Page 49 of Dead Girl Running

She followed him to his cottage. His porch light was on; he ran up the steps, unlocked the door—no fumbling this time—opened it and walked in.

The light streamed out, an inviting square of brightness on the porch boards.

She glanced toward the dock.

That light had blinked out.

She slowly followed, keeping the Glock pointed at him.

He shed his raincoat, hung it on the rack, moved into the kitchen, filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove. He faced her, leaned against the counter and crossed his arms and his ankles.

She stood in the open doorway and studied him.

His act of aimless buffoonery had vanished. Nils Brooks actuallywassmart enough to wear rain gear and keep track of his pass card. His brown eyes were sharp, yet his glasses were nowhere in sight. The well-toned body she noted earlier now seemed less of a surprise and more of a weapon. “You’ve committed yourself. You might as well come in,” he said.

She stepped across the threshold but hesitated about shutting the door. When he sighed, she snapped, “Pardon me if I don’t want to be one of those women in the movies who hear a noise downstairs, light a candle because the power is mysteriously out and go to investigate.”

He laughed.

Whoa. Those dimples.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll give you that.”

Kellen didn’t smile back. “I had never considered the possibility of smuggling here. Washington is so…”

“Wild? Free? Pure? Organic?” He did sarcasm well.

Which made her feel enough at ease to gently push the door almost shut. “Off the beaten track.”

“It’s Washington. Crazy weather, close to Canada, isolated and insular. There’s a Coast Guard station south of here and one north, good guys, but they’re spread thin and they’ve got a lot of jobs—water rescues, port security, defense readiness and that concern of ours, catching smugglers.”

“Smuggling…what? Drugs?” Kellen’s new security job got more and more onerous by the second.

“That. Immigrants. Anything the bad guys can carry, really. That’s what interests the Coast Guard.” His dimples disappeared. “But not the MFAA. Not me.”

“No, I suppose not. Monuments, Fine Arts and Archives… We’re talking about antiques, cultural treasures.”

“Exactly. There’s a lot of money involved in moving stolen art and looted treasure. Enough to kill for.”

“Kill who?”

“That girl you found today. And Jessica Diaz. The MFAA director.” The kettle started whistling. He lifted two mugs off their hooks. “What do you want? Coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate? Don’t even bother with herbal. You’ll need some kind of caffeine. You’re not going to get any more sleep tonight.”

“What’s going to happen tonight?”

“We’re going to talk. I’m going to fill you in on the situation.”

She latched the door with her heel. Maybe she was that woman in the movie, but she didn’t think so. She might not trust him, not yet, but for some reason she didn’t yet know, he needed her. She placed her Glock on the end table, peeled off her rain gear and hung them beside his and seated herself in a chair facing him. She picked up her pistol and let it rest on the seat beside her hip, pointed it toward the floor.

He watched from the kitchen. “Your trust in me is touching.”

“And easily revoked. I’ll have broth. My body needs at least the pretense of nutrition.”

“Smart.” He used hot water and two dry packets to make two cups of broth. He picked them both up, so his hands were full, and gingerly placed one at her elbow. He backed away and seated himself across the room. “There. Far enough away for you to relax a little, close enough for you to shoot me if you need to.”

That smile, those dimples, thatcharmirritated her. “I hope I don’t need to. Now—tell me why the government would revive an agency dead for so many years.”

“Look it up. You’re not going to believe anything I tell you, so look it up.”

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