The trip south takes only a few seconds. When we come to a lurching stop the metal door opens up again, and we step out into a wide-open room. Like the hospital morgue, the room’s concrete floor is painted an industrial battleship gray, and the walls are covered with tiles—some of which have cracked and chipped over the years. The overhead lighting is bright, and it illuminates two stainless steel tables that are set beside open caskets that rest atop portable gurneys.
A n***d stiff is lying on the far table and a man dressed in an undershirt and blue jeans is attending to it. The man turns when the elevator door opens.
“Nicky,” he says, smiling. “Wondering when you were gonna show up.”
“Better late than never, old friend,” the detective says, crossing the room to the table and the d
