Zoe let the beat cops go on thinking it was a mugging, and she gave a statement saying she hadn't gotten a good look at her attacker.

After the cops left, she got in her car and looked up Inspector Sean Mackey's cell number on her PDA. He answered halfway through the first ring.

"It's me. Zoe. Zoe Dmitroff. I-"

"Where in h.e.l.l are you? Never mind. I'm parked outside your loft. Get over here-we need to talk."

She opened her mouth to tell him what he could do with his att.i.tude, then suddenly she was back under the overpa.s.s, a chain digging into her throat, cutting off her air.

"Zoe?"

She closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath. "I'll be there in five minutes."

She lived six blocks away, off South Park, in a turn-of-the-century brick bakery that had been converted into lofts and apartments during the dot-com boom. In the nineties the neighborhood had bustled with purple-haired programmers and venture-capital highfliers, but they'd disappeared with the bust. At least now, Zoe thought as she pulled the Babe into a s.p.a.ce behind Mackey's silver Taurus, it was easy to find a place to park.

He had his b.u.t.t hitched up on the hood, his arms crossed over his chest, a frown on his face.

When she opened her car door, he unfolded his arms and straightened. The frown stayed. "I really ought to slap your a.s.s in jail for interfering with a homicide investigation-" He cut himself off when she walked up to him and he got a good look at her face. "What happened?"

Her throat closed again, the smell of oily metal chain filled her nostrils. She wanted to gag. She started to reach up and touch the raw bruises on her neck, but stopped when she saw how badly her hand shook.

"What?" Mackey said.

"I just met my grandmother's killer, Mack. Up close and personal." Then she started laughing a little hysterically because it sounded so crazy. "He tried to strangle me with a bicycle chain."

Mackey gave her a long, hard look, then reached out and tilted her chin up and to the side to get a better look at the marks on her neck. "You really did meet up with him."

She nodded, swallowed around the tightness in her throat.

"Tell me."

She told him, feeling stupid that she'd been distracted and allowed herself to be taken by surprise. She gave him as many specifics as she could remember, such as the man's breath had smelled of wine and garlic, and that he spoke English with a Russian accent.

"And his shoes looked Eastern European. You know-thin leather and pointed toes, with the heels kind of built up to make him look taller."

Mackey nodded, writing it down in his notebook. When she was done, he called in to have an all-points bulletin put out on the suspect, then he took her through it again, and then a third time.

He said, "What's this altar-of-bones thing he wants so bad that he's willing to kill and torture an old woman and her granddaughter to get his hands on it?"

"I have no idea. None, Mack. I swear."

"You sure? No clue?"

She shook her head. "Wait, I just remembered something else. He was wearing this thick brown sweater and there was a rip-no, a cut on the sleeve, and I could see a b.l.o.o.d.y bandage through it. I hope my grandmother did that. I hope it hurt."

"Yeah, she did slice him up some," Mack said. "The ME found a cut on her palm, and blood that wasn't hers on the front of her coat and on a piece of broken bottle at the scene. We'll run the DNA through CODIS, but that always takes time." He thrust his fingers through his hair. "Do you think this could have anything to do with your family business? That this guy is one of your mother's Russian goons ... what're they called?"

"Vors. You don't seriously think she up and decided yesterday to start whacking her nearest and dearest one at a time? Why would she do that?"

Mackey shrugged. "You tell me. I mean, we're talking about the woman who had the head of her brother-in-law's top enforcer delivered to him in a ten-gallon bucket of b.u.t.ter pecan."

"It was her cousin-in-law. And the head belonged to a guy who'd killed more people than Ted Bundy, but I get your point. I know she can be ruthless, but this afternoon when I showed her the crime-scene photo and told her who it was, she was shocked, Mack. I really think she believed her mother was already dead all these years."

"She said your grandmother had a husband." He took his notebook out of his pocket again and flipped it open. "A Mike O'Malley. You know anything about this stepfather of hers? Your mother claimed not to remember much."

