Nils continued, “No one else in the government thought to go at the problem of terrorist funding, but I did.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m an art major.”
She couldn’t help it. The tension in the cottage was so high and the idea of this manly man studying art was so funny—she grinned.
He didn’t seem to see the humor.
She swallowed the grin and asked, “So what is your agenda with reopening the MFAA? Don’t you want to interrupt the flow of cash to terrorists?”
“Very much so. But more than that, I want to save the museums, the tombs, the libraries. Ancient cultures should be preserved, not destroyed.” He sounded a little like Indiana Jones in the Last Crusade. “When I went for the degree, I knew what I was getting into, job-and salary-wise, so I joined the CIA and got a graduate degree in tough guy.”
“What about the Marines?”
“I served time with them on a mission.”
That explained a lot. His fighting technique, his ferreting out of her military background, his ability to blend into the crowd and pass himself off as a harmless, bumbling author… Sure. CIA tough guy. He had been trained to deceive. But—“Why are you here?” she asked. “You said this was a smuggling depot. That means Yearning Sands Resort is one of many. Why are you here instead of—” she waved an expansive arm “—in Louisiana or Florida or San Diego or Cancún?”
He stood.
She lifted her pistol.
He retrieved a long piece of paper from the stack on the kitchen counter and held it toward her. “Here’s a list of antiquities shipments that we’ve identified over the past five years and, if possible, what they were and where they were delivered.”
She stood up, grabbed the spreadsheet, returned to her seat and studied it. “On the East Coast, it looks as if most art and artifacts were European or Middle Eastern in origin and delivered to wealthy collectors across the country. West Coast—Far Eastern and Central and South American artifacts. Makes sense.”
He pulled out another spreadsheet, handed it to her. “Here’s a list of the bodies we’ve found and approximate dates of their deaths.” He sat back down. “We assume others are undiscovered.”
She examined the list. Eight bodies over the past five years, on both coasts, in remote coastal areas off the beaten track. She compared the two lists. “Huh. The center of the action seems to be here.”
He leaned back in his seat and radiated satisfaction. “That’s what Jessie saw, too. What I saw.”
“With shipments coming in on both coasts—”
“Which we at first didn’t recognize.”
“—and a murder here and a murder there…”
“We couldn’t see a pattern for a long time.”
“It’s not certain.”
“It is if we all saw it. That’s why I decided to bring you in. I’ve read your profile. You can put it all together.”
Yes, she could. “Who’s in charge of the smuggling?” she asked.
17
“That is the question I’m here to answer.” Nils hitched forward. “The ultimate end of all looted antiquities is in the home of a wealthy collector or a private museum. The wealthy don’t deal with terrorists. They fear, and rightly, that they could end up on the auction block being held for ransom. The wealthy want to deal with reputable smugglers.”
“An oxymoron.”
“Not at all. The terrorists aren’t the most terrifying part of the chain. Worldwide smuggling is controlled by one man—or woman—a ruthless bastard who brooks no opposition.” Nils looked taut, determined and darned cute when he said, “He is, or she is, called the Librarian.”
“The Librarian? That doesn’t sound too tough.”
“Neither did the Godfather.”
She would give him that.
“The Librarian controls a huge network of smugglers on both US coasts. He has a reputation of loving books. Collects all kinds of literature. Antique books. Scrolls. First editions. Hieroglyphics.”
“Not to be sexist, but the Librarian seems female.”
“The Librarian killed Priscilla Carter.”
“And you know that because…the Librarian leaves a calling card.” She looked down at her own fingers curled protectively over her palms. “He cuts off his victims’ hands. One assumes that’s not easy and pretty gross. Which means we’re probably dealing with a male serial killer?”
“The profile would indicate a male, yes, but not a serial killer in the traditional sense. These are retribution killings, according to the leaks of information from the smuggling world.”
“Retribution for…?”
