by Rick Copp
“What kind of trouble?”
“I’m not sure. But Akshay Kapoor may have some information on his whereabouts.”
“I never trusted that Bollywood brute.”
“I really don’t have any further details, but I would like to pay a visit to Akshay’s flat, and I knew if anyone kept that cast contact list for the play, it would be you.” Definitely, since my understudy’s phone number was on that list and he was a shaggy-haired, droopy-eyed, adventurous young buck who played for both teams.
“Why, yes, I’m sure I have it here somewhere.”
I heard some rustling in the background, and then a bell ringing.
“Be right there,” Sir Anthony called out, suddenly a slight tension in his voice.
“I’d normally comment on how rude it is that someone is calling on you at this obscene hour, but here I am hounding you over the phone.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, Jarrod. I was up. And I’m expecting him. Nice young chap from a Dutch acting school in Amsterdam. Here as an exchange student. We met on a train earlier today. I promised to share a few pointers.”
“I see,” I said, refraining from making any kind of perceived sarcastic remarks for fear Sir Anthony might withhold Akshay’s flat address.
“I realize my tutoring time is a bit unusual, but the poor boy just got off work. He’s a dancer at one of those cocktail bars on Charing Cross Road.”
The bell rang again. “Yes, yes, I’ll be there in a minute,” Sir Anthony shouted as he flipped through more papers. “Persistent young lad, isn’t he?”
I was afraid Sir Anthony might give me the brush-off if he got worried his young, hard-bodied new boy toy might flee out of exasperation, but luckily he located the cast list, and I jotted down Akshay’s flat address in South Kensington.
After hanging up, I turned to find Laurette already half dressed. She was applying some eyeliner and combing out her tangled hair at the same time. “I’ll be ready in two minutes.”
She wasn’t about to allow me to go break into an apartment on my own, especially in a foreign country.
Within ten minutes we were in the back of a cab for the short drive over to Akshay’s London flat. The sun was just coming up, and a few joggers huffed and puffed up and down the dampened streets on this cold, foggy morning typical of old Mother England. We rolled past the Victoria and Albert museums and turned onto a narrow side street, stopping in front of a three-story brownstone situated on a well-kept corner. We paid the driver, and as he sped away, Laurette and I stood there staring at the old building with absolutely no clue as to how we were going to get inside.
“Sir Anthony said Akshay lives on the first floor. Maybe he left a window open,” I said.
We hurried up the four steps to the front door. I jiggled the knob. It was locked. No surprise there. I leaned over the railing to get a good look inside the flat. It was dark, but I could make out the distinctive décor inspired by his home country. Lots of Indian Thakat wood furniture, the doorway to the kitchen adorned with a metal valance with wispy, billowing, multicolored curtains evocative of the region, and hardwood floors softened by an area rug with an intricately woven pattern.
I pushed up on the windowpane, but it wouldn’t budge. It was locked from the inside.
“What do you see?” Laurette said.
“It’s a beautiful apartment,” I said.
“Oh, let me see. I love the Home and Garden channel,” she said, leaning over the railing, squeezing past me to gawk in the window. Her left hip pressed against the doorbell, and we heard it ring inside.
“What is that?” Laurette said.
“You. Stop leaning against the bell.”
Laurette repositioned herself just as a light in the living room snapped on and someone walked through the gauzy curtains separating the living room from the kitchen. I gasped as Akshay’s mother stared at our surprised faces pressed up against the window. I didn’t know what to do, so I waved.
Mrs. Kapoor quickly unlocked the front door and welcomed us inside. She was almost relieved to see us. This certainly put a crimp in the covert activities we had planned, but it saved us from possible arrest for breaking and entering.
Ever the consummate hostess, Mrs. Kapoor immediately prepared some herbal tea and a plateful of biscuits, and the three of us sat at the kitchen table. I felt as if some kind of explanation was in order.
