Metered talk. BBC voices. Radio on a credenza beside Blotnik's desk.

Hint of cordite in the air. Something else. Coppery. Salty.

The small hairs rose on my neck and arms. My eyes jumped to the desktop.

A banker's lamp emitting an eerie green glow. Stacked papers sheared across the blotter. Scattered books, pens. An upended pot, broken in two, the small cactus still rooted in the uncontained soil.

Blotnik's chair was swiveled at an odd angle. Though the overheads were off, behind and above I could see blood droplets, as though the wall had been mortally wounded.

High-velocity spatter!

Dear G.o.d. Who'd been shot? Jake? Blotnik?

I didn't want to see.

I had to see.

Stepping softly to the desk, I peeked behind.

No corpse.

Relief? Confusion?

To the right rear, I noticed a closet. A dim radiance spilled between the door and jamb.

Edging past the desk, I crossed and pushed with my fingertips.

More image a.s.similation. Dark wood, smooth from generations of too much varnish.

Metal shelving stacked with office supplies, boxes, and labeled containers. Weak light coming from an ell ahead and to the left.

I inched forward, one hand trailing the edge of a shelf.

Five steps in, my foot slid on something sticky and wet.

I looked down.

A dark rivulet was snaking around the corner of the ell.

Like the screech before the crash. The shadow before the hawk strike. The mental alarm sounded. I was too late.

Too late for whom?

I forced my legs to make the turn.

Blotnik lay on his belly, blood-soaked yarmulke driven into a hole in his skull. There was another wound in his back, and another in his shoulder. Blood was congealing in the puddle haloing his body, and in the tributaries oozing from it.

My hand flew to my mouth. I felt woozy, almost sick.

I slumped to the wall, one phrase winging through my head.

Not Jake. Not Jake. Tell me you didn't do this, Jake.

Then who? Ultra-Orthodox radicals? Christian fanatics? Islamic fundamentalists?

One second. Five. Ten.

My senses returned.

Skirting the blood, I squatted and placed fingers on Blotnik's neck. No pulse. The skin felt cool, not cold.

Blotnik hadn't been dead long. Of course not. I knew that. I'd spoken to him less than an hour ago.

Was the killer still here?

Stumbling back to the office, I grabbed up the phone.

No dial tone.

My eyes traveled the cord. Three inches from the mouthpiece, it ended cleanly.

High-voltage fear.

My gaze danced the desktop, fell on a paper.

Why that one?

It was centered on the blotter, square and neat. Despite the chaos. Below the chaos.

Before the chaos?

Had Blotnik been reading it? Might it lead me to Jake?

Crime scene! Don't touch! my left brain hollered. my left brain hollered.

Find Jake! My right brain countered. My right brain countered.

I wiggled the paper free. It was Getz's report on the shroud. Addressed to Jake.

Should Blotnik have had Getz's report? Had he filched it from Getz's office? Or were such reports routinely routed to him? Getz worked for the Rockefeller, not for the IAA. Wasn't that why Jake had gone to her though he'd refused to talk to Blotnik?

Or did did Getz work for the museum? She'd offered to take possession of the shroud for the IAA. Was she actually on Blotnik's staff? Did she work for the Rockefeller Getz work for the museum? She'd offered to take possession of the shroud for the IAA. Was she actually on Blotnik's staff? Did she work for the Rockefeller and and the IAA? I'd never asked Jake to clarify. the IAA? I'd never asked Jake to clarify.

Was Getz somehow in collusion with Blotnik? Did it involve the shroud bones? But Jake hadn't told Getz about the shroud bones. Or had he? Getz's name and number were on the Post-it in Jake's office. Had they spoken since we'd left her the shroud?

Jake hated Blotnik. He would never have given him the report.

A terrible thought.

Someone had stolen the shroud bones. Suspecting Blotnik, Jake had stormed over here to demand their return. Jake owned a gun. Had things gotten out of hand? Had he killed Blotnik in a rage?

I skimmed the report. Two words leaped out. "Skeletal remains."

I read the paragraph. Getz had found microscopic bone embedded in the shroud. Her report suggested larger skeletal remains might exist.

Blotnik knew!

I quick-scanned the office. No shroud bones. I was checking the closet when I heard a soft creak.

My breath froze in my throat.

The door hinge!

Someone was in Blotnik's office!

Footsteps crossed the office floor. Papers rustled. More footsteps. At the credenza?

Without thinking, I skittered backward toward the ell.

One shoe hit the pooled blood and shot sideways. I pitched forward.

Instinct took control. I threw out my hands, clawing for a lifeline. My fingers closed on a metal upright.

The shelving wobbled.

Time fractured.

A bundle of paper hand towels teetered then tumbled to the floor.

Whump.

Sudden silence in the office.

Total silence in the closet.

Predator and prey sniffed the air.

Then, hurried footsteps.

Departing?

Relief.

Then fear, like a fist pressing my chest.

The footsteps were moving in my direction.

I crouched, paralyzed, maxed to every sound.

My mind hiccupped some forgotten caveat.

Never yield the advantage of lighting.

Blotnik's visitor could see me better than I could see him.

Grabbing a book, I twisted and aimed at the fixture behind me. The bulb shattered, raining gla.s.s onto Blotnik's body.

A silhouette filled the doorway, lumpy bag hanging from its left shoulder, right arm flexed, pointing a dark object from chest level. A brimmed cap shadowed the face so I couldn't make out the features.

Throat-clearing, then, "Mi sham?" "Mi sham?" Who's there? Who's there?

The voice was female.

I held rigid.

The woman cleared her throat again and tried Arabic.

In the office, a tinny voice announced the BBC news.

The woman retreated one step. In the emerald backlighting I could see she wore boots, jeans, and a khaki shirt. Her armpits were stained. One blonde tendril looped from the side of her cap.

The woman was heavy, and way too short to be Getz. And blonde.

Ruth Anne Bloom?

I felt sweat on my face. Cold heat in my chest. Had this woman killed Blotnik? Would she kill me?

One thought rose up from the base of my brain.

Stall!

"Who are you?"

"I'm asking the questions." The woman answered my English with English.

It wasn't Ruth Anne Bloom. Bloom's English was heavily accented.

I didn't reply.

"Answer me. Or you're in the frame for a lot of hurt." Hard. But agitated. Unsure.

"Who I am doesn't matter."

"I'll decide what matters." Louder. A threat of violence.

"Dr. Blotnik's dead."

"And I'll park some rounds in your a.s.s just as quick."