace.

The route followed a series of twisting halls over what the windows indicated to be multiple floors. I was learning not to trust my eyes at ALH. By the time we stopped, I was so disoriented that I didn’t know if we were on the roof, the ground floor, or the island of Manhattan. The last hall was lit by dim fluorescent bulbs, with a floor covered in industrial gray linoleum. The only door in sight was painted dull orange, trimmed with yellow. A sign at eye level read “Warning: Hazardous Materials. Keep Out.”

Jan saw me eyeing it. “It’s a joke. It’s been hanging there for years. We didn’t put it up because . . .”

“Fine,” I said, more sharply than I’d intended. “Can we get this over with?”

“Right.”

The stairs descended almost vertically into a large, well-lit room. Judging by the stacks of computer parts and desk furniture lining the walls, they used it for storage before it became a makeshift morgue. The air was cold and tasted faintly bitter, like machine oil and carpet cleaner. Three army cots sat in the center of the room, covered by white cotton sheets with unmistakable shapes beneath them. The dead have their own geometry.