“And here?”
“Not yet,” Reade said. “There are agents all over, and Metcalf has a bird’s-eye view from the parking garage at the end of the block. He hasn’t reported any suspicious activity.”
“Great.”
For the first time, Kendra glanced around the living room. She hadn’t considered visiting the house since the victim’s parents had already sent cleaning crews in and begun preparing their late daughter’s home for sale.
It was immediately apparent that Kristy Ludwig worked erratic hours, ate in front of the television, and occasionally smoked pot. Kendra’s visual scan abruptly stopped when she spotted a laundry hamper stuffed with baby toys. Damn. She remembered that Ludwig was a single mother who had left behind an eighteen-month-old girl. The toys and high chair brought it home in a way that a few lines in a case file could not.
Kendra stared at those toys for the better part of an hour while it became apparent that she and the FBI had utterly failed in their attempt to smoke out the killer.
“I’m calling it,” Griffin said in the manner of a surgeon declaring a patient dead. “Suspend the operation.”
Reade picked up her radio and notified Metcalf.
Griffin turned toward Kendra. “Thanks for your help. Looks like you’re going to need that guard outside your door for a while longer.”
“The condo association will be so pleased.”
* * *
AS KENDRA UNLOCKED HER FRONT DOOR, she turned back to the young FBI Agent, Donald Nelson, who was acting as her guard. “If you need to use the bathroom or want something to eat or drink while you’re here, you’re certainly welcome.”
“That won’t be necessary, ma’am, but thank you.”
“The guard who was here last night didn’t either. They must be teaching bladder control at Quantico these days.”
The agent smiled. “Can’t confirm or deny. It’s classified. Good night, ma’am. Just call if you need me.”
Kendra entered her condo and tossed her keys on the foyer table. She’d already canceled her appointments with her clients for the next few days, but she’d told them she was available for any questions. Thank heavens, there was no one who was at a crucial point in their therapy. She checked her watch—10:35 P.M. Check to see if there were any messages. Too late to return phone calls, but perhaps she could dash off some e-mails and—
She froze. She couldn’t breathe.
Holy shit.
There, scrawled on her living room wall in red paint, was a message.
NICE TRY, KENDRA. BUT YOU’RE BETTER THAN THAT.
—MYATT
He’d been here.
In her home.
She felt violated.
Was he still here?
She went still, listening for any sign of him.
She held her breath and moved toward the door. Stay calm. All she had to do was scream, and that FBI agent would be at her side in seconds.
Or would he?
Her mind raced. What if he’d been dispatched as easily and cruelly as that young police officer?
What if Myatt himself was waiting on the other side of that door?
Shit-shit-shit.
Keep moving, don’t panic …
Are you there, you bastard? I almost hope you are. I want to come face-to-face with you again.
She gripped the doorknob with one hand, the dead bolt with the other. She flipped the dead bolt and threw open the door.
The FBI agent stood there, safe and sound. “Ma’am? May I help you?”
She took a moment to catch her breath. “Yes, you can. Come in and take a good look around, Agent Nelson. But first, call Griffin right now and get him out here.” She moistened her lips. “It seems our psychopath paid me a visit.”
* * *
THE FBI EVIDENCE RECOVERY TEAM arrived before Griffin, Metcalf, and Reade, and they appeared to be gathering little from the scene besides the paint shavings scraped from her wall. Kendra watched them work for a few minutes before stepping away and leaning wearily against the wall in her building’s corridor.
Metcalf joined her. “Hell of a couple days, huh?”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
He looked down the hall, where Griffin and Reade had just stepped from the elevator. He lowered his voice. “You were right about this nut. He was two moves ahead of us.”
“He does his homework, that’s for damned sure.”
Griffin approached Kendra. “I guess our little radio show didn’t fool anybody.”
“That’s not true.” Kendra shrugged. “We certainly fooled ourselves.”
Metcalf laughed, but cut it short after Griffin shot him a withering glare.
“I want to know how Myatt got into my condo,” Kendra said. “The locks on my doors haven’t been broken, and he would have to be a master locksmith to pick them. I made sure of that when I moved in.”