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.”
