Читать книгу Alpha Bravo Seal - Carol Ericson - Страница 11
ОглавлениеNicole held the thin envelope between two fingers, fear pulsing through every fiber of her being, her mouth suddenly dry.
Slade launched from his stool and hovered over her shoulder. “How do you know it’s from Lars? There’s no return address, and it definitely wasn’t sent from Denmark.”
“I’d recognize his chicken scratch anywhere.” She flicked the postmark with her fingernail. “New York, not Denmark.”
“Was he in the city?”
“Not that I know of, but then, I haven’t even been here a month.”
“Are you going to open it or stare at it for a while?”
He was practically breathing down her neck, so she took a few steps to her left. She ripped into the envelope, and a single sheet of white paper fluttered to the counter.
As Slade reached for it, she snatched it up and squinted at it. “His handwriting always was atrocious.”
“Do you want me to try?”
“It says—” she plastered the note against the granite and ran her finger beneath the squiggle of words “—‘I instructed my friend to mail this letter to you if anything happens to me.’”
She gasped and covered her mouth. “He knew.”
“Go on.” Slade rapped his knuckle on the counter next to the paper, clearly impatient for her to continue.
She wanted to read this in private, shed tears in her own way. But Slade was here to help. He’d saved her once, from a ramshackle boat in the Gulf of Aden, and she’d trust him in a heartbeat to do it again.
She took a deep breath and started reading. “‘It’s the film, Nic. Somebody wants that film we shot in Somalia. I gave it to my friend in New York and told him where to hide it, and I’m putting out the word that the footage was damaged during the hijacking of our boat. Maybe they’ll leave me alone. Maybe they’ll leave us alone. If nothing happens and you never get this note, I’ll put it down to paranoia and we’ll retrieve that footage and make a hell of a documentary. If I die, don’t look for it, and watch your back. Whatever happens, it was great working with you, Nic.’”
A spasm of pain crumpled her face, and one hot tear dripped from her eye, hitting the back of her hand and rolling off to create a splotch on the paper. “Oh, my God. He must’ve known someone was after him, too.”
“Who’s this friend?” With his middle finger, Slade slid Lars’s note toward his side of the counter. He studied the words on the page as if they could tell him more than what she’d just read.
“He didn’t mention the friend’s name.” She flipped the envelope back over and ran her thumb across the postmark again. “It was mailed two days ago, so his friend must’ve waited to send it, unless he just learned of Lars’s death.”
“Do you know Lars’s friends in New York?”
“I met a few of them, but just casually at a dinner once and then at a party in SoHo.”
“Was the party given by one of his friends?”
“I think it was, but this was a few years ago. These were people I didn’t know, so they must’ve been his friends.”
“We need to find this guy.” He smacked the note on the counter and drilled his knuckle into the middle of it.
“Maybe we shouldn’t.” She threaded her fingers in front of her and then couldn’t stop twisting them. “Maybe I should keep spreading the story that the footage was damaged and unusable.”
“Because that story worked so well for Lars?”
“If they hear it from both me and Lars and they didn’t find the film when they...killed Lars or Giles, maybe they’ll believe it this time.”
“If someone is looking for that footage, it must be important.”
“Important?” She pressed the sweating glass against her cheek, hoping the cold moisture would bring her out of this nightmare. “It was footage of interviews with Somali women discussing education and property rights. I understand how that might mean something to the men in Mogadishu and the towns and villages where these women live, but I can’t see those men traveling to Denmark or Scotland to carry out a hit to retrieve the footage.”
“It must be something else, something one of the women said. Lars and Giles were murdered for a specific reason, not just because a few men were upset about the women’s rights movement in Somalia.”
She turned her back on Lars’s note and put the bottled water back in the fridge. “I can’t imagine what our interview subjects could’ve said that would get us in trouble—or how anyone would even know what they said.”
“You conducted the interviews in private?”
“Of course we did. Those women were risking their lives talking to us.”
“Who arranged the meetings?”
“Dahir. He was our translator as well as our facilitator. I tried to get him out.” She rubbed the back of her hand across her tingling nose. “But the US government was uncooperative.”
“The Navy has a hard time resettling people who help us out. I’m sure it’s even more difficult for journalists to get their people out.” He picked up the note and waved it at her. “We need to find out who sent this note for Lars and get him to turn over the film.”
“I don’t have any contact info for his friends here.”
“What about that party? Do you remember where it was? Do you have any pictures? C’mon, people take pictures of their food. There must be something online. Social media sites?”
She snapped her fingers. “Lars was always filming at parties. It got pretty annoying, actually. He might’ve shared some video with me.”
“That’s a start.”