“I’ve been trying to reach Akshay for the last couple of days, but he doesn’t seem to be answering his home phone or his cell,” I said. “I didn’t want to leave for the States without saying good-bye.” I was trying to give the impression that her son and I had grown fond of each other during my time in London. I felt no need to tell her I detested her pompous, arrogant, boyfriend-stealing spawn.
Mrs. Kapoor nodded somberly. “Well, like I said on your voice mail, I have been trying to reach him myself. He never goes this long without calling.” She was fighting to remain calm. Her mother’s intuition was telling her something was perilously wrong. “Sometimes he will send my husband and me e-mails, but we know nothing about computers.”
“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?” Laurette said.
“I’ve thought about it. Akshay loves to travel, but he never leaves without telling us where he’s going. I thought perhaps he was cast in a movie back home at the last minute, but I called our relatives in Mumbai, and they say no one’s heard from him.”
I didn’t want to further complicate matters by explaining to Mrs. Kapoor that my boyfriend Charlie was also missing and might be with Akshay, so I decided not to mention it.
“Mrs. Kapoor, would you mind if I looked around with my friend here?”
She threw up her hands. “I don’t see what good it will do. I have searched every inch of this flat and found nothing that tells me where I can find Akshay.”
“Maybe a fresh pair of eyes could make the difference. Please.”
“Of course. Be my guest. But I must go home. My husband believes I am overreacting, so I came over here while he was still sleeping. I have to get back before he awakens and notices I’m gone.”
“We’ll leave everything as we found it. I promise.”
“Just find my son. Please.” The worried lines in Mrs. Kapoor’s face deepened. She set her cup of tea down, straightened her beautiful red print wrap, gave us each a peck on the cheek, and then left.
Laurette and I wasted no time searching the flat, rifling through papers, opening desk drawers, playing all of Akshay’s answering-machine messages. There were at least four messages from his mother, her concern growing with each one. I wandered into the back bedroom, where a stack of head shots and books on acting cluttered a small desk next to an old, oversized, outdated computer. Akshay had been so busy clawing his way to the top he hadn’t had time to upgrade his system. It suddenly struck me what Mrs. Kapoor had said in the kitchen. She knew nothing about computers, which meant she probably hadn’t even bothered to turn this one on. There might be a clue on his hard drive. I flipped on the power switch and waited a full three minutes before the clunky old machine was up and running. I went into his e-mail account and scanned the long list of messages, mostly porn ads and get-rich-quick scheme offers. There were a couple of notes from fellow actors who updated him on the state of their own careers. That’s what we actors do in e-mails. We start out by asking how you are in one brief sentence to be polite, and then we launch into a detailed dissertation of our own self-involved lives that could last pages. I finished perusing the messages and nearly clicked out of the message box before my eye caught it.
“Laurette! Come in here!” I hollered.
Laurette wandered in with a wooden spoon and a carton of strawberry yogurt. I gave her a withering look.
“Is that a clue you found in the refrigerator?”
“What?” she said. “It was already open. I was afraid it would go bad.”
I spun around and pointed at the screen. “Look at this e-mail. I almost missed it.”
“They went to Greece?” Laurette said.
“No. Akshay booked a single ticket. Charlie didn’t go with him.”
“Well, maybe they didn’t travel together. Maybe Charlie met him there.”
Was Charlie in Greece? Or was he still here in London? Or somewhere else? Something about Greece kept bothering me. I had been there before. Years before I met Charlie. It was undeniably one of the most beautiful places I had ever visited. I was struck by the stunning white structures with blue shutters and trim that melted into the peaceful landscape. I spent hours on the soft sands of the beaches staring out at the endless, bright blue crystal ocean . . . Wait a minute. Soft sands and crystal ocean. My God! Isis’s prediction. She was insistent that Charlie was somewhere with soft sand and a crystal ocean. Greece! It had to be Greece!
I leapt up from the chair, banging into Laurette and almost knocking her over. “Charlie’s in Greece! Come on!”
“We’re going to Greece?” Laurette said, a hint of excitement in her voice.
“Yes.” I quickly shut down the computer. We were heading back out to the living room when we heard the front door open. Laurette and I exchanged quizzical looks.
