by Pam Jenoff
My mind reels. Where is Duncan? Did he quit, or take a leave in the few days since we spoke? But the operator said he did not exist in a directory that is three months old. And his own department was unable or unwilling to acknowledge his existence. Something is not right. I pick up the receiver of the phone on my desk and dial directory assistance. “Lauder, Duncan.” I say when the operator comes on the line. “East London,” I add, remembering what he said about the flat he and Vance purchased.
There is a pause. “No such listing.”
I hesitate. “How about Ellis, Vance Ellis?” It seems unlikely that Duncan’s telephone would be listed under the name of his partner, a semi-well-known actor, but it is worth a shot.
“I have that listing.” Relief washes over me as I jot down the number the operator recites. “Would you like me to connect you?”
“Please.” There is a moment of silence before the phone begins to ring. Come on, I pray, drumming my fingers on the desk as it rings unanswered a second, then a third time. Be there.
“Hello?” a groggy voice, not Duncan’s, answers.
“May I speak with Duncan, please?”
“He’s not here.” The voice is awake now, instantly sharp. “Who’s calling?”
“Is this Vance?”
“Who’s calling?” he demands again.
“Vance, I don’t know if you remember me, but my name is Jordan Weiss. I went to Lords College when you were at Downing. I knew Duncan through rowing. I think we met once at a party. I—”
“I know who you are,” he interrupts coldly. “What do you want?”
I twist the telephone cord in my hand. “I’d like to speak with Duncan, please. It’s important.”
“I told you, he’s not here.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?” I persist.
There is silence on the other end of the line. “He won’t be,” Vance replies at last, his voice hollow and terse. “He’s gone.”
I gasp involuntarily. “Gone? Where did he go?”
“Leave him alone. You’ve done enough already.” Vance slams down the phone. I stare at the receiver, stunned. Duncan is gone. It could have been a lover’s fight; maybe Duncan and Vance split up. But something in Vance’s voice, angry and protective of his partner, tells me that Duncan’s disappearance has nothing to do with their relationship. No, Duncan did not leave only his home, but Infodyne as well, and I am certain that his disappearance has everything to do with my questions.
I pick up the phone again, then hesitate. My first reaction is to call Maureen, but that of course is impossible, since she ordered not to pursue Infodyne any further. Instead I dial Sebastian’s work number, but his voice mail picks up after three rings. Figures, I think, looking at the clock, which reads ten to nine. I hang up, then dial his cell. Pick up, dammit, I think, as the phone rings over and over. I know you’re there. There is a click on the other end of the line. “Hello?” a voice, not Sebastian’s, says. Female, I register slowly. American.
I hesitate, unprepared. “Hello?” the voice repeats.
“Sophie, is that you? It’s Jordan.” There is no response. On the other end of the line I hear movement and muffled voices.
A male voice speaks now. “Sebastian here.”
I fight the urge to say something about Sophie. “It’s Jordan.”
“Oh, hi.” His voice sounds casual and sleepy, as though there is nothing unusual about Sophie answering his phone first thing in the morning. “I was just on my way into the office. What’s going on?”
I bite my lip, uncertain how to respond. Sebastian and Sophie are sleeping together. A dozen emotions collide in my brain. How long has this been going on? Did it predate my arrival, or did he become involved with her after I rejected him? “I need to talk to you,” I say at last. Then I falter. There’s no way I can discuss the investigation over the phone. “Can you meet me?”
“Sure.” Hearing Sebastian leap to his feet, I imagine Sophie’s face. “Did you want to meet at the office?”
“Not for this, no.”
“How about Covent Garden Tube station in half an hour?”
“Perfect. See you there.”
Twenty-five minutes later, I make my way across the sun-soaked piazza at Covent Garden, weaving through the tourists who mill to and from the arched market stalls. A mime, clad in a white flowing robe and face paint, juggles oranges while balancing on a milk crate, surrounded by a large circle of onlookers.