“Follow me.” She scooted past him out of the kitchen and crossed the living room to the small office she used when staying with Mom. Chanel woke up and trotted after them.
Leaning over the desk, Nicole shifted her mouse to wake up her computer and launched a social media site.
“How long ago was this party?” Slade crouched in front of the desk so the monitor was at his eye level.
“About two years ago, six months before we left for Somalia.” She scrolled through the pictures on the left-hand side of her page, hoping Slade wasn’t paying attention to all the pics of her and her exes—and she had a bunch. “Video, video.”
“Wow, someone could follow your whole life on here. You should be careful.”
The hair on the back of her neck quivered. Anyone would know she ran in Central Park, hung out with two of her best friends in Chelsea, visited a former professor at NYU. She’d opened up her life for any stranger to track her. It hadn’t seemed to matter...before.
Her heart skipped a beat. “Here! This is it.”
As Slade scooted in closer to the monitor, Nicole clicked on the video Lars had sent her of the party. She turned up the volume on her computer, and party sounds filtered from the speakers—voices, laughter, music, clinking glasses.
Slade poked at the screen. “That’s you. Giles is behind you, right?”
She nodded and sniffled when she saw Giles’s wife wrap her arms around him from behind. “That’s his wife, Mila.”
The camera shifted to three people crowded together on a love seat. “Do you know them? The man? Lars referred to his friend with a masculine pronoun, so we know it’s a guy.”
“He and the two women are Lars’s friends. He’s not the owner of the loft, though. That would be...” The camera swung wide, taking in two women and a man dancing and giggling with drinks in their hands. “This guy. Paul something. He’s Danish, also.”
“Paul something, Danish guy who lives in a loft in SoHo. We can start there.”
She ripped a piece of paper from a pad and grabbed a pen. “Paul, Dane, SoHo.”
“Shh.” He covered her writing hand with his. “Can you go back? Someone’s shouting out names.”
She clicked and dragged back the status bar on the video and released. In a singsong voice with slightly accented English, a man called out. “Go, Trudy, go, Teresa, go, Lundy.”
Closing her eyes, Nicole said, “That’s Lars.”
“I’m assuming those are the dancers. Is his name Paul or Lundy? Or is Lundy his last name?”
Her lids flew open. “It’s Lund. It’s Paul Lund. I remember now. He’s an artist, a photographer.”
Slade aimed the pen at her. “Write that down. What about the other guys? The guy on the sofa with the two women? The guy behind the bar?”
“I don’t remember, but if we listen to the sound we might be able to pick up more names.”
They kept so quiet, Nicole could hear Slade breathing beside her. She tilted her head to concentrate on the individual voices amid the chatter. She heard her own name several times, but that was natural.
Slade grabbed her wrist. “Davey. Did you hear that?”
She replayed the previous several seconds of the video and heard Lars’s voice. “Davey, Davey, make it strong.”
“You’re right. That could be Dave or David. Lars always had a nickname for everyone, and I think he’s talking to the guy pouring drinks.”
“Okay, so we have Lars, Giles, Paul Lund and Davey.” He took up the pen and scribbled the new name on the piece of paper. “There are two more men at the party—the black guy and the short one with the long hair. Do you remember them?”
“I don’t remember their names. The white guy has an English accent. Can you hear him? That’s not Giles.” She played more of the video for him.
“Guy with English accent.” Slade wrote it down. “And the other man?”
“The African-American could be an artist—sculptor, maybe. It was a very artsy bunch.” She made a noise in the back of her throat when the video ended. “That’s it.”
“I think we went from nothing to something pretty fast, and it should be easy to locate Paul Lund.”
“Then what?” She slumped in the chair and massaged the back of her neck.
“We’ll find out what Lars did with that film. You know—” he’d been crouching beside her all this time and now he stood up, rolling his broad shoulders forward and back “—we keep calling this film or footage, but what physical form does it take?”
“I’m not sure. Lars used a digital camera, so he could’ve copied it to any storage device. It’s not online, though, or he would’ve mentioned that.”
“Then it’s small enough to be hidden anywhere.” He gestured to the computer. “Can you find Paul Lund now?”
She scooched to the edge of her chair and flexed her fingers. A few keystrokes later, Paul Lund’s website filled the screen, displaying photos of nude people—in groups.
Slade whistled. “Interesting. That’s not what you all did at the party, is it?”
She rolled her eyes at him. “How could I forget he took pictures of naked people? Maybe he was doing something different two years ago.”
“Yeah, these are—unforgettable. Is there an address for a gallery or contact information?”
“It doesn’t look like he’s big enough for a whole gallery, but there’s an email address and telephone number at the bottom of the page.”
