Alpha Bravo Seal

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.”