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