“Do you think Mrs. Kapoor came back?” Laurette said.
I put my hand up to silence her, crept a few feet to the curtain separating the bedroom from the hallway, and lifted it back just a bit. Two men with dark features, both hulking and intimidating in stature, began ransacking the flat.
Laurette and I stood in the bedroom, paralyzed by fear, with no idea how we were going to get the hell out of there.
Chapter 21
As the two brutes rifled through drawers and sliced open the upholstery on a few chairs, Laurette began hyperventilating. I grabbed her hands and squeezed tightly, silently taking quick breaths in and out with her as if we were practicing for a Lamaze class. I knew if she panicked, we were dead. Whoever these thugs were, they had no qualms about breaking the law, so they probably wouldn’t mind breaking a few of our bones as well.
There was no way for us to escape out the front door without them seeing us, so our only chance was slipping out the window in Akshay’s bedroom. Luckily, he was on the bottom floor of the building, and if we could maneuver around a clunky old window air-conditioning unit, we had a good shot of climbing down into a back alley and slipping away undetected.
I guided Laurette to the bed and sat her down, keeping a firm grasp on her hands and locking eyes with her. I whispered, “Don’t worry. I’ll get us out of here.”
I tiptoed over to the window and unlocked the latch, carefully and quietly lifting up on the pane. It rose effortlessly, and a quick smile formed on my lips. This was going to be easier than I thought.
But that was before the air-conditioning unit wobbled free and pitched forward, crashing to the floor and crushing my right toe. I screamed in agony, not only alerting the two goons in the living room but half the neighborhood as well. Akshay had never bothered to fasten the unit. He had just stuffed it in the window and used the pane to hold it in place. Why on earth would an Indian actor who was used to the sweltering temperatures of Bombay need air-conditioning in one of the coldest, grayest countries in the world anyway? Of course, the answer to this burning question would have to wait. Pounding footsteps were fast approaching the bedroom.
I dashed across to the door, my toe throbbing with pain, and tried to slide the bolt into place just as two bodies slammed against it, cracking the thick wood. The two slabs of beef on the other side reared back and hurled themselves into it again. The door threatened to fall apart as I pressed my right shoulder up against it in a futile attempt to keep them out.
Laurette yelped and scurried over to the window, managing to slip one leg out into the alley. She ducked her head to cram herself through just as the window slid back down, wedging against the back of her neck and trapping her.
She strained to push up on the pane, but it wouldn’t budge. “Jarrod, I’m stuck!”
I knew I was not going to be able to hold the door in place much longer, but if I left my position for even a second, the two monsters outside would instantly be in the bedroom with us. I had to make a choice. It was going to be painful, especially for Laurette, but it was our only hope.
The two apes rammed the door with their bodies one more time. I could hear them step back for a final assault that would unquestionably smash the already damaged door to bits. I grabbed my opportunity to desert my post, leapt over the bed, and with a running start, my hands outstretched, I collided with Laurette, snapping the window pane in half and sending her hurtling out the window. I saw her crash to the cobblestone street in a shocked and breathless heap. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the dark-skinned bodybuilders smashing through the door like a team-up between the Incredible Hulk and the Thing.
Without waiting for introductions, I dove out the window after Laurette just as the Hulk took a swipe at me, barely missing locking one of his ham fists around my ankle. Laurette had just sat up to catch her breath and survey the damage when I landed face first in her crotch. She screamed again. I don’t know if it was out of the pain from the impact or the surprise of my out-of-character landing position. I wasn’t going to take the time to find out. Jumping to my feet and wincing from the intense aching in my toe, I grabbed Laurette’s hand and we hauled ass out of the alley. Hulk and Thing were grunting as they attempted to squeeze through the small window frame to get to us.
Harried, sweating, and panicked, we staggered into the middle of the street, where we were nearly run down by a bottled-water truck with its horn blasting. It missed us by inches as we raced to put some distance between our pursuers and us. Laurette lagged behind because of some unwieldy shoes she had bought in Maui a few weeks ago. Who wears high heels to a break-in?
