Chapter 23
The Australians wasted no time in alerting the captain of the ship about the attack, and he immediately dispatched his crew to search the entire ferry. Liam was nowhere to be found. He was either hiding someplace they had overlooked or had jumped overboard. I knew he wouldn’t try to assault me again since I was now surrounded and protected by the Australian backpacker brigade. They were pumped up and overflowing with machismo from heroically saving my life and were itching to flex their muscles again if need be.
The stress of the situation forced Laurette to buy the entire plate of brownies from the snack bar and we sat at our favorite orange Formica table and devoured them with the gusto of two castaways rescued from a deserted island after two weeks without food.
“Do you think this Irish guy is somehow connected to the two guys we saw ransacking Akshay’s apartment?” Laurette said as she carefully picked the walnuts out of her brownie due to her own nut allergy, much like Claire’s.
“Beats me.” I shrugged. “There’s so much weird stuff going on, I don’t know what’s what. There seems to be a lot of people looking for something.”
“Like what?”
“Well, right after Claire died, I caught a guy in a red ski mask searching her dressing room. Liam noticed that her Academy Award was missing and of course accused me of taking it. But anybody could have made off with it, even before she collapsed on stage.”
“Maybe somebody else did steal it before the guy in the ski mask had a chance to break in and snatch it for himself. Maybe it was Akshay. He could have swiped it while Claire was onstage, and that’s what those two guys were looking for at his apartment.”
I rolled this theory over in my mind. It was possible. But who were all these thieves? Where did they come from? And why was one best actress Oscar from a tepid, overrated farm film of the eighties worth so much effort to get? And was it even related to Claire’s mysterious death?
However, the fact remained I was less concerned with clearing my name and solving Claire’s murder than I was with finding Charlie.
As dawn broke, the Minoan ferry moved toward the sandy shores and chalk white beauty of one of the most vibrant Greek islands, Mykonos. Once we docked, the passengers filed off to explore the breathtaking vistas, to stroll up and down the whitewashed streets of the town center, or to browse the glorious golden and diamond-studded rings, bracelets, and necklaces displayed in the windows of the jewelry artists of Mykonos. The island has always been a striking dichotomy. On the one hand, there are the street peddlers selling from their donkey stands, women sweeping the streets in traditional Greek black dresses and head scarves, church bells tolling all over the island. It’s from another time. But contrasting that traditional image is a far more hedonistic aspect of Mykonos. There is the fashionable jet set that dines at the opulent gourmet restaurants. Then there are the wild, partying tourists who dance at the trendy clubs until the wee hours of the morning, when they sneak away with their designated paramours back to the privacy of their hotels for a little passionate lovemaking before the inevitable hangover starts its reign of terror. There is no other place in the world that comes close to the originality and escapism of Mykonos.
Laurette whipped out a scrap of paper from her purse and studied it. Back in London she had quickly jotted down the address of the Andromeda Residence where Akshay had made a reservation.
“Lakka Square Rohari. It’s somewhere in the town center,” she said, looking around, confused and lost.
After asking an elderly Greek woman with silver hair and a black scarf tied around her head for directions, we were promptly sent up a steep incline of cobblestone steps toward a row of hotels and condos. It would be impossible to work with a physical description of the property, since almost all of the structures on the entire island were painted white and adorned with blue trim and shutters.
The sun was blazing and both Laurette and I were sweating as we reached a wrought-iron gate. The entrance was unassuming, and we would have missed it if I hadn’t asked a Japanese woman in a thong who was passing by if she knew where we could find the Andromeda Residence. She pointed at the gate to our right. We had no idea we were standing right outside the entrance.
As we entered the hotel grounds, I was struck by the beauty of the multicolored gardens of red and yellow flowers, the glistening, gorgeous blue swimming pool, and the immaculately kept, freshly painted condos.
Laurette, the consummate hotel queen, was duly impressed. She charged toward the registration office, and I followed closely on her heels. A lovely young woman with jet-black hair, clear, perfect olive skin, and kind brown eyes greeted us. She wore a red print wrap over a blue bathing suit and reached out to shake our hands.
“Welcome to Mykonos,” she said with a big, electric smile. “I’m Delphina.”
After introducing ourselves, Laurette handed Delphina a confirmation number for the reservation she had made while we were waiting for our Athens flight to leave from Heathrow. Delphina smiled, took our credit card information, and within seconds, handed us over the keys to a two-bedroom suite. She offered to help us with our bags, but we told her we didn’t have any with us and would be buying clothes here on the island.
She lit up and laughed. “Now that’s the way to travel,” she said in perfect English with a flavorful Greek accent that bespoke her heritage.
As we turned to go, I thanked her, and then said, “Oh, by the way, one of the reasons we chose this hotel—besides its obvious beauty—is because we heard through the grapevine that one of our favorite actors in the world is staying here. Akshay Kapoor. We’re huge Bollywood fans!”
Laurette, quick to join in, added, “If I could get his autograph, I could die happy.”
Delphina smiled and then leaned in conspiratorially. “Yes. He is indeed staying here.”
