Dead Girl Running (Cape Charade #1)(48)

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 the O in odd.

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.”

He’d suggested that, at such time when the guests were sparse and those employees remained at work, he would pretend to go on vacation, hide in a room he’d prepared, sleep in the daytime and go out at night.

He stated he didn’t suspect her; although she had the talents, she hadn’t been in the United States long enough.

While she tried to decide how she felt about that—apparently her character was suspect, but her location proved to be her alibi—he stood, opened the outer door and let in a cat. A mangy-looking, skinny cat. He dried the poor thing, carried it to a food bowl on the floor in the kitchen and fed it some kibble. “Someone dumped it on the property,” he said. “They do that occasionally. When this is over, I’ll find it a home.”

Kellen nodded. Because of guest allergies, cats were absolutely forbidden in the main hotel building. Mr. Gilfilen was a stickler for following the rules. Yet he’d saved the cat and betrayed his position to her when he’d opened the door.

Fascinating. “You might want to dim the lights before you open the outer door. Anyone who is looking for a reason to be suspicious will find it in that square of light.”

Mr. Gilfilen nodded. “I’ll remember.”

He wasn’t as shocked to hear about Priscilla as he should be, so Kellen knew he’d spoken with Leo. But his narrow, dark face tightened with disdain and horror when she reported Priscilla’s mutilation.

He advised her on the handling of resort security personnel and let her know he was watching the monitors both inside and out. Unless he called her on an issue, she didn’t really have to worry about it. That was one thing off her plate, and she was grateful for it.

Then he turned to her and demanded information.

She told him everything she should know…if she hadn’t spoken with Nils Brooks. She told him what she’d seen the night before and asked if he had investigated. He admitted he had, but he had worn night goggles to help him see what was going on, and the smugglers had flashed a light in his direction and blinded him.