Sebastian emerges from the Tube station as I approach, holding two cardboard cups with one arm, tucking in his shirt with the other. He has, I realize, what the boys at college used to refer to as an RSL, a “recently shagged look.”
Seeing me he stops, his eyes momentarily darting to my skirt, then back again. “I brought coffee,” he offers brightly, holding one of the cups out to me as he approaches, a peace offering. I take it from him, not answering. Seeing my expression, his face falls. “Jordan, it’s not what—”
I hold up my hand. “It’s not my problem. No need to explain.” I begin to walk away from the Tube station toward the shops that line the far side of the street.
“Fine. I wasn’t going to anyway,” he replies evenly, following me.
Finally, unable to hold back any longer, I turn to him. “Sebastian, she’s on the mission team.”
“Sophie’s not my subordinate. We don’t even work for the same person. Technically, I haven’t violated any protocols.”
“Technically. What is she, anyway, twenty-three?”
“What are you, jealous?” he retorts.
“No,” I reply quickly, starting to walk again. But the question sticks between my ribs. I am a little jealous, I realize with surprise. Not that I should be. Sebastian hit on me and I rejected him. I stop in front of an art gallery at the corner, staring hard at a large painting in the window. It is modern, with great indiscernible swaths of red and orange. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea, getting involved with a member of the investigation team.”
“So you’ve said.” I remember then our conversation in the Bubble the day after the cocktail party. He is still stung, I can tell, by the fact that I rejected his advances. He shrugs. “It could have been us, you know. If you weren’t already involved.”
My mind reels back to the pub the previous evening, the icy stares exchanged between Chris and Sebastian. “Chris and I are just friends.” It is not exactly a lie, if you exclude the past twenty-four hours. An image of Chris, above me on the floor the previous evening, flashes through my mind. Sebastian is not, I realize, the only one guilty of complicating things with sex. I swallow, forcing the image from my mind.
Sebastian shakes his head. “I’m not talking about Chris, though you two did seem rather cozy in the pub last night. I mean your boyfriend from college, the one who died. Whether or not you want to admit it, you’re still in love with him. You can tell yourself whatever you want, but we both know that’s why you’ve kept me at arm’s length, not the mission.”
I look down, feeling as though I’d been slapped. “That’s not fair.” I cannot have this conversation, not now. “Anyway, I didn’t get you out of bed to discuss my love life. Or yours.”
Sebastian eyes me skeptically. “So why did you call?”
I take a deep breath. “Duncan Lauder is gone.” Quickly I tell him about my calls and website search, my conversation with Vance. “I obviously spooked him with my questions.” I study his face, wondering if he will tell me I am being illogical, making a leap not supported by the facts.
But he does not. “Damn. If we hadn’t been ordered to cease the Infodyne investigation…”
“I know. We could have had an official detail watching Duncan to make sure he didn’t flee. But that’s moot at this point. The question is: What are we going to do now?”
“We need to find him,” he says, bringing his right hand to his forehead. “Sophie and I are still working the other angles, but Lauder is still our main contact at Infodyne, and the only on
e who can shed light on those transfers. If we lose him, we really are back to the start. I’m going to put out a search for him. Unofficially of course.”
“But if he’s really gone, he’s surely left the country.”
“I have friends,” he replies cryptically.
“Okay, and I’ll follow up on him, too.”
“How?” I hesitate. I don’t want to tell Sebastian my plan in case it doesn’t work. “Come on, Weiss. You know the rules: no one goes in without backup.”
He is right. “I’m going to try to get in touch with Vance.”
“But he already refused to talk to you.”
“That was on the phone. If I go to the theater, approach him in person, I’m hoping it will be harder for him to say no. At least then I’ll be able to read his face and know if he’s lying to me.”
“It’s worth a shot. But be careful. Duncan Lauder is probably desperate right now.”