“A person who works for the Librarian decides to set up business for himself and steal a shipment. Maybe she picks up a souvenir for her own shelf. Or someone stumbles into a drop and becomes a witness and a liability.” Nils was angry. So angry.
Kellen regulated her breathing, in and out, in and out, slow and calm. It wouldn’t do to show alarm. She didn’t want to show weakness. Because even now, she didn’t quite trust him. “Did Jessica Diaz become a witness?”
“Two weeks ago I was in Pakistan, following a lead. Jessie called to tell me she had a break in the case. She had found an informant. Don’t make the mistake of thinking Jessie was weak or stupid. She followed me from art school to the CIA. She was a dangerous woman. Intelligent, a punishing fighter. When I got back, she hadn’t been to work. I went looking. I found her at her desk in her home in Maryland with her neck broken.”
Kellen had half expected to hear of Jessica’s death in some faraway land. But at her desk? In Maryland? Caused by a broken neck? Everything about yesterday and this night had chilled her, but this information brought home all the dangers that stalked the resort.
“Whoever got her was good. Experienced. No sign of forced entry, so she knew her attacker.” He pressed his flat palms hard onto his knees. “Her place was swept clean. All technology had been lifted. All online information had been wiped. And her hands…”
Kellen had suspected. Even so, his flat pronouncement gave this whole surreal scene a framework. She watched Nils’s face and listened to his voice, dark, deep, menacing, and felt a sick sense of horror.
“The Librarian did this. Or someone who does the Librarian’s bidding. Jessica was a friend as well as a colleague and I promise you—I will make whoever did this very sorry.”
Kellen checked to make sure her Glock was close at hand, then sought clues, sought truth. “You found her. Maybe you were looking for a promotion.”
She expected him to get angrier.
Instead, she caught him taking a sip of broth. He laughed, choked, and when he caught his breath, he said, “Art and antiquities get no respect, and art majors even less. The MFAA is on trial, with just enough funding for two people. Jessica won the flip for the title of director. My promotion did not give me a raise, and frankly, getting a replacement for a second person is going to be a bitch. Who’s going to work for no money, the pleasure of rescuing lost antiquities and the chance of ending up dead of a broken neck…and minus their hands?”
“Removing their hands sounds like something the Egyptians would have done to thieves so they would suffer in the afterlife.”
“Interesting theory.” His eyes narrowed. “Possible in a weird way. The Librarian does, after all, deal with antiquities and to all intents and purposes knows their purpose and worth. He most probably has a formidable grasp of history and perhaps is willing to use its lessons.”
Kellen’s watch vibrated. She looked at it in horror and leaped to her feet. “It’s five thirty a.m. I’ve got to go!”
He looked at his watch, too. “You…have an appointment?”
“Worse than that.” Kellen stashed her firearm in its holster. “I’m supposed to meet Mara for our run to the resort.”
Now h
e looked out the window, where he could see nothing. “Are you crazy? It’s dark. The weather stinks. It hasn’t stopped raining since I got here.”
“I know. I won’t have time for kickboxing class this morning. Too much to do.” Kellen pulled on her rain gear. “Mara will conniption when I tell her.”
“Does she conniption often?”
“Only when I have too much work to keep up with her fitness demands. I’m her best sparring partner.”
“She wants you to keep her in fighting shape?”
“She’s been accepted by the International Ninja Challenge. She’s getting in shape to compete.”
“So she’s a really good fighter?” Nils Brooks pulled himself to his feet.
“Fabulous fighter.”
“But she wants to be on TV. Glare of publicity, all that?”
Kellen opened the door. The wind roared into the room, rustling the spreadsheets. “All the publicity. She intends to win the competition.”
“I don’t know if that makes her more of a suspect or less.”
“I don’t know, either.” She stopped. Turned to face him. “I have a question for you. I’m smart enough. What if it’s me?”
“It’s damned hard to run a smuggling ring from a war zone with the Army directing your every move and a certain general and his aide keeping you under observation with the intention of using you for code breaking.”
