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.
Chapter Four
Nicole stumbled backward and landed awkwardly on the bottom step at Slade’s feet with a bike on top of her.
“Are you all right?” He crouched beside her, lifting the bike from her legs.
She flailed at his arms as he tried to help her up. “Go after him. That’s Dave!”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“It’s a bike, Slade. Don’t let Dave get away.”
Slade jumped to his feet, shoved the folder of pictures into Nicole’s arms and launched down the sidewalk after the man running in the direction of the Williamsburg Bridge. Could he run across the bridge?
Dave seemed to be slowing down and probably didn’t realize he had company on his jog. Then he cranked his head over his shoulder, and his mouth dropped open. He swung back around and almost ran into the path of a taxi, whose driver laid on his horn.
Slade pumped his legs harder and caught up to Dave just as he started to enter a park. He didn’t want to hurt the guy, but he had shoved Nicole to the ground with a bike. He had to pay for that.
Slade ground his back teeth and took a flying leap at Dave. The smaller man’s body folded beneath his as Slade smashed him face-first into the grass.
Panting, Slade rolled off him, keeping a knee pressed to Dave’s midsection. “Why are you running? Nicole just wants to talk to you.”
Dave grunted, and a few seconds later his eyes bulged from their sockets.
Slade eased up on the pressure he was applying to the man’s stomach, but his knee beneath Dave’s rib cage was not the reason for his bug eyes.
Nicole rolled up beside them on Dave’s bike. She flicked the bell once before hopping off. “What is your problem?”
Dave finally found his voice. “I’m sorry I pushed you, but I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to be seen with you. I don’t know anything.”
Slade rested on his haunches next to Dave, still huffing and puffing on the ground. “Obviously you know something, or you wouldn’t have taken off like that.”
“And now we’re talking very publicly when we could’ve been having a nice conversation at your place.” Nicole waved her arms to take in the park. “Did Lars give you the Somalia footage or not?”
“I wouldn’t take it from him. If he wanted to gallivant all over the world getting himself in trouble, that’s his business, but I didn’t want any part of it.”
“Why did you think taking the film from him would be trouble for you?” Slade asked.
“Are you kidding?” Dave struggled to a sitting position and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the front pocket of his pants. “Do you mind?”
Slade shrugged, and Nicole shook her head and said, “That’s why you can’t run very fast.”
Dave shook out the crushed package and retrieved a book of matches from his other pocket. He lit a cigarette with a trembling hand. “Lars stopped by my place with a crazy story about someone being after him. He suspected it had something to do with the film he’d shot in Somalia, because someone had broken into a place he’d been staying with a woman in San Francisco and stolen some film he had there, but the Somalia stuff wasn’t there.”
“Why did he connect that break-in to Somalia?” Nicole swung her leg over the bike and propped it against a park bench.
“He’d just heard about Giles, and after the theft in San Francisco, he felt like he was being followed.”
Slade glanced at Nicole. She’d had the same feelings.
“Did you see the film Lars was trying to give you?” Slade held his breath as Dave released another stream of smoke into the air between puckered lips.
“You mean the actual footage?”
“No. The physical thing—was it on a disc or what?”
“A little disc, like this.” Dave held his thumb and index finger about two inches apart.
“Did you send his letter to me?”
Nicole had perched on the edge of the bench and clasped her hands between her knees. She had a bloody scrape on her right wrist from Dave’s bike, and a flare of anger surfaced in Slade’s chest. The guy was a coward in more ways than one.
Dave took a long drag from his cigarette and emitted words and smoke at the same time. “I wouldn’t take any of it. He wanted me to hide the disc and send the letter to you if anything happened to him.”
“Do you know who sent the letter for him? Because I got it today.”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. When I heard Lars offed himself, I was damned glad I refused to help him. Lars kill himself? You ever hear of anything more ludicrous?” Dave shook his head and crushed out his smoke. “They really were out to get him and that footage. If you’re smart, you’ll leave it alone.”
“I can’t. Someone’s after me, too.”
Dave’s head jerked up, and he pushed to his feet. “What is it with you people? Why go looking for trouble when it finds you, anyway?”
“Well, now I’m in it, and this guy—” she aimed her finger at Slade “—is going to help me get out of it.”
Was that what she thought? The pressure was really on, especially since this was an assignment way out of his comfort zone.
Slade rose to his feet and planted himself in front of Dave, in case he got any more ideas about taking off. “Who else did Lars see when he was in the city? Who else was here? We already know Paul Lund was out of town.”
“Is that how you found me? Paul?”
“I was looking at video from that party at Paul’s place almost two years ago. Were those all of Lars’s New York friends? Are they still here? Were they here when Lars was in the city?”
“There are probably only two people from that party Lars would’ve contacted besides me—Andre Vincent and Trudy Waxman.”
Nicole sprang to her feet and pulled her phone from the pocket of her sweatshirt. “Do you have their contact info?”
“I don’t, but Andre’s a sculptor. You should be able to find him, and Trudy’s an actress. She’s in some off-off-Broadway play right now. It’s at the Gym at Judson, that church in Greenwich Village.” Dave grabbed the handlebars of his bike and plucked out the folder Nicole had stashed in his basket and dropped it on the bench beside her. “Can I go now? That’s all I know about it.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Nicole pocketed her phone. “I don’t know why you had to run like that.”
“Because I’m scared.” Dave pushed his bike and put one foot on a pedal. Rolling forward, he turned and looked over his shoulder. “And if you were smart, you’d be scared, too.”
As he rode off, Nicole plopped down on the bench again, rubbing her elbow. “Lars did a number on Dave. If he hadn’t freaked him out so much, he would’ve been able to leave the film with him.”