Laurette squealed with delight.
“Don’t worry,” I said, “We won’t bother him . . . too much.”
Delphina laughed heartily. “He’s a very nice man. But keeps to himself. He’s spent most of his stay here in his room. It’s such a shame. We’ve had such lovely weather.”
“Is he in his room now?” I said.
“No. Today was the first day he’s actually gone out.”
“Do you know where?” Laurette said.
Delphina nodded. “Super Paradise Beach. He asked me to write directions on how to get there. He took a bus and then a taxi boat.”
“What’s so super about Paradise Beach?” Laurette said.
“It’s the gay nudist beach,” I said, having been there one or two times myself.
“I’m not taking my top off. I’ll tell you that right now,” Laurette said.
“What’s the big deal? You already flashed the taxi driver in London,” I said, smiling.
Once Laurette and I checked out our nicely appointed, spacious room, we dashed to a nearby clothing shop for some beach wear and then hustled down to the town center to grab a taxicab to Super Paradise Beach. We didn’t want to risk missing Akshay, so we ruled out the bus ride and taxi boat, which would eat up far too much time.
The ride to the other side of the island was harrowing and nail-biting. Our driver swerved around lumbering donkeys and reckless tourists on mopeds before whipping along a steep, narrow cliffside access road with nary a guardrail before skidding to a stop at a rocky cove. Laurette, her eyes bugged out in a state of shock from the death-defying journey, hurled some euros at the driver and climbed out of the car. I offered a weak thank-you before I followed her out, resisting the urge to drop to my knees and kiss the ground.
As the driver peeled away, his rear tires kicked up enough dust to cause both Laurette and me to cough and sputter. We walked to the edge and looked down, taking in the lush expanse of beach that made up Super Paradise. Unfortunately, the golden sand was barely visible due to the endless sea of umbrellas that did little to hide the hundreds of nude sunbathers from all over the world flashing their private parts. Some were stretched out on blankets, others frolicked in the aqua blue Aegean surf, still more gyrated and clapped to a blasting hot dance remix of the Mamas and the Papas’ “California Dreamin’ ” on the far left side of the beach.
Laurette and I trudged down the access road to another perch overlooking the beach that housed the Coco Club, an upscale outdoor café that provided a relaxed ambiance for its chic clientele. We ordered a couple of Coca-Cola Lights (the European version of Diet Coke) and took a seat at a small table overlooking the beach. We both scanned the crowd, but it was pointless.
“We’re never going to find Akshay down there. It’s too packed with people,” Laurette said.
Not about to give up, I searched up and down the rows of topless, bronzed bodies for any sign of him. But Laurette was right. It was an impossible task. Even if he was down there somewhere, it would take us hours to locate him, and at any time he could leave by taxi boat and head back to Mykonos town without us ever seeing him.
“Maybe we should just go back and wait for him at the hotel,” Laurette offered, already hot and tired, her skin burning from lack of a proper sunscreen.
My gut was telling me he was here. I wasn’t ready to give up yet.
“Omigod,” Laurette said under her breath.
“What? Did you spot him?”
“No, look at those two. Absolutely stunning.”
I followed Laurette’s gaze away from the beach to the rocky cove adjacent to the Coco Club. She was watching two men in their mid-twenties, both hard-bodied, Greek, and gorgeous, emerge from the surf. As they gripped the jagged rocks and pulled themselves out of the water, we both gasped. Both were over six feet tall, one smooth and lanky like an Olympian swimmer, the other broader and muscled with a mat of dark, wet, curly hair across his chest. They were like two Greek gods, Apollo and Neptune, suddenly brought to life. Except instead of togas they were decorated with tight red Speedos.
“Be still my heart,” Laurette sighed.
Both of us watched them, our tongues practically hanging out of our mouths, as they climbed up the rocks to a hidden alcove to meet someone. As the two gods began talking, I was able to make out a man who had his back to us. He was in white slacks and a white T-shirt and wore a pair of sandals. His skin was dark enough to be East Indian or just really browned from the sun. Could it be? He never turned to face us, but I was able to discern from the gestures, the swagger, the attitude that it was him. It was Akshay.
I jumped to my feet and bolted for the dirt path leading toward the cove.
“Now, don’t be a stalker,” Laurette said. “We can admire from afar.”
“It’s him,” I called back. “Let’s go.”
Laurette grabbed her bag and ran to catch up with me as I scurried down the path toward Akshay and the gods. From what I could see, Akshay clutched a burlap sack that Apollo and Neptune kept reaching for, but Akshay gripped it tightly and was talking a mile a minute. Was it some kind of exchange? What was going on?
Laurette scrambled to keep up with me, and just as we got within a few hundred feet of Akshay, we heard a loud popping sound. I stopped in my tracks and watched in horror as Akshay grabbed his chest. Blood began seeping out onto his white T-shirt and he grabbed the muscular forearm of one of the gods to steady himself. There was another pop. Akshay reared back and fell against the rocks. Both Apollo and Neptune were unarmed (there was absolutely no way they could be concealing guns in those Speedos). Their eyes widened at the realization that someone was shooting at them, and they quickly backed away from Akshay.