Zoe shook her head. "Until today I never even knew he existed. But the ponytailed man can't be him. He's much too young. Late thirties at the most."

Mackey said nothing more, only looked at her, and his face softened. "Look, I know you're beat. But if you could come back down to Homicide and give a description to our sketch artist, maybe go through some mug books?"

Zoe brought her hand up to her neck. She kept thinking she could still feel the chain there. "Can I at least take a shower first? I feel filthy."

"Yeah, okay. I got a s.h.i.tload to do back at my desk, anyway. You go on up, shower, have a cup of tea. Or better yet a stiff drink. We can hook up later on the mug book."

Zoe tried to smile, but her face felt tight. So she nodded instead and started for the door to the bakery. Then she stopped and turned back. "You asked me about the altar of bones earlier, when you first told me about my grandmother. How did you know it was what the killer was after?"

"I didn't. It was something else ..." He hesitated.

"Come on, Mack. I know you guys like to hold things back, but he was going to cut out my eye."

"Your grandmother lived for a few minutes after she was stabbed. Long enough to talk to the guy who found her. The guy thought she told him, 'They didn't have to kill him. He never drank from the altar of bones. I got it back.' "

"Kill him? But that sounds like somebody else was murdered, too. Oh, G.o.d, Mack, do you think it's ...?" him? But that sounds like somebody else was murdered, too. Oh, G.o.d, Mack, do you think it's ...?"

"Somebody connected to you? Another long-lost relative, maybe? I don't know."

Zoe tried to think what it all meant, but she couldn't. She was too shaken, too scared. "And how do you drink from an altar of bones? It doesn't make any sense."

"Nothing about this case makes sense."

THE DOOR TO the first-floor rear apartment opened as soon as Zoe entered the bakery. A tall Hispanic woman with blue-black hair and a priest's eyes stepped out into the foyer. the first-floor rear apartment opened as soon as Zoe entered the bakery. A tall Hispanic woman with blue-black hair and a priest's eyes stepped out into the foyer.

"Hey, Maria," Zoe said. "How's it going?"

Maria Sanchez was hardly recognizable from the woman Zoe had saved from a murder rap five years ago. Zoe had been fresh out of law school then, working for the public defender's office and getting all the dregs cases, the sure losers, when the night-court judge had a.s.signed her Maria's case: an immigrant woman from Nicaragua, who had put a shotgun to her husband's sleeping head and blown it off.

Zoe would never forget the first time she'd seen Maria, sitting on the narrow cot in a city jail cell. A woman whose soul seemed more battered than her face. A woman whose eyes were dead. But as they spoke, Zoe realized that what she thought were dead eyes, what she thought was a loss of hope, was in fact its exact opposite. Deep inside her Maria Sanchez had a human dignity so pure and strong, Zoe had never encountered its like before. In spite of all the evidence against her client-fingerprints, gunshot residue, even a well-Mirandized confession-Zoe had never wanted to win a case so badly.

To this day, she wasn't sure how she pulled it off. She thought that in the end Maria Sanchez herself had most swayed the jury, simply by taking the stand and telling her story. And when Zoe walked out of the courtroom that day with a free Maria by her side, she'd known what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.

For years Maria had sold hot tamales and burritos from a handcart on Mission Street during the day and waitressed tables at night, but just last month she'd finally opened up her own taqueria down by the Giants' baseball park. Usually Zoe wanted to talk and let her hair down with Maria, but not tonight. Not when she felt so battered herself.

"Did that policeman find you?" Maria asked. "He wasn't after one of your chicas chicas, was he?" Maria always called the women Zoe rescued chicas chicas no matter what their age. no matter what their age.

"No, it's not that. I was sort of a witness to a case.... Listen, I'm going to go on up. I'm not feeling so hot tonight and-"

"Si, si, you go on up.... Wait a minute, though. The mailman left something with me for you. He said he found it stuck in the bin beneath the mailbox, where he leaves all the catalogs and magazines. But it never went through the postal system. See-no stamps and no postmark."