Slade crouched before her and took her hands. “You’re injured. Does your elbow hurt, too?”
“A little.” She rolled her wrist outward. “I didn’t even notice that blood before.”
“Let’s get you back to your place and clean that up.”
Tilting her head back, she cupped one hand over her eyes, shading them from the sun. “How’d you bring Dave down? Didn’t anyone interfere?”
“I tackled him. There weren’t that many people around. For all I know, they thought I was chasing down someone who’d lifted my wallet.” He tugged a strand of her hair that had come loose from her ponytail. “And you riding in on that bike like the cavalry.”
A big grin claimed her face, and he felt like a hundred suns had just come out. Nicole had those supermodel good looks, but with a bloody smudge on her arm, her messy ponytail and all those gleaming white teeth, she looked like a happy-go-lucky girl next door—a really hot girl next door.
“That was pretty cool, wasn’t it?” She launched herself from the bench, practically knocking him over. “Now we need to track down Andre and Trudy.”
“We’ll need a computer for that, and you still need to get that cut cleaned up.”
They took another taxi back to the apartment, and Chanel proceeded to paw Slade’s ankles. “Does this dog ever get out?”
“My mom has a dog walker.” She wagged her finger at him. “Don’t ask. She comes by every morning to feed and walk Chanel and then returns at dusk.”
“That’s not one of your duties when you stay here?”
“My mother doesn’t trust me to walk Chanel. She doesn’t trust me with a lot of things.”
“Really? You seem pretty competent to me.”
“For chasing down guys on bikes, but not domestic things.”
He preferred women who could chase down guys on bikes to those who excelled at the domestic arts. Pointing to the door off the living room that led to her small office, he asked, “How about I look up Andre and Trudy while you wash and dress that scrape?”
“I’m going to take a shower and change. Is that okay?” Tucking the folder containing Lund’s photographs beneath her arm, she crossed the room to the office. “I’ll get you logged in. A sculptor and an actress—I told you Lars hung with an artsy crowd.”
“So your mom doesn’t trust you to walk the dog?”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Back to that?”
“I just can’t imagine someone not trusting you to follow through. You seem incredibly capable.”
“Capable in the wrong way.” She bumped the office door open with her hip. “According to Mom.”
“Traveling to exotic and dangerous countries to expose important stories to the light of day isn’t the right way?”
She powered up her computer and entered a password. “Ah, my mother would rather have me here heading up a multitude of charitable organizations she founded with my father’s money. It’s not an unworthy endeavor—just not me.”
He pulled up a chair in front of the monitor coming to life. They had more in common than he would’ve thought. “I get that.”
“Not many people do.” She stepped back, tipping her head at the computer. “It’s all yours. I’m beginning to think even if we find their phone numbers, we’d be better off coming at these people with the element of surprise.”
“I think you’re right.” He tapped her arm above the dried blood of the cut. “You take care of that, and I’ll find our friends.”
“I won’t be long.” She swept out of the office with a flick of her fingers.
He murmured, “Capable,” at her back and then turned his attention to the computer. It didn’t take him long to find Andre Vincent. The sculptor’s work was being featured in a series of modern art exhibits around the city, with each artist rotating among the galleries.
Slade peeled a sticky note from a pad of them and jotted down the name and address of the gallery where Andre would be visiting tonight.
Trudy Waxman was almost as easy to locate. He looked up the Gym at Judson, which had a play listed on the calendar of events for tonight. When he clicked on the cast of characters, her name popped up.
Again, he reached for a sticky note and wrote down the name and address of the theater and the play times.
A gallery and a play—he hadn’t crammed this much culture into one evening since he’d been back in San Francisco and his parents had dragged him to the opera and a fund-raiser with ballet dancers after. His
eye twitched at the recollection.
“Any luck?” Nicole poked her head into the office.
She’d freed her hair from its ponytail, and the strands slid over one shoulder like a smooth ribbon of caramel.
“All kinds of luck.” He gestured her into the room. “Found both of them.”
She sauntered into the office and leaned over his shoulder to peer at the monitor, engulfing him in a fresh scent that reminded him of newly mowed lawns.
She snorted softly. “Glinda Fox Gets High? That’s the name of the play?”
“That’s it, and Trudy doesn’t even play Glinda.”
“I said Lars’s friends were artists. I didn’t say they were particularly good ones.”
“Andre’s stuff doesn’t look half-bad, if you like lumps of stone with faces poking out of it.”
“Ugh. Sounds hideous. Where do we find these lumpen treasures?”
He stuck one of the notes to his fingertip and waved it at her. “It just so happens that some of his work is going to be on exhibit at Satchel’s Gallery in Chelsea, and the artist is going to be in attendance. It’s part of some revolving show for artists.”
“If we go there, are we going to have time to catch Glinda getting high?”
“According to my schedule—” he attached the second note to another finger and held them both up “—we can stop in at the gallery at seven o’clock and still have time to see the play at eight, depending on what we find out from Andre.”
“Maybe after talking to Andre, we won’t need to sit through the play.” Nicole wrinkled her nose. “We don’t really have to sit through the play, do we? We can just meet her after.”
“Do you have anything better to do?” His gaze swept from her bare feet with painted toes to her glossy hair, noting along the way her jeans encasing her long legs, topped off with a plain black T-shirt. She looked stylish without even trying.
“Nope, but I’d like to eat some dinner before we check out that art show.”
“I need to change, anyway.” He tugged on the hem of his sweatshirt. “How about we head back to my hotel in Times Square, grab a bite somewhere near there and then go to Andre’s show?”
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