After flagging down a taxicab, I opened the door for Laurette. She was still disoriented and out of breath and took too much time climbing in the back. So when I saw the Hulk and Thing emerge from the alleyway and scan up and down the streets in search of us, I grabbed her butt with both hands and lifted her up off the ground. She let out a muffled squeak as her body flopped down on the leather-cushioned backseat. She was used to Larry pawing her, but not me. I jumped in after her, keeping my head down so as not to be spotted. The fiftysomething, fleshy, watery-eyed, red-nosed driver looked us up and down through his rearview mirror.
“Where to?” he asked in a thick Irish brogue.
Laurette and I had absolutely no idea. I turned my head and peered out the back to see the Hulk and Thing still looking for us. Luckily they hadn’t spotted us yet. Thing became frustrated and angrily kicked over a trash can with his foot.
Laurette sat up and confidently said to the driver, “Heathrow Airport, please.”
The driver leered at her in his mirror and didn’t make any attempt to turn on his meter or drive away.
Laurette leaned forward. “Did you hear what I said? Heathrow Airport.”
The driver snickered and kept his bloodshot eyes firmly focused on her.
“What’s so funny?” Laurette demanded.
“Um, honey,” I said, pointing to her blouse.
In all the commotion, Laurette had not noticed that the buttons on her blouse had popped off and her bra was askew. Her breasts were flopping free from any restraints, and the driver was simply enjoying the show.
“Omigod!” Laurette wailed as she grabbed her breasts and stuffed them back inside her bra. Then she slapped the driver upside the head. “Pervert!”
The driver cackled, turned on the meter, and we sped off, leaving the Hulk and Thing
in the dust.
I turned to Laurette. “You know, if the police find out that I’ve left the country, I’ll be in big trouble. I’m their number-one suspect in Claire Richards’s murder.”
“If we don’t go, then we may never find out what’s going on with Charlie,” she said, flashing the still-grinning driver a putout glare. “Besides, you’re not officially under arrest. You’re just under surveillance.”
That didn’t make me feel any better about blowing town. But I had to get to the bottom of Charlie’s disappearance, and Greece was my best bet. Laurette was already on her cell/picture phone booking us a flight to Athens as I sat back and wondered how we had suddenly been caught up in our very own episode of The Amazing Race.
Chapter 22
I feared Inspector Bowles or Detective Samms might have flagged my passport at the airport in the event that I tried to flee the country, and as Laurette and I made our way through passport control, a stern-faced official held up a hand as I tried to pass through. There was an agonizing moment of sheer tension before the official broke into a wide grin and said, “Baby, don’t even go there!” Thank God. A fan. After I signed an autograph, he happily waved us on, and Laurette and I boarded our flight without further incident.
When our Olympic flight from London to Athens landed at six o’clock that evening, Laurette was back on her phone trying to book us a flight to Mykonos. But as the summer season was fast upon us, it was virtually impossible. All the commuter flights were jam-packed with European and American tourists, and our only option was a five-thirty A.M. flight four days from now. Laurette wasn’t used to not getting her way and tried threatening, cajoling, bribing, and begging the Olympic Airways representative, all to no avail. We were going to be stuck in Athens. Normally this would not be a problem. We would simply check into Laurette’s favorite five-star Hotel Grande Bretagne, which was within walking distance of the world-famous Plaka district, an exotic labyrinth of alleys, streets, and stairs lined with neoclassical houses and mansions, all gorgeously decorated with tiled roofs depicting various Greek gods and goddesses. It’s also chock full of shops, restaurants, a famous flea market around Monastiraki Square, and a few small museums. But there was no time for any indulgent meals or shopping excursions on this trip. And our tour of the Acropolis, the Benaki Museum, and the Olympic Village from the Athens 2004 games would have to wait. My instincts were screaming that Charlie was in some kind of trouble, and we had to get to Mykonos fast to find him.
