Reading Gwen’s calendar, I jotted down names and numbers that I thought might be relevant. When I had gleaned all I could from the calendar, I put it back on the desk the way I found it; then I turned and went through Wendell’s office to the private bathroom that was attached. This was where the killer had been when I first arrived, but there was nothing notable about the room now; it was just a nice bathroom. Police had dusted thoroughly for fingerprints in here as well, especially around doorknobs and the sink and faucets.

I looked at the door I had run through earlier, the door to the short hallway that led to the stairs. I retraced my steps now, wishing that this sort of work could be easier, wishing that killers dropped calling cards on their way out. I stepped into the stairwell, leaned over the rail, and looked down the center of six flights of stairs, all the way to the ground floor. Something about that frantic chase down the stairs was bothering me, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. I closed my eyes, trying to recall sights, sounds, smells. Nothing in particular came back to me.

I returned to the hallway and headed back to the bathroom, but as I opened the door and stepped through, I could hear a noise in Wendell’s office. I hesitated just inside the bathroom.

Someone was out there, looking for something. I chanced leaning forward to take a glimpse, and I saw the back of a smartly dressed woman who was digging through the files in Wendell’s desk. I stayed where I was, listening as she finally slammed the drawer and then picked up the telephone.

“I don’t see anything here,” she said into the phone after only a moment’s pause. “It looks like the cops took anything of any importance.”

She was quiet for a moment, listening.

“But they took the hard drive, too.”

I wondered who she was and what she was looking for. Her demeanor was more than simply concerned; she seemed nearly frantic.

“What do you mean, ‘cross that bridge when we come to it’? Don’t be stupid.”

She hung up the phone and continued to poke around the desk. Deciding to make my presence known, I softly shut the door, then flushed the toilet. When I came out of the bathroom, she was standing only a few feet away, hands on hips.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “And just what are you doing in my father’s bathroom?”

I swallowed hard, feeling my face surge red in spite of myself.

“My name is Callie Webber,” I said. “I’m from the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation. You’re Judith, I take it? I’m so, so sorry about your father’s death. I know this must’ve been a shock for you.”

She nodded, her expression softening just a little, though she remained there, immovable, in front of me.

“What are you doing here now?” she asked.

I hesitated, studying her. She was quite striking, probably in her late thirties, dressed in an elegant but understated navy suit, her hair cut and colored in an expensive, up-to-the-minute fashion. Even standing perfectly still, she radiated nervous energy, like a hot engine giving off steam.