“I’ll remember that.”
She left Slade eating his eggs, still dressed in all black from the night before—the disastrous night before. Would the people looking for that footage really have gotten to Trudy if they hadn’t led them to her?
Once in her bedroom, Nicole opened her walk-in closet and leaned against the doorjamb. “What do you wear to a break-in?”
Of course, as Slade had pointed out, they had Trudy’s keys. Would the police be there? Had Trudy’s death been categorized as a murder? What else? Twentysomething women didn’t just drop dead after theatrical performances...unless they were ill.
Nicole showered quickly, deciding on a pair of boyfriend-cut jeans, a loose T-shirt and running shoes—in case they needed to make a quick getaway.
Slade hadn’t returned from walking the dog, so Nicole headed to the office and fired up her computer. She did a search for Trudy Waxman and came across a small news item about her death at the theater. The article didn’t mention murder.
She spun her phone toward her on the desk and sent a text to Paul Lund. Dave Pullman would probably refuse to answer even if he did have Trudy’s address.
When she heard the key scrape in the lock, she jumped to her feet and hung behind the office door until she saw Slade emerge from the foyer with Chanel at his heels. She let out a small, measured breath.
“How’d it go?”
“We met a chocolate Lab, a pug and a mutt.” He swooped up Chanel in his arms and unclipped her leash. “She seemed most taken with the mutt. Loves those bad boys, I guess.”
Starting forward, Nicole brushed away the prickles of heat from her cheeks. Slade Gallagher couldn’t be referring to himself. He was no bad boy, with his surfer good looks and easy acceptance of all her mother’s high-end accoutrements.
“That mutt is Charlie, and they’re already good friends. Did Charlie’s owner, Emma, wonder what you were doing with Chanel?”
“I told her I was your friend and had offered to walk Chanel around the neighborhood.”
“Great. I’m going to have some explaining to do when my mom comes home. Emma is just about the nosiest person on the block.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.” He opened the closet door and slipped the leash over the hook. “Did you have any luck with Trudy’s address?”
“Couldn’t find anything online, but I also texted Paul Lund. No answer yet.” She sank to an ottoman and crossed her legs beneath her. “There was an item online about Trudy, but there was nothing about murder.”
“It’ll take the coroner’s office a few weeks to get a toxicology report if there’s no apparent cause of death.”
“If the NYPD doesn’t suspect foul play, will the police even go to her apartment?”
“I’m not sure. If the police don’t suspect murder, they probably won’t search Trudy’s place, but they may talk to anyone who lives there with her.”
“And if she does have roommates? How are we going to get around them to search the place?”
“Let’s find her place first. If there are any roommates there, we’ll deal with them. You knew Trudy, sort of, or at least you knew Lars. If we get caught, we can use that as an excuse.”
It took Paul Lund another hour to text her back, but when he did it was good news.
“Bingo.” Nicole held up her phone to Slade, stretched out on the floor, playing with Chanel. That dog was going to miss Slade when he returned to being a SEAL, and Chanel wasn’t the only one.
Slade turned his head to the side, one furry paw planted on his cheek. “He sent the address?”
“Her place is in Brooklyn.”
“Did he mention anything else?”
“No. He doesn’t know she’s dead.”
“Makes you wonder how Dave found out so quickly. Unless you were searching for Trudy’s name, her death didn’t exactly make prime-time news.”
She snapped her fingers. “You answered your own question. Once Dave knew we were looking for Andre and Trudy, he was probably expecting something bad to happen to them—and he didn’t have to wait long.”
“How long does it take to get to Brooklyn and how are we getting there?”
“We can take the train. It won’t take too long, less than an hour.” She tapped her phone. “I know this neighborhood, full of film school hipsters, and unless Trudy had better gigs than that off-off-Broadway play last night, I can guarantee you she has roommates.”
“Unless she has rich parents.”
She studied Slade as he tossed Chanel’s plush toy across the room for signs of sarcasm or snarkiness, but his strong, honest face didn’t show signs of either. He puzzled her, and she wanted to find out more about him personally, but how did one ask one’s bodyguard about the private details of his life?
He liked dogs—that much she knew—and they liked him. Who wouldn’t?
Flicking some dog hair from the front of her T-shirt, she shrugged. “Do we go over now or should we wait?”
“Let’s go, since we don’t know what we’re going to find there.”
The bell at the front door made them both twitch and sent Chanel into a tizzy.
“That has to be Livvy. Leo knows to let her up.” Nicole scooted off the ottoman and then hesitated at the front door as Slade hovered behind her, his warm breath on the back of her neck. Licking her lips, she hooked the chain and inched open the door.
“It’s just me.” Livvy stepped back from the crack in the door and spread her arms.
Nicole swung open the door. “Right on time. Chanel’s going to be starving. She had a busy morning.”
Livvy stepped into the room and inclined her head when she saw Slade. Her light blue eyes did a quick assessment of the man in front of her, and she must’ve liked what she saw. She dimpled and held out her long fingers. “Hello, there. I’m Livvy, the dog sitter.”
