At the end of the hall, past the first office, was a long, steep staircase that switched back twice, directly down to the street. There were no bodies. I opened the door and looked out. The cleaning van was parked to the right and the refrigerated meat truck was just in front of the door. There were no windows to the back of the cleaning van. I went up to the third floor.

The dead cleaners looked like twins lying side by side on their backs. Two similar bodies without faces. Actually, the first one still had a bit of face left. Enough to see the faint curl of a smile. I figured Chechnyans or Dagestanis. B-grade freelancers. Experienced, brutal and effective, canny and resilient, but not known for subtlety. I turned their pockets. One car key and nothing else. No wallets, no identification, no phones. The key was for a Ford. The cleaning van.

I opened the back of the Ford. The doors swung out. On either side of the interior was custom-built storage for cleaning supplies. Rolls of plastic sheeting in two different grades. Another shelf was stocked with all kinds of spray bottle products. I closed the door.

The refrigerated meat truck was parked just in front of the stairwell. I had overlooked it, which made sense because it was parked in front of a kebab restaurant. There was no one in the cab. A clean and new truck. Maybe a Chinese brand. It was a modern meat truck. No refrigeration box sticking up from the top, everything built-in and streamlined. I peered into Le Foxy Kebab on the off chance that the driver was eating after delivery. The young guys from before had gone. The restaurant was empty.

I approached the refrigerated meat truck with curiosity bordering on morbid fascination. I could hear a faint hum from inside. The refrigerated section had a side hatch with two large clasp handles. I saw then that the truck had been parked so that when the refrigeration unit hatch was open, it made a perfect connection with the stairwell leading up to the third floor. It would only take a few seconds to move bodies from the staircase and into the truck. The gap between truck and building was sheltered from sight. I took the Beretta from my waist and thumbed off the safety.

But I needed two hands for the clasp handles of the refrigeration hatch, so I reset the safety and tucked the Beretta back into my waistband. I swung the handles open and the hatch popped out, releasing a short hiss of fog, which cleared quickly to reveal a guy working a saw back and forth across meat. He was getting good leverage, poised in mid-sawing motion. He looked up at me.