One of them looked up to see me and for a split second believed I was the shooter. I shook my head and mouthed, “No!” Then I ducked down behind a large boulder, yanking Laurette down with me. There was an agonizing silence.
I peeked above the top of the large orange-colored rock and saw Apollo and Neptune dashing down to the water’s edge and diving into the surf below. They never resurfaced.
I glanced down at the beach to see several nude sunbathers chattering on their cell phones. They had undoubtedly witnessed the shooting and were now presumably calling the police.
I scanned the entire area but didn’t see any shooter. He had probably already made his escape.
Before Laurette could stop me, I came out from behind the rock and raced down to where Akshay’s body rested against a patch of grass just next to a rock on the dirt trail.
I knelt down beside him. His eyes were wet, he clutched his bloody chest, and he was desperately trying to take in quick, short breaths. He was still alive.
“Akshay . . .” I said, gingerly taking his hand.
He looked up at me and tried to register surprise but was too weak.
“Jarrod . . . ?” His voice trailed off.
“Where’s Charlie?” I said.
Akshay opened his cracked, parched lips, but no words came out. All he could do was point to the burlap sack that he had dropped a few feet away when he fell. I reached over and scooped it up, loosened the string tying it together, and peered inside. I already knew what I would find inside. It was Claire Richards’s Academy Award.
“Did you take this from Claire’s dressing room?” I said.
Akshay attempted a nod and then slowly reached out, his hand shaking, and encircled my wrist with his fingers with all the strength he had left in him.
“Ulysses . . . Karydes . . .” he said in a pained whisper.
“Who’s that?”
“A famous Greek shipping tycoon,” Laurette offered. “He owns half of Greece. Makes Aristotle Onassis look like a welfare mother.”
I shot Laurette a questioning look.
“I tend to read a lot of articles on the world’s wealthiest bachelors, you know, in case some day I need a sugar daddy,” she said.
I turned back to Akshay. “What about Karydes? Does he know where Charlie is?”
Akshay let go of my wrist. His eyes glazed over and his body went limp as he quietly succumbed to the bullet lodged in his chest.
I began shaking him, futilely hoping he might wake up to supply me with just a little more information. How was Charlie connected to Claire’s Oscar? How would a powerful multimillionaire Greek shipping tycoon know where Charlie was? Unlike me, Charlie had never even been to Greece before.
Laurette gently touched my shoulder. “Jarrod, the police just arrived. We’re going to have some explaining to do. Why don’t you let me handle it?”
I nodded, staring at Akshay’s corpse, suddenly realizing that someone was going to have to tell his mother that her adored son was dead. It would devastate her.
Laurette was a master at bulldozing over authority figures. It was a finely tuned talent that served her well in show business. We both knew that if we came clean with the cops about following Akshay here, we would be hounded and questioned for hours, possibly days, thereby reducing our chances of finding Charlie. Besides, if this powerful and almighty Ulysses Karydes was the key to locating Charlie, then he no doubt had the local police in his back pocket, and they would never allow us to get anywhere near him.
The only two people who had even seen us near Akshay were the stunningly beautiful Greek studs Apollo and Neptune, and they had hightailed it out of there at the first sign of trouble. No, it was best to allow Laurette to work her magic.
She spun a fanciful yarn about how we were married and worked in Los Angeles as talent manager and actor (Laurette never thought it wise to stray too far from the truth) and how I had lost out on a big feature-film role to the much younger Tobey Maguire. She decided to spirit me away to Greece to help me forget about my career troubles. We only arrived just a few hours ago and were now traumatized by witnessing a man being gunned down on the hiking path. She adamantly insisted that she did not know the murder victim. She neglected to mention that I, on the other hand, did, but the police assumed that since we were together she was speaking for both of us. Damn, she was good.
The officers looked me up and down as Laurette prattled on with her story. I offered a tight smile as I clutched the burlap sack containing Claire Richards’s Oscar to my side, hoping they would think it was just a picnic lunch we had brought along.
The police took copious notes, and Laurette offered the address to the Andromeda if they needed to contact us for any reason. The police made it clear they were in no way through with us, but Laurette miraculously managed to browbeat them into allowing us to go so we could try to salvage what was left of our much-needed vacation.
Thanks to Laurette’s performance, the officers believed we were innocent tourists who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. They even offered to drive us back to our hotel, but Laurette insisted we return by taxi so as not to inconvenience their investigation. Her real agenda was to get away from the cops as soon as possible, before either of us said something that might trip up our official story.
I felt guilty about feigning ignorance and lying to the police. But the stakes were too high at this point. I could feel it. Charlie was on this island. I was so close to getting him back. I couldn’t jeopardize losing track of him again by playing my cards too soon and confessing everything to the police.
On the taxi ride back to the Andromeda, Laurette and I discussed our next course of action as we fondled the priceless Academy Award that was now in our possession. We hatched a plan that began with making contact with the wildly rich and probably dangerous Ulysses Karydes. I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that we were about to dive into the deep end of some very scary shark-infested waters.