subterranean garage seem like an immense, starkly modernistic, Western version of a pharaoh's tomb. The sodium-vapor ceiling lights, widely spaced, provided a jaundice-yellow illumination that Rachael found fitting for a place that served as an antechamber to the hall of the dead.
The area around the morgue entrance was a no-parking zone. But a score of cars were scattered farther out in the vast room, half in the crepuscular bile-yellow light and half in purple-black shadows that had the velvet texture of a casket lining.
Looking at the cars, she had the extraordinary feeling that something was hiding among them, watching.
Watching her in particular.
Benny saw her shiver, and he put his arm around her shoulders.
Everett Kordell closed the heavy morgue door, then tried to open it, but the bar handle could not be depressed. “You see? It locks automatically. Ambulances, morgue wagons, and hearses drive down that ramp from the street and stop here. The only way to get in is to push this button.” He pushed a white button in the wall beside the door. “And speak into this intercom.” He brought his mouth close to a wire speaker set flush in the concrete. “Walt? This is Dr. Kordell at the outer door. Will you buzz us back in, please?”
Walt's voice came from the speaker. “Right away, sir.”
A buzzer sounded, and Kordell was able to open the door again.
“I assume the attendant doesn't just open for anyone who asks to be let in,” Benny said.
“Of course not,” Kordell said, standing in the open doorway. “If he's sure he recognizes the voice and if he knows the person, he buzzes him through. If he doesn't recognize the voice, or if it's someone new from a private mortuary, or if there's any reason to be suspicious, the attendant walks through the corridor that we just walked, all the way from the front desk, and he inspects whoever's seeking admittance.”
Rachael had lost all interest in these details and was concerned only about the gloom-mantled garage around them, which provided a hundred excellent hiding places.
Benny said, “At that point the attendant, not expecting violence, could be overpowered, and the intruder could force his way inside.”
“Possibly,” Kordell said, his thin face drawing into a sharp scowl. “But that's never happened.”
“The attendants on duty today swear that they logged in everyone who came and went — and allowed only authorized personnel to enter?”
“They swear,” Kordell said.
“And you trust them all?”
“Implicitly. Everyone who works here is aware that the bodies in our custody are the remains of other people's loved ones, and we know we have a solemn — even sacred — responsibility to protect those remains while we're in charge of them. I think that's evident in the security arrangements I've just shown you.”
“Then,” Benny said, “someone either had to pick the lock—“
“It's virtually unpickable.”
“Or someone slipped into the morgue while the outer door was open for legitimate visitors, hid out, waited until he was the only living person inside, then spirited Dr. Leben's body away.”
“Evidently yes. But it's so unlikely that—”
Rachael said, “Could we go back inside, please?”
“Certainly,” Kordell said at once, eager to please. He stepped out of her way.
She returned to the morgue corridor, where the cold air carried a faint foul smell beneath the heavy scent of pine disinfectant.
5
UNANSWERED QUESTIONS
In the holding room where the cadavers awaited autopsy, the air was even colder than in the morgue's corridor. Glimmering strangely in all metal surfaces, the stark fluorescent light imparted a wintry sheen to the stainless-steel gurneys and to the bright stainless-steel handles and hinges on the cabinets along the walls. The glossy white enamel finish of the chests and cabinets, though surely no thicker than an eighth of an inch, had a curiously deep — even bottomless — appearance similar to the mysterious, lustrous depth of a landscape of moon-washed snow.
She tried not to look at the shrouded bodies and refused to think about what might lie in some of the enormous cabinet drawers.
The fat man in the madras jacket was Ronald Tescanet, an attorney representing the city's interests. He had been called away from dinner to be on hand when Rachael spoke with the police and, afterward, to discuss the disappearance of her husband's body. His voice was too mellifluous, almost greasy, and he was so effusively sympathetic that his condolences poured forth like warm oil from a bottle. While the police questioned
Rachael, Tescanet paced in silence behind them, frequently smoothing his thick black hair with his plump white hands, each of which was brightened by two gold and diamond rings.
As she had suspected, the two men in dark suits were plainclothes police. They showed Rachael their ID cards and badges. Refreshingly, they did not burden her with unctuous sympathy.
The younger of the two, beetle-browed and burly, was Detective Hagerstrom. He said nothing at all, leaving the questioning entirely to his partner. He stood unmoving, like a rooted oak, in contrast to the attorney's ceaseless roaming. He watched with small brown eyes that gave Rachael the impression of stupidity at first; but after a while, on reconsideration, she realized that he possessed a higher than average intelligence which he kept carefully veiled.
She worried that somehow Hagerstrom, by virtue of a cop's almost magical sixth sense, would pierce her deception and see the knowledge that she was concealing. As inconspicuously as possible, she avoided meeting his gaze.
The older cop, Detective Julio Verdad, was a small man whose complexion was the shade of cinnamon and whose black eyes had a vague trace of purple like the skins of ripe plums. He was a sharp dresser: a well-tailored blue suit, dark but summerweight; a white shirt that might have been silk, with French cuffs held together by gold and pearl cuff links; a burgundy necktie with a gold tie chain instead of a clip or tack; dark burgundy Bally loafers.
Although Verdad spoke in clipped sentences and was almost curt, his voice was unfailingly quiet and gentle. The contrast between his lulling tone and his brisk manner was disconcerting. “You've seen their security, Mrs. Leben.”
“Yes.”
“And are satisfied?”
“I suppose.”
To Benny, Verdad said, “You are?”
“Ben Shadway. An old friend of Mrs. Leben's.”
“Old school friend?”
“No.”
“A friend from work?”
“No. Just a friend.”
The plum-dark eyes gleamed. “I see.” To Rachael, Verdad said, “I have a few questions.”
“About what?”
Instead of answering at once, Verdad said, “Like to sit down, Mrs. Leben?”
Everett Kordell said, “Yes, of course, a chair,” and both he and the fat attorney, Ronald Tescanet, hurried to draw one away from a corner desk.
Seeing that no one else intended to sit, concerned about being placed in a position of inferiority with the others peering down at her, Rachael said, “No, thank you. I'll stand. I can't see why this should take very long. I'm certainly in no mood to linger here. What is it you want to ask me, anyway?”
Verdad said, “An unusual crime.”
