Air Time (15 page)

But I couldn’t resist. I’m certainly allowed to have a business dinner with a man. Josh was the one who floated the possibility of us taking some nondrastic time off. That’s not what this is, of course. But no one had lunch today. And I’m curious. About a lot of things.

Luca’s gray silk shirt shimmers almost silver in the candlelight. Matching his eyes, I can’t help but notice. I also couldn’t help but notice he’s not wearing a wedding ring. He’d pulled out my chair, ordered the wine, ordered our appetizers, suggested sharing the rack of lamb. Waved off the waiter’s offer to pour more wine so he could do it himself. He’s the un-Josh. And at this moment, he’s making me feel like a very pampered, very coddled, un-Charlie. Or at least, a different Charlie.

“Did you hear any more about the raid?” I drag the real Charlie back to the table, risking a sip of wine. I’m strictly sticking to the purse business. If I can extract some info for our story, no one could raise an eyebrow at this dinner expedition. The text message turned out to be Kevin, making sure we were getting the goods. So I’m getting them. I remember the word I think I heard the lawyer say. “Is it the Angelina bag they were concerned with?”

Luca shakes his head, lifting both hands as he pretends to fend off more questions. “You must always be the reporter, I suppose. But our lawyer must always be the lawyer. And she insists, and I know you’ll understand, I am prohibited from saying anything.”

I shrug, as if defeated. But I’m still concerned about Keresey. Wondering if she took part in the raid. Wondering if something went wrong.

“It’s just,” I say, “I have a friend who may be working undercover with the federal government. A woman. Do you know if anyone was hurt in the raid?”

“I’m so sorry,” he begins.

I feel my face flush, then go cold.

“No, no,” he says. “I was going to say—I’m sorry, but I don’t have any details. And again, I must insist. May we…talk about something else? Your life, perhaps?”

No way. “How about your life? How did you get into the purse business?” Friendly and professional. Maybe I can get him to open up this way. Find out something later.

“It was Sylvie and her father who brought me in. Now her father’s gone, she and I are chief designers. We met in school, and after we were married, of course, it all just evolved.”

Luckily I wasn’t in midsip, or expensive Côte de
Beaune would have splatted across the pristine white tablecloth. I can’t resist looking at his left-hand ring finger again. And this time, he notices. I’m caught.

He holds up his hand, waggling his slim fingers as if making it easier for me to see. His eyes twinkle. Or maybe it’s the candlelight. “We are no longer married, of course,” he explains. “And she never changed her name from Marachelle. But we worked together for so long our careers were more inextricably intertwined than our personal lives. We parted. So many years ago. But professionally, we stayed together.”

A white-coated waiter arrives, fussing with our lamb, using silver utensils to serve haricots verts with slivers of almonds, and minuscule purple potatoes. As the waiter leaves, Luca relates the history of the once-struggling Delleton-Marachelle, how it relocated to the United States after the death of Monsieur Delleton, the arrival of Zuzu three years ago, and then the sale to ITC Conglomerate. How back in the ’90s someone managed to give Meryl Streep a prototype bag. When the movie star was photographed with it, the demand for the “Meryl” launched the tiny company into the fashion stratosphere. How he and Sylvie were suddenly in vogue. And in
Vogue.

I lean forward, elbows on the table, fascinated. Then I remember the elbows on the table thing. You’d think I’d never shared a rack of lamb with a charming and successful French fashion designer. I guess I haven’t. Luckily Luca’s eyes are focused far away as he tells his story, maybe remembering.

His accent makes his still-careful English intriguingly continental. Our dinners disappear. Time disappears.

“Did you have children?” I ask. I remember the photo
I picked up, the one of him in the sweater. With the beautiful young girl. Maybe there’s an obvious explanation.

The waiter arrives, offering the check in a cordovan leather flap. I reach for it, but Luca stops me.

“Someone as lovely as you,” he says, narrowing those eyes at me. Engaging, almost mocking. “I noticed your left hand, too. Are you, like Sylvie, married to your work?” He hands the leather flap back to the waiter. I half notice he’s paid in cash. “Or are you—forgive me—involved?”

I look away, at my wineglass. At my plate. At the candles. Anywhere to avoid stepping into that quicksand of a question. I knew this was a mistake.