“Slade, the out-of-town friend.” He took Livvy’s hand and returned the smile, not looking lethal at all.
“I think those are the only kinds of friends Nicole has—out-of-town ones.” Livvy swept up Chanel and met her nose to nose. “Hello, gorgeous.”
“We already let her out for a quick walk this morning.”
“Okay, I’ll feed her and take her out for a longer walk to the park.”
Nicole opened the door and poked her head in the hallway. “No other charges today?”
“Not today. Chanel has me all to herself.” Livvy shook the little dog gently.
“You should see it when Livvy’s walking four or five dogs at once—a true art.” Nicole took a few steps backward and grabbed her purse from the coffee table. “We were just on our way out.”
Livvy leaned forward, allowing the dog to scramble from her arms. “Before you go out, can I ask a favor?”
“Of course.”
“It’s colder than when I set out this morning. Can I borrow a jacket for my walk?”
“You can wear that blazer draped over the chair, or I have an NYU hoodie in the coat closet in the foyer.”
“Thanks, I’ll take the hoodie. That blazer looks—expensive.” Livvy wiggled her fingers in the air. “Have fun.”
When they got to the elevator, Slade turned to her. “Does she make a living as a dog sitter?”
“I know what my mom pays her, so I can believe it. She has a lot of high-end clients.”
“I need a job when I retire from the Navy. Maybe I should look into dog sitting.”
In the elevator car, she bumped his shoulder with her own. “You’d be great, and all the society matrons would love you.”
“Ah, society matrons.”
She pounced on his words. “Sounds like you know the breed.”
“Very well.”
The doors opened onto the lobby and she lost her chance to
ask what he meant as Leo greeted them with a wave. “Did you see Livvy? I sent her up.”
“She’s all set. She’ll be taking Chanel for a walk in about thirty minutes.”
Leo held open the door. “Taxi?”
“Actually—” Nicole pivoted on her toes, changing direction “—we’ll go out the back way. Mail come?”
“It did.”
“Then I’ll pick it up on the way out. Thanks, Leo.”
“Have a good one.”
She led Slade back to the mailboxes, even though he knew exactly where they were. She opened hers and peeked inside, holding her breath.
“You look worried. Anything unexpected?”
She flicked through the envelopes and ads. “Nothing. I’m going to leave it here.”
They slipped outside into the alley between her mother’s building and another high-rise. The wind whipped through the space and she zipped up her jacket. “Livvy wasn’t kidding. It’s chilly out here.”
“I need to stop by my hotel again on the way and change clothes. I did have a shower at your place, but I could use a clean shirt.”
“We can make a stop.”
“You can wait in the lobby again...or come on up this time.”
Forty minutes later, she wished she’d chosen the lobby as Slade peeled off his black T-shirt and tossed it on the bed.
She averted her gaze from his solid muscles by squinting at her phone. The guy was just too good to be true, and too hard to resist. He probably didn’t feel the same connection to her as she did to him. He’d saved her life on that boat in the Gulf of Aden, but he’d probably rescued a lot of people. While that moment had been indelibly impressed upon her mind, it was all in a day’s work for him.
He crouched in front of a suitcase in the corner of the room, his back and shoulders flaring up from the waistband of his black jeans. Nicole swallowed and wandered to the window.
“Nice view.” Times Square below barely registered on her brain.
Slade rose to his feet and turned around, a blue T-shirt clutched in one hand. “Yeah, it’s great. That view is also how I know the military is not funding this little operation.”
“Not the Navy?” She crossed her arms. “Who, then?”
“Some organization deep in the intelligence community. My superior officer won’t even tell me, but I was specifically requested for this assignment. One of my team members was put on a similar assignment last month.”
“Are they related?”
He pulled the T-shirt over his head, thank God, and then skimmed his palm over the top of his short sandy-blond hair. “Someone must think so.”
“Do you?”
“There’s a guy—” he ran a knuckle across the scruff on his chin “—and I’m only telling you this because you’re involved and have been involved in matters in the Middle East. He started as a sniper and got on our radar during the conflict in Afghanistan, but he’s branched out and may be running his own organization. We think he might’ve been involved in your kidnapping and in these follow-up killings.”
“For what reason?” The gears of her mind had already started whirring. This would make a hell of a story.
“A broader terror organization. He’d been planning an attack in Boston last month, and someone we rescued from Pakistan a few years ago was targeted because he unwittingly had information about the plan.”
“The attack at the symposium held at the JFK Library?”
“That’s the one.”
She pressed one hand against the glass of the window, feeling dizzy. “What would he have to do with a story about the women’s movement in Somalia?”
“We don’t have a clue—right now. Hoping Lars’s footage can clarify that.”
“Then we’d better get moving.”
Slade sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off one motorcycle boot. “I’m changing shoes.”
She kicked out her sneakered foot. “In case we have to make a run for it?”
“Are you sure you don’t want to wait here? You’d be safe.”
“I thought I was your ticket to Trudy’s apartment. At least I had met her once or twice before. I doubt some woman is going to trust you, especially after her roommate just dropped dead.”