He’d heard about that, had he? Nils Brooks knew too much, and she didn’t know enough. So she went fishing. “I have another question. If you’re trying to crack a smuggling ring, what are you doing in here? Shouldn’t you be out in the dark and the storm spying on the smugglers, seeing who they are, what they’re doing?”
“I didn’t come to disable the smuggling. It’s not as simple as that.”
“That would interrupt the flow of cash.”
“Only temporarily, and only at this site. No. My ultimate goal is, must be, to identify and capture the Librarian. He—or she—isn’t going to be the one out there collecting the goods or doing a drop-off. That’s what flunkies are for.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out his black-rimmed glasses and slipped them on with the seeming confidence of Superman disappearing behind Clark Kent’s disguise. “I’m the author with writer’s block who wanders the resort looking for inspiration in all the wrong places and observing everyone with a profiler’s eye.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” She’d managed to surprise him.
“That’s what I figured. I wanted to hear you say it. I have to go. At this moment, I’m way more afraid of Mara than I am of the Librarian. Later!” Kellen jumped off his porch.
He called, “Think about suspects!”
She lifted her hand. Rain splattered her in the face. Somewhere behind the roiling storm clouds, dawn was breaking. She started down the path to her cottage, thinking, Race to the resort, shower and change, call and check on Annie. And Leo. But mostly Annie. Then—
“Kellen!” Mara stood under the light on Kellen’s porch, clothed in her close-fitting, water-shedding running gear. “What were you doing out at this hour?”
“Nils Brooks got lost on the way to his cottage.” Which was the truth.
“He doesn’t seem to be very bright.”
“Agreed.” Anybody who arrived alone to seek out a murderous smuggler didn’t get a gold star for smarts, at least not on Kellen’s chart.
“Do you like him?” Mara sounded anxious.
“No.” Not him, nor his astute observations and his blunt way of attacking. “Hang on. Let me duck in here and we’ll get going.” Inside, she shed her clothes and stashed her pistol. She pulled on her running gear, then hurried out to meet Mara. She said, “I can’t do kickboxing this morning. Too much to do, not enough sleep. Maybe tomorrow. Let’s run!” She leaped off her own porch and headed along the lighted pathways, headed toward the behemoth of a hotel where her day would begin.
After a minute, Mara was running at her heels, shouting, “How do you expect me to win the International Ninja Challenge if you’re not dedicated to my cause?”
“Determination!” Kellen shouted back. “Yours!” Today she didn’t allow Mara to set the pace. Not today. Today Kellen was in charge.
18
Kellen stomped her way through the morning, taking on the battling chefs and banging their heads together until they promised to cooperate, calling the security idiots on the carpet and discussing the spa schedule with a sulky Mara. She told Chad Griffin the weather was due to clear, so he would want to be on his way, and the thoroughly offended pilot cleared out. Finally, she sought Sheri Jean to discuss the current and delicate employee relations.
In between conferences, she reflected that she should go sleepless more often. Problems seemed to melt away when she ceased trying to solve employee issues and told them to handle their jobs with the competence for which they were hired.
Now if she could just get Lloyd Magnuson to answer his phone, she’d straighten him out, too. Take Priscilla’s body up to the Virtue Falls coroner and not call in with a report. Could he be more inconsiderate?
In passing, she glimpsed Nils, glasses on, earnest expression in place, interviewing the various members of the staff for his “book.”
She found Sheri Jean in the lobby speaking with two of their guests, a middle-aged black woman from San Francisco and her teenaged daughter.
Sheri Jean smiled at Kellen in a clenched teeth sort of way and introduced her. “This is Mrs. Kazah and her daughter, Jasmine. These two ladies would like to check out two days early. I explained we have a policy of, in these circumstances, keeping the room deposit, but they have expressed unhappiness about the storms. I thought perhaps you could okay the change of policy.”
Kellen smiled at the thirteen-year-old Jasmine. “The weather has been ghastly, hasn’t it?”