“Yes,” I say, struggling to keep my tone casual. I can handle this. “And no. It’s complicated.” I put my linen napkin on the table, international signal for “we’re done.” And I don’t just mean dinner.

Luca looks at me. Amused? Assessing. “I’ll show you to your door,” he says.

“Oh. No. I’m fine.” I stand up. Why didn’t I just order room service?

“I insist,” he says.

I hold out my hand. The one without the key. Behind me, the door says room 965. There are two of us in the hall. And only one of us is going inside.

“Thank you so much, Luca,” I say, shaking his hand goodbye. I can hear the nerves in my voice, hear my long-departed midwestern twang somehow remerging. My words sound first-date stilted. And somehow the more I fight the onslaught of inarticulateness, the worse it gets. “It was fascinating. And so interesting. And I hope we will meet again.”

Ah. Possibly the wrong thing to say. I turn my body toward the door, brandishing the key, attempting to telegraph
I’m going in now. Alone.

But Luca has not let go of my hand. “A little surprise?” he says.

I turn back to look at him, trying to gauge what’s he’s planning. We’re in the middle of a hotel corridor, a public place. Deserted, yes, at eleven at night, but public enough, where anyone could open a door at any second. So the surprise can’t be that surprising.

“A little anticipation?” he continues. His voice is not quite a whisper, but muted, personal. Meant only for me. Someone five steps away could not hear him.

His eyes, the gray now turned steely and intent on mine, are putting me a little off balance. I take back my hand, as politely as I can. I keep my voice down, too. “Anticipation?”

Luca reaches into his jacket pocket and draws out a small box, the signature lavender and gray of Delleton-Marachelle, tied with a lavender silk ribbon. “Don’t open it until you get to the airport,” he says. “A little anticipation always will make the journey’s end sweeter.”

I only had a glass and a half of wine. But this isn’t making sense. Still, no matter.

“Luca, that’s terribly thoughtful,” I say. I drop my voice even lower, suddenly concerned someone will hear us. Come out and see us. Even though there’s nothing clandestine to see. “But as a reporter, I can’t accept anything of value from someone involved in a story. Even dinner was, perhaps, pushing it. And now I should say good night.”

“It is just a small token,” he says. With a quick gesture, he tucks the tiny box into my tote bag. “A thank-you from all of us, for your efforts.”

For a moment, we look at each other. The hall is silent, still. A softly lighted corridor of closed doors and the secrets behind them.

I feel Luca make a decision, and in that instant, he leans over and kisses me on the cheek. Softly. Fleetingly.

“
Au revoir,
reporter,” he whispers.

Before I can respond, or recover, he’s gone.

The glowing green numbers on the hotel nightstand clock now read 3:30 a.m. I’ve seen them say 1:34 a.m. and I’ve seen them say 2:31 a.m. And I know I must have slept at least some of the time in between. The green glow also illuminates the lavender-and-gray D-M box, the sleek lavender satin ribbon still pristinely tied in its bow. I’ve seen the box every time I check the clock. I shook it once, with no resulting clues as to what’s inside. But I haven’t opened it.

Yet it’s not only Luca I’m thinking about. It’s Josh. Maybe life’s sweetest moments only come after a little tension. A little suspense. And nothing that’s worthwhile is easy. Every investigative reporter knows that.

Punching my unfamiliar pillow into submission, I wish I could do the same to my buzzing brain. Maybe what Josh and I are doing is moving into new territory. Maybe that takes some patience. Maybe that’s how you know it’s the real thing. If you’re willing to wait for it.

I

We’re crammed into the back of a ramshackle taxicab, trapped in out-of-control highway traffic, twisting and turning our way to the Atlanta airport. The car smells like some maniac’s idea of strawberries. There must not be one functioning spring left in the low-rider backseat. Whatever music is blasting from the radio surrounds us like a swarm of demented bees, the buzz punctuated by the driver’s unintelligible and probably untranslatable challenges to the cars he insists on passing. Franklin, his face headed for green, clutches his briefcase as we weave across two lanes of cars, then back again, on the NASCAR-wannabe free-for-all that’s Georgia’s I-85.