“Call him.”
“Me? What should I say? I haven’t seen him in two years.”
“Start with the truth. Ask him if he heard about Lars and see if he’ll talk to you.”
As she reached for the cell phone she’d brought with her into the office, Slade tapped her forearm. “Put it on speaker so I can hear, too.”
She entered the number in her phone and listened to it ring. She shrugged at Slade when Lund’s voice mail picked up.
“You’ve reached Paul Lund. Please leave a message with your name, number and photograph number that interests you.”
“Paul, this is Nicole Hastings. I’m a friend of Lars Rasmussen, and I wanted to talk to you about him. Please call me back as soon as possible.”
She left her number and ended the call. “I hope he’s in town.”
Slade jerked a thumb at a picture of several people holding hands in a circle—sans clothing. “I don’t think he needs to leave the city to find people willing to take their clothes off for art.”
“I suppose not.” She wrinkled her nose at the photo. “Should I contact you when he calls me back?”
“I’ll wait.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Here?”
“I’m staying at a hotel in Times Square. I’m not going all the way back there.”
“Should we—I mean, do you want something to eat? It’s after noon.”
“I can just run out and get something.”
Suddenly the thought of Slade Gallagher walking out that door and leaving her alone in this apartment gave her a jolt of terror. Someone had killed Giles, Lars and possibly Dahir. Was she next? Finding Lars’s footage and turning it over to this Navy SEAL might be the only thing to save her life.
Unless...the guys who killed her friends found the film first. Would they leave her alone then? What about the women she’d interviewed? If the film got into the wrong hands, those women could be murdered—or worse. Whether or not the people after that footage wanted it to ID the women or not, their exposure would just be an added benefit. She owed it to the women who’d trusted her with their stories to retrieve Lars’s film.
“How about it? Do you want me to get something for you, too?”
She glanced up at Slade, framed by the office door, Chanel wriggling in his arms. “We can eat here. My mom’s housekeeper, Jenny, thinks it’s her duty to keep the fridge stocked.”
“You sure?” He rubbed Chanel behind the ear. The dog immediately stopped squirming and got the most blissful look on her face. Slade must have some magic hands.
Nicole blinked. “Of course, but I don’t think Chanel’s going to ever leave you alone.”
“Not generally a little dog fan, but she’s won me over.”
“Looks like the feeling is mutual.” Nicole took a step toward the door, but her phone stopped her. She looked at the display. “It’s Paul.”
She tapped the phone to put it on speaker and answered. “Hello?”
“Is this Nicole Hastings?” He had a more pronounced accent than Lars’s, but not by much.
“Yes, Paul?”
“I got your message, and of course I’d heard about Lars. Damnedest thing. I had no idea he was suicidal. Did you? It wasn’t that whole pirate thing you went through, was it?”
She raised one eyebrow at Slade. “Absolutely not. I’m finding his suicide hard to believe. Had you talked to him recently?”
“No, but I do have something for you.”
“You do?” She placed a steadying hand over her heart. “What is it?”
“I’d rather show you. You’re in the city?”
“Yes.”
“Can you come by my studio this afternoon? It’s at my loft, where I had the party. Do you remember it?”
“I do, but not the address.”
Paul gave her the address of his loft studio, and they agreed to meet there in an hour.
When she ended the call, she cupped the phone in her hands. “That was easy. He’s just going to turn it over to me.”
“Let’s hope so, and then we have to figure out why it warranted the deaths of two, possibly three, people.” He set Chanel on the floor, and she promptly flopped over on her side.
Nicole walked up to the dog and nudged her paw with the toe of her sneaker. “You hypnotized her.”
“Yeah, we learn that in Navy SEAL training.”
She widened her eyes, and then pursed her lips. “Liar. We still have time for a quick bite to eat.”
“How far are you from SoHo?”
“It’s about a half hour in a taxi.” She plucked her neoprene running shirt from her chest. “I’m not changing. I never ran, anyway.”
“The guy takes pictures of naked people. I don’t think he’s going to care what you’re wearing.”
He hadn’t moved from the doorway, so she brushed past him and wished she hadn’t. She had to admit to herself that she’d been attracted to Slade from the minute she’d seen him pass by the door of the infirmary on that ship. She hadn’t told the guys at the time, but she’d had a feeling he’d been the SEAL sniper who’d rescued her.
They just would’ve laughed at her and accused her of falling for another adventure junkie. She’d had her share of mountain climbers, skydivers, big-wave surfers and even a Wall Street trader, but a Navy SEAL topped them all.
Once her pulse returned to normal, she called over her shoulder, “Sandwich?”
