“What makes you think I’d know who they are?” Deadmarsh asked.

“We know your wife had an acquaintance with one of them, so there must be some chance. How long have the two of you been married?”

“About six months.”

“Did you know each other long before that?”

“No, actually. Only a few months.”

“So you wouldn’t have a lot of mutual friends,” Sanderson suggested.

“Fewer than most couples.”

They arrived at a heavy metal door, and Sanderson sent Blix ahead. He turned and said, “All the same, I’d like you to have a look. But I must warn you, this is the morgue. Are you up to it?”

“If it will help find my wife—absolutely.”

Sanderson engaged his most somber smile. “Good. It always helps to have that kind of cooperation.”

Chapter 8

EIGHT

Slaton followed the inspector through a steel door that looked like something from a prison. Here, on the lowest level, the contemporary architecture of the building’s outer facade gave way to more original underpinnings. As was common practice in Europe, the ancient foundation had been shored up, and the old skeleton dressed with new fixtures and fittings. The room in which he was standing was dated by a hard stone floor that seemed to go straight to the earth’s core. He saw naked ventilation ducts strapped to a plaster ceiling, Internet wiring tacked across wall slabs that had been laid down centuries before. Noting the thickness of the jointed stone, Slaton was happy to have taken up masonry in the twenty-first century.

Weak lighting sprayed the unpainted walls in an eerie yellow hue. The room was cold and damp, fitting to its function, and the smell of an acrid cleaning agent didn’t quite overpower the stench of death. Slaton had been in morgues before, bigger versions overflowing with the aftermath of bombings and war. Here there were no more than a dozen tables reserved for the newly departed, a waiting room for earthly remains until they could be disposed of with that proper balance of decency and sanitation. Slaton did not see an attendant, but he heard music from a nearby office, something with a Euro-pop techno beat that added to the room’s bizarre texture.

A drawer had already been pulled, presenting a body covered by an off-white sheet. The inspector led Slaton to one side of the long gray tray, and his sergeant pulled back the cover. Slaton studied the body. As he did, he felt Sanderson studying him.

“He was alive when the paramedics arrived,” the inspector said. “Survived for nine hours in the critical care unit before giving up.”

Slaton said nothing.

“Well? Do you know him?” Sanderson asked.

“No, I’ve never seen him.”

Sanderson stared for a long moment but didn’t ask again.

Slaton turned away and swept his eyes over the dank room. “Where’s the second body?”

“Upstairs,” Sanderson replied. “Fortunately for everyone, that one is a bit warmer.”

*   *   *