Maria handed her a brown padded envelope the size of a paperback. Zoe's name and address were printed on the envelope in block letters. There was no return address.

"That's odd." Then she thought, Grandmother Grandmother. She hefted the package in her hand. It was light. "Thanks. I gotta go, but I'll call you later."

She walked past the elevator-a creaky, old metal cage a person would have to be insane to get into-and headed up the stairs. Her loft was at the top of six flights and usually she liked to see how fast she could run up them before she became winded, but not tonight.

Tonight, she walked slowly, holding the envelope tight, as if it were a magic talisman.

SHE COULDN'T BELIEVE it, simply couldn't believe it. Her front door was wide-open. The lights were on. it, simply couldn't believe it. Her front door was wide-open. The lights were on.

She ran into her loft without stopping to think the intruder could still be in there. The place was a shambles, but- My cats.

G.o.d, oh, G.o.d. They were indoor cats, they'd spent their whole lives in this one big room. If they'd gotten out, if someone had hurt them ...

She dropped her satchel and the envelope on the floor. She ran to the bed, flung up the quilt that was now dragging on the floor. Two sets of yellow eyes peered at her from deep in the corner. Her own eyes blurred with tears of relief.

Bitsy, a calico sometimes too brave for her own good, came right out at the sound of Zoe's voice. Barney, big and black and fat, wouldn't budge and hissed at her when she reached for him.

She had to resort to the cream cheese. Barney was a sucker for cream cheese and he had the potbelly to prove it.

The crinkle of the tinfoil wrap did the trick. His whiskers emerged first, followed by the enormous rest of him. He waddled over to lick a dab of the cheese off her finger, in between meows to let her know what he thought of this fine state of affairs.

Zoe sat on the floor and gathered her babies into her lap. She buried her face in their warm fur.

When her heart had finally quieted, she looked around her loft. Whoever had done this had not only searched the place, he'd savaged it. Shattered china, split sacks of flour and sugar, broken wine bottles, ripped cushions. The lock on her door was the best out there and it was the only thing that hadn't been broken. It had been picked.

A professional then, of some sort, but one who'd been angry. Angry enough to take it out on her things.

She scratched Barney under his chin. "What did he look like, babe? Did he have a long brown ponytail? Do you think you could pick him out of a mug-"

Out beyond the open door, a board creaked. She'd climbed up and down those stairs every day for five years. It was the fourth flight, third tread.

Barney heard it, too. He leaped out of her arms and shot back under the bed, Bitsy right behind him.

Zoe quickly and quietly got to her feet and picked up her satchel where she'd dropped it on the floor. She eased open the zipper, took out her gun, released the safety. She reached for the padded envelop nearby and slid it under the bed. Barney hissed.

She went to the door, thought about closing it, then didn't. She flicked off the lights instead.

She pressed her back against the wall, holding her gun two-fisted, barrel pointed up, and waited, her heart beating fast and hard.

A shadow crossed the threshold first, followed by the silhouette of a man. Zoe pressed the gun muzzle into his head, right behind his ear.

"Don't even breathe."

16.

THE SILHOUETTE didn't move, but he did breathe, a sharp intake that ended with her name. "Zoe? It's me." didn't move, but he did breathe, a sharp intake that ended with her name. "Zoe? It's me."

Zoe pulled back the gun as her own breath whooshed out of her and she sagged against the wall. After a moment, she reached behind her and turned on the lights.

Inspector Sean Mackey stepped farther into the loft, his hands spread, half-raised in the air. His chest heaved with the adrenaline shooting through his system. "Dammit, woman. Are you nuts? I could've shot you."

"Yeah? You were the one with the muzzle of a Glock pressed against your ear."

"So will you put it away, for Christ's sake?"

Zoe looked down and saw she still had the gun pointed at his heart. "Sorry. I'm a little jumpy here."

"No s.h.i.t." Mackey lowered his hands as he looked around him. "Jesus. What happened? It looks like a bomb went off."

