Dead Girl Running (Cape Charade #1)(57)

“No, of course you wouldn’t.” Kellen understood that cutting the umbilical cord of funding to the terrorists would benefit the United States, but Mr. Gilfilen clearly believed he was taking direct action against the evils that threatened society, not stopping the illegal import of ancient artifacts. “Sometimes what comes in isn’t lethal in and of itself.”

He sugared his tea and took a sip.

She tried again. “I’ve been doing research.” Which was a kind of truth. “The head of this smuggling operation is without scruples, compassion, the slightest shred of humanity.”

“Miss Adams, please don’t tell me you think someone who would kill a young woman and cut off her hands is not a good person.” His humor was so dry it could flake paint off the wall.

Right. She wasn’t going to win this argument—the argument with Mr. Gilfilen, or with herself. If Nils Brooks and Mr. Gilfilen worked together, they could possibly find and disable the Librarian sooner. But she had never completely trusted Brooks, so if she told him about Mr. Gilfilen and Nils was a bad guy, she had betrayed a man of honor. She wanted to tell Mr. Gilfilen about Nils Brooks and the MFAA, but did she dare gamble her trust on such an important issue?

She couldn’t see a way out of this moral dilemma, so she said, “Please be careful, and please know—if you need help, I will be there for you.”

“Miss Adams, I do know that, and I promise, I depend on you.”

She couldn’t force the man to take care, not without explaining everything she knew, and she suspected even then he would do what he thought best, regardless of his own safety. With a nod, she left him alone with his tea and headed toward maintenance to talk to someone sensible, well-balanced and with two X chromosomes. Birdie.

She took one of the resort’s ATVs and drove along the lighted paths. Ridiculous. She hadn’t really seen a ghost. What she’d seen had been an illusion brought on by… Well, she didn’t know what brought it on. Exhaustion. The strain of so much responsibility. Being pleasant to guests. If she had seen a ghost, could she outrun it in an ATV? It was a question that occupied her mind until she pulled up to the garage. She knocked loudly on the door, used her pass card, and as soon as she stepped into the tall, cool, echoing structure, she was glad she’d knocked.

Birdie stood in the loft above, her Glock in hand. “Come on up,” she said. “Bring hot chocolate, two marshmallows in mine.” And then she disappeared from the railing.

Kellen made two hot chocolates, and balancing them carefully, she made her way up the spiral staircase. She found Birdie sitting on the metal floor, surrounded by reams of paper. She handed over a mug. “Are we having fun yet?”

“Just for that, you can take that pile of car service manuals—” Birdie pointed “—put them in that cardboard box—” she pointed again “—and take it downstairs to the recycling bin.”

Kellen put down her chocolate and did as she was told. When Birdie got that look on her face, it was best to do as she said. When Kellen got back, she sat on the floor and sipped her chocolate. “Are you close to done?”

“I’m into the 1980s. If this is to be believed—” Birdie lifted one leather-bound manual “—someone here at the resort owned a 1981 Lamborghini Countach.”

“Some impressive vehicles at this resort. You’re saving that?” Kellen reached for it.

Birdie put it on her own desk. “You bet. What’s up?”

“Can’t I come by just for fun?”

“You can. And you do. But your shoulders are hunched and you’ve got that pinched-mouth expression.”

Kellen straightened her shoulders. “It’s cold. We’ve got a whopper of a storm coming in tomorrow morning. The staff is spooked.”

Birdie tossed another manual on the discard pile. “There’s more stuff going on than you can talk about.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You don’t do uncertain very often.”

“In the war zones, the best I could hope for was that no one got killed and mutilated. Since I’ve been at the resort, I haven’t had to worry about that.”

“Until now.” Birdie picked up a little mimeographed booklet and flapped it at Kellen. “It’s the Cape Charade newspaper. Want to know what happened the week of July 17, 1984?”

“Nothing?”

Birdie looked it over. “Pretty much.” She threw it on the discard pile, too.

Kellen glanced around. “Where are the guys?”

Birdie opened her mouth as if to answer, then closed it.

Interesting. “You don’t do uncertain very often, either.”

“What I know—Mitch is on a date with the girl from the concierge desk, and lately I don’t like the way he talks about women. As if they’re a commodity.”

“Civilian life hasn’t improved him.” The two women contemplated that truth, then Kellen asked, “What about Temo? I saw him in the kitchen. He was weird. I wondered if he was having a party without me. But he wouldn’t have one without you, too.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Birdie shifted papers as if she needed to keep her hands busy. “Temo got back from LA, and he and Adrian have been sneaking around, whispering in corners. I wondered if discovering that corpse had disturbed Temo. He’s Hispanic and there’s that Day of the Dead thing…”