And Vance will do anything to protect him. “I know. I will.” I remember then the research notes I’d taken from Jared’s trunk at Chris’s last night. “I want to ask you another favor. Unrelated.” He tilts his head, listening. “I need to have something translated from Arabic.” I hesitate. Sebastian’s comment about my feelings for Jared still stings and I do not want to admit that I am even now caught up in finding out what happened to him. But I have no other choice. I pull the papers from my bag. “Chris and I found this and we think it might be related to Jared’s work.”
“And you want me to ask Sophie to translate it.”
I shrug. “She’s a bigger fan of you than me. I just need the gist. I don’t know anyone here well enough to ask yet. If not, I can find a translation service—”
He waves his hand, cutting me off. “It’s fine.” He takes the papers from me, then looks at his watch. “Let me see if I can catch her before she leaves for the office. You heading back?” I nod. “I’ll see you later.”
As I watch Sebastian disappear into the crowd, longing tugs at my stomach. I could like him I realize, really like him. Which is exactly what makes this so dangerous. But he is with Sophie now. And he thinks I am still in love with Jared. There is more truth in his words than I would like to admit.
A vibrating sensation against my side shakes me from my thoughts. I reach in my coat and pull out my cell phone. Chris. I can’t handle a conversation with him, not now. But he could have new information about Jared.
The phone beeps and the message light comes on. Reluctantly, I dial my voice mail. “Jordan, it’s me, Chris.” His voice sounds nervous. “Um, I don’t know if you’re there and not picking up, but I’m sorry about last night. We can talk about it if you want, or just pretend it never happened. Finding out what happened is too important to let this get in the way. Call me, okay? I want to…” I do not finish listening to the message, but delete it and tuck the phone away in my bag.
chapter FIFTEEN
IT IS WELL after nine o’clock when I emerge at Piccadilly Circus, moving slowly in the crush of passengers who climb the stairs from the Tube station to the neon-lit street. When I reach the pavement, I swim to one side of the crowd and pull up alongside a building. I turn to a store display window behind me, studying my reflection in the glass: black pants and a turtleneck, covered by my dark wool coat, intended as much to keep my appearance nondescript as to ward off the faint evening chill.
As I make my way down Shaftesbury Avenue, the sidewalk is thick with tourists and theatergoers and young people setting out for the evening, all making their way in different directions. At first I try to weave my way through the throngs, eager to move more quickly than the shuffling mass will allow. But then I give up, finding a stream of traffic that seems to be going in the direction I want and join it, allowing myself to be carried by the momentum of the crowd.
Soon the theaters begin to appear, signaling the edge of the West End. Patrons cluster under one of the marquees smoking and for a second I wonder if the shows have let out, if I am too late. But a moment later a bell rings, signaling the end of a late intermission, and the smokers extinguish their cigarettes and disappear back inside.
My cell phone vibrates in my bag. I reach down, distracted by the interruption. “Hello?”
“Jordan, it’s me.” Chris’s voice comes over the phone, husky and pleading. “Please don’t hang up. About last night…”
“I can’t talk right now,” I reply hastily. “I mean, I’m in the middle of something for work.”
“I understand.” But I can tell from his tone that he does not. “Are you coming over tonight?”
I wince, remembering my promise to finish going through Jared’s papers. “I can’t,” I blurt out. “The work thing I mentioned came up unexpectedly and I can’t get out of it. I’m so sorry.”
“Okay,” he replies slowly, trying unsuccessfully to mask the hurt. “I guess I’ll just keep looking through the papers myself.”
I hesitate. Despite any awkwardness I may feel about what happened between us, Chris is my friend, and we are trying to find out what happened to Jared together. I need to talk to him, to clear the air and make sure he is comfortable with things. Soon. “I’ll call you if I get done earlier than expected, okay? And if not, then tomorrow night for sure.”
“Sure.” His voice brightens. “I’ll be home all night if your plans change.”
As I close the phone, a clock begins to chime ten in the distance. The shows should let out any time now. I turn right on Charing Cross Road, making my way past the closed secondhand bookstores, the chain steakhouses catering to tourists. Closer to Leicester Square, the shops that line the street tout cheap pizza and T-shirts, souvenir replicas of Big Ben.