"I'm guessing it was the ponytailed guy looking for the altar of bones-whatever that is. What are you doing back here anyway? I thought you were on your way to Homicide."

"I came to tell you that I've radioed for a patrol car to give you a lift. In case that a.s.shole decides to come after you again. Now I'm thinking after we do the sketch and go through the mug books, you oughta spend the night in a hotel somewhere."

"I'll be okay. I doubt he's coming back-for one thing he already knows that what he's looking for isn't here. And I got a bar I can put across the door on the inside. The only way anyone can get through that is with a battering ram.... Mack, I really, really have to take a shower."

He waved a hand. "Okay, okay. I'm going. The patrol car should be here in five minutes tops, but I'm going to stick around outside until it gets here, just in case. And I'm sending the lab guys to go over this place with a fine-tooth comb."

After the door closed behind him, Zoe lowered the iron-reinforced bar and latched it into place. She watched out the window until she saw Mackey emerge and go to lean against a lamppost to wait for the patrol car. Feeling safe now, for the moment at least, she dropped to her knees and wriggled under the bed, feeling for the padded envelope.

She couldn't find her scissors in the mess, so she used a steak knife to slice carefully through the glued-down flap. She wet a towel and wiped flour, sugar, and some unidentifiable brown, gooey stuff off her flea-market table, and if the lab guys didn't like it, they could lump it. She found one chair that wasn't in splinters, pulled it up to the table, and sat down.

Barney and Bitsy joined her, purring and rubbing against her arms and generally getting in the way. For a moment longer she simply held the envelope in her hand. She felt excited and she wanted to cry. Her grandmother had left this in her mailbox not long before she was murdered, Zoe was sure of it.

She opened the envelope and emptied its contents carefully onto the table: a postcard, a key, and a couple of folded-up pieces of lined tablet paper.

The postcard, worn at the edges and bent in one corner, was of a famous medieval tapestry, one of those with a unicorn. She turned it over.

It wasn't addressed, but in the s.p.a.ce for the message her grandmother, or someone, had written what looked like a poem in Russian: Blood flows into the seaThe sea touches the skyFrom the sky falls the iceFire melts the iceA storm drowns the fireAnd rages through the nightBut blood flows on into the seaWithout end.

It didn't quite scan like a poem; it was odd all the way around. The words were simple, they conjured up clear images in her mind, but she couldn't make sense out of the whole. She read it twice more. Got nothing.

The small print at the top of the postcard identified the tapestry as The Lady and the Unicorn: The Lady and the Unicorn: a a mon seul desir mon seul desir. Musee de Cluny, Paris, France. She flipped it back over. A woman stood in front of a tent with her maid-servant beside her, holding open a casket. A unicorn lay on the ground next to her. But there was nothing in the tapestry of flowing blood or falling ice or a raging storm.

She tucked the postcard back into the padded envelope and picked up the key.

It looked old. No, beyond old-it looked as ancient as the beginning of time and felt heavy, like bronze. And strangely warm in her hand, as if it still held captive the fire from the forge that had fashioned it. One end was in the shape of a griffin, an animal with the head and wings of an eagle and the body of a lion. But the key's teeth were particularly strange-like Ferengi teeth, jagged and angled in a crazy way. Zoe couldn't imagine what kind of lock such a key would fit into.

She put the key back into the envelope with the postcard, then picked up the sheets of notebook paper and unfolded them. It was a letter, also written in Cyrillic, the words ragged and shaky.

[image]Here, Zoe saw, were a few words had been heavily crossed out, before the letter went on.

[image]Then at the bottom, the words darker, sharper, as if fear had made her grandmother press the pen deeper into the paper: "THE ALTAR OF bones," Zoe said out loud, and she shuddered as if she were looking down into an open grave. Her grandmother had died with those words on her lips. bones," Zoe said out loud, and she shuddered as if she were looking down into an open grave. Her grandmother had died with those words on her lips.

She shivered again as she got up quickly and went to the window. Inspector Mackey was gone, but the patrol car was here now. A uniformed cop stood next to it, talking into his shoulder radio.