“Whatever’s easy. We need to head out of here soon.”
She slapped together a couple of sandwiches, and they finished them on the way to the lobby.
Leo jumped into action when he saw them. “Have a good one.”
“We will.” Nicole almost bounded to the taxi. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on that film and turn it over to the Navy or whoever would ultimately take control of it. Maybe they’d even return it to her one day so she could make that film and honor Lars and Giles.
The heavy traffic delayed them ten minutes, but Paul was waiting for them at his loft.
After introducing Slade as a friend and then shaking his hand, Paul gave her a long hug. “I can’t believe our Lars is gone.”
“Did he say anything to you when he left you the note for me and the footage?” She extricated herself from Paul’s bear hug.
He cocked his head to the side. “Footage? I just have the photos, Nicole.”
Her gaze darted to Slade and back to Paul. “Photos?”
“Of course. I thought you’d want them.” He crossed the large open room, his black-and-white photographs adorning the walls. He picked up a folder from a table and raised it in the air as he strolled back to her. “These.”
She flipped open the folder and bit down hard on her lip as she stared at a black-and-white photo of her and Lars, heads together, deep in conversation.
“I took those the night of the party, before we all got crazy.”
She shuffled through the remaining photos with a sharp pain piercing her heart. Hugging the pictures to her chest, she asked, “Was he in New York recently?”
“He was here a few months ago. Did you miss him, too?”
“I’ve been in the city for just about three weeks. Does that mean you didn’t see him when he was here?”
“I didn’t, and that makes me very sad, especially when I think I could’ve done something to help him.”
Slade stepped back from a collection of photos he’d been studying on the wall. “Do you know why he was in New York? Did he see any of your other friends?”
“Funding for his next project, I think.” Paul tugged on his earlobe, which had several piercings. “But he did visit Dave Pullman. You might remember him. He was at the party—dark curly hair, actor.”
“Davey. He was pouring the drinks.” A thrill ran up her spine, but she avoided looking at Slade to share her excitement. The less Paul knew about their mission, the better.
“Davey, yes. Lars and his nicknames.”
“Do you have Dave’s address and phone number?” As Paul raised his pale eyebrows at her, she stammered, “I—I have something I want to give to him, something I want to share. We didn’t have a chance to go to Lars’s funeral or a memorial for him, so it’s important for his friends to remember him.”
“Exactly why I wanted to give you those pictures.” He held up one finger. “One minute.”
He pivoted toward his desk, which must’ve doubled as his office, and scooped up his phone. He tapped it a few times and read off a phone number for Dave and an address on the Lower East Side. “I’m sure Dave will be happy to see you.”
“Thank you so much for the pictures, Paul.”
“Absolutely.” He narrowed his eyes as he looked her up and down and then turned his gaze to Slade. “Would you two be interested in doing some modeling for me?”
They both answered “no” at the same time.
Five minutes later, they stood on the sidewalk in front of Paul’s building. Nicole held out the folder of pictures to Slade. “Do you mind holding these while I call Dave? I don’t want them spilling out.”
“They’re good pictures. The guy has talent.”
“Not enough to entice you to pose for him?”
“Nope.”
A smile tugged on her lips as she selected Dave’s number from her contacts. She’d pay good money to see a nude black-and-white photo of Slade Gallagher.
The phone rang once on the other end and then rolled into a recording. She puckered her lips and puffed out a breath. “His number’s no longer in service.”
“Damn. I wonder if it has anything to do with Lars.”
“We still have his address. Should we pay him a visit?”
“We’re close, right?”
“We could walk, or it’s a ten-minute taxi ride as long as we don’t get snarled in traffic—and here’s one now.” She raised her hand at two oncoming taxis, and the second one swerved up to the curb.
Ten minutes later, the driver dumped them off at the end of Broome, where she told him to stop. “It’s easier to walk down this street.”
They found Dave’s building, an old brick structure squeezed between a bakery and a taco shop. Nicole placed one foot on the first step and gripped the iron railing. “If he’s not there, should we wait?”
“You can leave him a note. Maybe the bakery has some paper or a napkin to write on, but give it a try.”
With Slade close behind her, she stepped up on the porch and reached for the bell. Before she could press it, the door swung open and a dark-haired man carrying a bicycle on his shoulder squeezed by them.
Slade reached past her to catch the door before it closed, but something about the man’s hair had her jerking her head to the side.
He’d set the bike on the sidewalk, and his eyes met hers with a flicker of recognition.
“Dave? Davey?” She descended the step and moved beside him. “I’m Nicole...”
She didn’t get a chance to finish, because Davey Pullman threw his bike at her and took off running down the street.