“It’s dark all the time, not just cloudy, but night lasts for hours! And hours! The hotel is so empty it’s spooky. Is it always like this?” Jasmine asked.
“It’s my first year here, but they tell me this winter’s storms have been unusually ferocious.” Kellen put her hand on Sheri Jean’s shoulder and ignored Sheri Jean’s flinch of rejection. “Of course we’ll refund the deposit.”
“I do like the food here!” Jasmine stared toward the lobby, where Frances was putting out a plate of cookies, a bowl of apples and some finger sandwiches, and she sounded a lot more like the adolescent she was.
“Then you’d better go get a little more before you move on with your vacation!” Kellen said.
Mrs. Kazah watched her daughter leave, then in a low voice said, “I appreciate this. We really can’t afford this resort at any other time of the year, and we would stay, but news of the murder rattled Jasmine and she had nightmares. After the divorce, she’s grown so sensitive to atmosphere—and it is very dark and quiet here. So many empty corridors.”
Sheri Jean thawed a little. “I understand. Do you have someplace else to go?”
Mrs. Kazah said, “I saw a motel in Cape Charade and thought maybe—”
Sheri Jean and Kellen exchanged horrified glances. The Cape Charade Motel was known for drug deals and bedbugs and was no place for a woman and a child.
Sheri Jean leaped into action. “We have an arrangement with Virtue Falls Resort. It’s a beautiful place, an old boutique hotel north of here about three hours. If that interests you, we can call and get you a room.”
Sheri Jean herded the lady to the reception desk and returned to Kellen. “The Kazahs aren’t the only ones to be spooked by Priscilla’s murder. I lost Lewis from the concierge desk and Lena from guest services, and it’s not as if I was overstaffed to start with.”
“What are they afraid of?”
“Rumors are saying Priscilla’s hands were cut off.”
Kellen had told only Mara. But Lloyd and Temo had know
n. Maybe they’d gossiped. Or maybe the killer had spread the word to sow uneasiness.
Kellen had to discover the truth about the murder before the staff, minimal as it was, panicked. She had promised Annie she would keep the resort running. She had promised herself a home. Murder and smuggling were nothing more than a challenge. She’d faced worse in her life.
Sheri Jean continued, “It’s dark and it’s cold. The hotel is big and empty.” She shrugged as if trying to dislodge a phantom’s cold hand on her neck. “It’s creepy. Have you heard anything specific about Priscilla’s remains?”
Kellen gave a smile that showed too many gleaming white teeth. “I haven’t heard a word from Lloyd Magnuson, and his phone goes right to voice mail.”
Sheri Jean made a disgusted sound. “When Lloyd goes to Virtue Falls, he visits and eats and drinks. When Mike Sun calls with the results of the autopsy, Lloyd will sober up. Eventually, he’ll get around to giving you a call.”
“It’s really too bad I don’t have him here right now. He’d be sober when I was done with him.”
Sheri Jean took a step back. “You, um, don’t suffer fools lightly, do you?”
“Not when we’re dealing with murder.”
“I saw that cloth and that shoe and the ring. But it’s so hard to believe.” Sheri Jean gestured at the lobby, warm, gracious, the epitome of hospitality. “Nobody liked Priscilla, but she wasn’t that bad. She wasn’t worth killing.”
Kellen watched Sheri Jean as she said, “Maybe she got into something she shouldn’t have.”
“That’s possible. She wanted whatever she couldn’t have.” Sheri Jean looked both impatient and sorry.
Kellen couldn’t discern anything from that. “Is there anyone you can call to cover for Lewis and Lena?”
“I need someone to serve at tonight’s Shivering Sherlocks event.” Sheri Jean eyed Kellen. “Carson Lennex is hosting. Have you been up to the penthouse?”
“No. But I’m functioning on three hours of sleep and—”
“I already told Carson you had agreed to do it.”
Dead Girl Running Page 13