“That’s right, but if you don’t want to go you don’t have to go.” He tied his Converse and stamped his feet on the carpet as he stood up.
“Oh, I want to go.”
He reached into the closet and pulled a gray sweatshirt from a hanger, the other hangers clacking in protest.
“You could be living in the lap of luxury and safety on the Upper East Side, attending charity balls and golf tournaments.”
She tilted her head to one side. “You sound like you know that world well. Why?”
“I’m from it.”
During their forty-minute trip to Brooklyn, Nicole grilled Slade about his background, which wasn’t all that different from her own—except his upbringing had played out against the backdrop of a wealthy beach community in Orange County, California.
“So who’s your father going to get to take over his business since you’ve opted out?”
“His business, his problem.”
The set of his jaw indicated that his father had tried to make it Slade’s problem, too.
“But still, your parents must be incredibly proud of what you do, who you are.”
“Would you say your mother is proud of your chosen field?”
“Oh, that?” She waved her hand. “No, but I don’t run around saving people’s lives.”
“Really?” He stretched out his legs and tapped his feet together. “’Cause I’ve seen your films, and you come pretty damned close to doing just that with your exposés.”
A little glow warmed a spot in her heart. “Thanks, but it doesn’t come close to what you do, and my mom just thinks I’m crazy.”
“Same.”
The train swayed, and her shoulder bumped his. He didn’t move away and neither did she. She pressed against him and felt more than his solid presence in her life right now. She felt a connection, a kindred spirit.
She’d dated plenty of wealthy guys, and they’d always sided with her mother. She’d also dated guys who were dead broke, and most of them had a hard time figuring her out. Slade got it—got her.
After the train arrived at the station in Brooklyn, they emerged onto a busy sidewalk. “Are you up for a walk? There’s no subway deeper into Greenpoint.”
“Let’s walk. I need to stretch my legs.”
Fifteen minutes later, as they turned onto Trudy’s street, Slade said, “At least there are no cop cars out front.”
“So, either they already came and went, or they aren’t even considering homicide.”
Slade took her arm at the bottom of the steps. “You got this?”
“If there’s a roommate, I’m going to tell her that Trudy had something of Lars’s to give me, and I’m there to pick it up.”
Slade tried the front door of the building, but it didn’t budge.
“The key’s probably on Trudy’s key chain.”
“But if there’s a roommate, she’s gonna wonder why we didn’t just buzz.” He pressed the button next to Trudy’s apartment number.
The speaker crackled to life. “Yes?”
Slade mouthed an expletive while Nicole leaned into the speaker. “I’m looking for Trudy Waxman.”
An audible gasp whooshed through the speaker. “A-are you a friend?”
“A friend of a friend—Lars Rasmussen.”
“Lars, yes.” The woman sniffed. “I’m sorry, I have some bad news...why don’t you come up?”
The door buzzed and clicked, and Slade pushed it open. “Ready?”
“I guess so, but how are we
going to search the place with a roommate hanging around?”
“We’re going to have to get in when the roommate’s gone. In a way, it makes it easier. We know what we’re dealing with instead of being surprised in the act.”
They trudged up the three flights of stairs and knocked on the door of number 311.
A woman with a red-tipped nose cracked open the door. Her eyes widened when she spotted Slade hovering behind Nicole. “C’mon in.”
Nicole figured she’d get right to the point. “What’s the bad news?”
“Trudy passed away last night after a performance.”
Nicole clapped a hand over her mouth as Slade squeezed her shoulder. “How?”
“Not sure yet, but it looks like it was her epilepsy.”
“Epilepsy?” Nicole’s mouth dropped open—for real this time. So she had heard right last night. “I didn’t know she had epilepsy.”
“Well, you weren’t really her friend, were you? What’s your name?”
“Nicole Hastings.” She and Slade believed it would be best to stick to the truth, since Trudy might have mentioned her.
“That’s right. You worked with Lars. I’m Marley.”
Slade asked, “Is that the official cause of death?”
Marley’s gaze darted to Slade.
“I’m sorry.” Nicole tugged on the sleeve of Slade’s sweatshirt. “This is my friend Steve.”
Marley shook Slade’s hand. “I don’t know if it’s official or not, but the cops came by here last night when one of Trudy’s cast mates gave him our address. He told me she’d had a seizure and had passed before the EMTs even got there.”
“That’s horrible. I’m so sorry.” Nicole touched the other woman’s shoulder. “Now I feel sort of stupid being here.”
“Why did you come?” Marley dabbed a shredded tissue to her nose.
“Trudy told me that Lars had given her something for me.”
“Oh.” Marley opened her arms to encompass the cluttered room. “What was it?”
“That’s the thing.” Nicole lifted one shoulder. “I don’t know. Trudy didn’t tell me.”
“That’s...strange.” Marley bit her lip. “If I come across anything, I’ll let you know. Trudy’s sister is coming out in a few weeks to collect her things, and I’ll let her know, too.”
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