Page 60 of Dead Girl Running

Luckily, every romantic sinew and nerve in Kellen’s body had been transformed to steel, and she took the opportunity to see what Carson Lennex viewed from his penthouse.

This would be the ideal location for the Librarian. From here, the resort was laid out like a map: the marriage grove to the north and east; the ocean, beach and dock to the west; the lighted paths, the wings of the hotel and the cottages scattered like gems across the landscape. She looked toward the cliffs, half expecting to see another flash of light, but all was dark and still.

Then, in the farthest end of the darkened west wing, a door opened, and in the square of light, a thin man was silhouetted. He bent, put something down, stepped back and shut the door again.

Lloyd Magnuson. That damned policeman wasn’t just working in the west wing, he was also hiding out there, cell phone off to avoid speaking to her.

He was going to be sorry.

21

Kellen turned on her heel. “I should refresh the appetizers,” she said and briskly arranged what was left on one plate, took the empty tray and left. On the way down, she contacted Sheri Jean. “I’ve done the first shift. Send someone up with the next round of food and drink.” Sheri Jean started to object, and Kellen said, “No. I’ve neglected my security duties and now there’s a problem.”

Sheri Jean wanted to question her.

Firmly, Kellen hung up and steamed through the occupied part of the hotel into the dark and quiet west wing. She flipped on the tactical flashlight that Birdie had given her, and fantasized about using the serrated head to put a divot in Lloyd Magnuson’s chin. The corridor was a maze of old drapes piled beside a stack of new, uninstalled doors, half-used cans of varnish and paint, rolls of new carpet covered by a fine sprinkling of sawdust and irritation. The irritation was her own.

Not only was Lloyd abusing his privileges by staying at the resort—he reminded her of Chad Griffin—but with the resort staff worried about the murder and guests checking out, it was callous of him to leave them stewing about the coroner’s report.

She got to the end of the corridor, to the luxury suite that had one door that opened into the hotel and another that opened onto a private patio. That was the door she’d seen open and close from above. The suite had a doorbell; she rang it, pounded on the door, then decided she didn’t care if she caught Lloyd in his underwear, she was going in. In fact, she hoped she caught him in a compromising act with a blow-up doll. The embarrassment would serve him right.

She inserted her pass card in the lock.

Before she could turn the handle, the door opened, yanking the card from her fingers, and she found herself staring at dark eyes, hair and skin, bony body—Vincent Gilfilen.

She had jumped to the wrong conclusion.

“Miss Adams, good to see you. I’m on vacation.” He extracted her pass card from the door and handed it back. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in Carson Lennex’s suite. I saw someone open the outside door and I thought it was… Never mind. You’re not on vacation.” Shock gave way and her brain began to click. She considered his personality and his habits. She considered the odd way Leo had sounded when she asked about Mr. Gilfilen. And she knew she was right. “You’re dressed to go outside, Mr. Gilfilen. What are you doing outside at night? Or should I guess?”

In that coolly polite way of his, he said, “You seem to think you know.”

“You’re investigating a smuggling ring.”

“Investigating? Or leading?”

Not an answer. Not really. He was probing to discover what she knew. And she would tell him…within limits, and with the clear understanding an exchange of information could, and would, be required. “Whoever is leading this smuggling ring must travel extensively. According to your records, you never leave the resort.” She gestured toward the suite. “Obviously. You’re still here.”

He opened the door wide.

She saw a wall of security monitors and a chair with a half-eaten meal beside it.

“You might as well come in,” he said. “Let’s talk.”

* * *

Kellen already knew Mr. Gilfilen was a very peculiar and formal man, but visiting him in this place put theOinodd.

He gave Kellen a small glass of cabernet port—he had apparently noted not only that she liked a small glass of port in the evening, but also the brand—put a plate of Scottish shortbread cookies by her elbow, sat opposite and waited for her to initiate the conversation.

She asked what had precipitated this investigation on his part.

He explained he had gone to Leo and Annie and stated his belief that one of the Yearning Sands employees was using the dock to conduct a smuggling operation. After they got over their disbelief and dismay, he gave them his list of possible candidates.

“Who?” Kellen asked.

“That is not your concern, Miss Adams.”

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