Remembering the directions I got on MapQuest before leaving my flat, I turn left down a smaller street. About fifty yards down on the right sits the Marlbery Theatre, its marquee advertising the Company revival Duncan mentioned so proudly. I approach the theater, studying the actor’s black-and-white headshots mounted behind glass next to a large poster for the production. Vance’s photo is second from the top, his dark hair and thick mustache giving him a more dramatic appearance than he had at college, now reminiscent of Freddie Mercury.
Through the cracked door of the theater, music builds to a crescendo. The show will be over soon. Looking in both directions to make sure I am not being watched, I duck into the alleyway that runs along the right side the theater, stepping over a puddle that reflects the bright marquee lights. Halfway down the alley there is a closed stage door. I imagine Vance coming out there, wonder whether he will be alone or with colleagues, how he will react. Will he talk to me?
From inside the theater come triumphant strains of music, followed by thunderous applause. The curtain call, I think, as the clapping grows louder, falls off slightly, then swells again. Moments later, the front doors of the theater open with a bang and the din of the crowd spills out onto the street. “Try to get an autograph,” an American woman says. Footsteps grow louder now, approaching. Quickly, I scurry to the back of the alley and hide behind some cardboard boxes stacked beside a garbage bin. I duck further into the shadows as three heavyset women in leggings, fanny packs, and white sneakers enter the alleyway, clutching programs, and position themselves in front of the stage door to get better access to the cast when they emerge.
Several minutes later the stage door opens and a handful of actors walk out. The women cluster around them for autographs, chattering in high-pitched voices. The door opens again and the women snatch their programs back and race to the door once more. From my vantage point in the shadows I recognize Vance at once. Towering over his fans in a calf-length orange leather coat, he is even more dramatic looking than his photograph, his angular features unchanged in the decade since I saw him last.
I hover uncertainly. What now? I cannot very well pop out from behind the boxes. I remain hidden while Vance signs obligatory autographs and receives compliments on his performance in a perfunctory manner that suggests he repeats this routine ni
ghtly. “Excuse me,” he says a moment later after he signs the last autograph, handing the pen back to one of the women and making his way from the alley.
When the women have turned their attention to another actor, I slip from behind the boxes. At the edge of the alley I pause, scanning the street in both directions. I do not see Vance. But a second later I spot him, fifty feet ahead to the right, walking briskly, skirting the edge of the crowd. I follow, not taking my eyes off him, as he turns one corner, then another. Faint perspiration forms under my shirt as I struggle to match his long-legged stride.
When I am about ten feet behind, I slow down so that he does not notice me, maintaining my distance as he crosses the busy intersection at the Strand. He’s headed for Embankment, I realize, as he turns down Villiers Street, heading toward the Tube station. As he descends the stairs, I hesitate. What now? I could return to the theater the next night and try to approach him at the stage door again. But there will surely be fans then, too, and I have to find Duncan as soon as possible. No, I need to follow him and confront him now.
Careful not to get close, I follow Vance down the escalator and through the turnstile, grateful for the travel card I purchased earlier, then through the station’s labyrinthine tunnel onto the platform for the District Line headed east. Where is he going, I wonder, studying the route map? Duncan mentioned a flat in the East End. I hang back on the platform several feet away from where he stands and hide behind a group of jostling teenage boys.
When the train pulls into the station, I board the car behind his, picking up a copy of the Daily Mail that someone left on the seat. Pretending to read, I peer around the edge of the paper. My breath catches. Vance is sitting in the last seat of the subway car, facing me on the other side of the glass. Does he recognize me? But his head is tilted back, eyes closed. Even from this distance I can see the worry and fatigue. Guilt washes over me and for a second I consider turning around and going home. I have caused him enough pain, intruding on his world with my questions, causing his lover to flee. I have to find Duncan, though. Quickly, I hide behind the newspaper once more.