“Don’t you get carsick? Checking your messages in the backseat?” Franklin manages to say.

“Nope. Reading, texting, using my laptop in a car? No problem. I spent my childhood reading
Mad Magazine
lying across the wayback of our station wagon,” I reply, punching buttons on my cell. “Mother was in despair, but turns out, it was all practice.”

“We’re flying home through Baltimore again, I told
you, right?” Franklin says. “I hope you make it all the way home this time. With your suitcase.”

“Yeah, I’m living dangerously, though. Checking it. You should, too.” I say. “It too much of a pain to lug it through security. Besides, how many suitcases can the airlines lose?”

“Well, the latest Department of Transportation statistics show it’s about—”

As the phone powers up, I whap Franklin in the arm before he can reel off his stats again. “Rhetorical question. I don’t even want to know. Uh-oh. There are already text messages. Two of them. I’m betting: Kevin and Kevin.”

I’m hoping: Josh and Josh. Or Keresey, telling me she’s okay.

The first message appears. From Maysie. U 2 BACK TOGETHER? HOPE NO STRIKE OUTS. TXT ME IN NYC.

“Maysie,” I report to Franklin. That girl is relentless. I delete her message, and the next one appears.

SORRY MISSED MTG. CALLED AWAY. RESKED.

I close my eyes, thinking I must be mistaken as I stare at the signature. I hold my phone out to Franklin. “Read this,” I say. I can hear my own voice, tentative and hollow.

“I told you I can’t read in this cab,” Franklin says. He glances at the phone, grimacing, then waves it away. “Just read it out loud to me.”

“It says, sorry missed meeting, called away, resked. Like, reschedule. And then…”

Franklin slowly swivels his head toward me. “You’re kidding.”

I press my lips together, staring again at the name of the sender. “Nope, not kidding. It’s signed, K Harkins. And it came in overnight while my phone was off.”

“Holy…”

“Yup,” I say, clicking my phone into reply mode. “This is fantastic. This is great. What a relief, you know? I was feeling somehow responsible. I guess we were all overreacting. So mystery solved. She’s fine. She’s a P.I. after all. They have to disappear from time to time. I’m texting her back.” I pause, concentrating briefly on the screen. “Okay, sent. I said we’ll be in the office today.”

“Wonder if Keresey knows,” Franklin says. “And that state cop. Yens.”

The cab careens into the departures lane at Hartsfield Airport, me grabbing the strap above my window so I don’t crash into Franklin, Franklin bracing himself against his door. We climb out, weak-kneed and grateful for solid ground. If only briefly. I’d rather be in that cab than in the air.

“Want to do curbside check-in?” Franklin asks.

“I’m not that much of a risk taker,” I say. “Let’s just go in, get coffee and papers, then go to the regular desk agent. I never trust leaving my suitcases outside. It’s like asking someone to steal it. Or send it someplace I’m not going.”

A whoosh of air as the doors to Terminal A slide open. We check the destinations board. We’re on time. For now.

“So the usual plan, right? You guard the stuff, I’ll get coffee and papers,” Franklin says. “Meet you right here. We have plenty of time.”

As Franklin heads off in search of caffeine, I deposit our bags on the floor and plop my purse down on the chair next to me. Inside, I see that lavender ribbon.

Franklin’s nowhere in sight. And Luca told me to open the box in the airport. I hold it in the palm of my hand, then with one quick tug on the ribbon, the bow
slithers open. I lift the lid. On top of a carefully folded puff of tissue paper, there’s a tiny white envelope. With a business card inside. Luca’s.

“May every journey’s end bring your heart’s desire,” it says on the back. And it’s signed:
L.

I carefully peel away the metallic oval D-M sticker holding the tissue paper together. Inside is a luggage tag. The signature pale silvery-gray leather, also embossed with the D-M logo. I lift a flap and my business card—maybe the one I gave Luca at the studio—is already inside.

“What’s that?” Franklin says. He’s peering at the tag, and points to the box and tissue paper on top of my bag. “Where’d you get that?”

“From Luca,” I say, holding out the tag. “He gave it to me at dinner. And told me to open it at the airport. It’s just a gesture. No big deal. It would have been rude not to take it.” I put the box in my suitcase, then unlatch the tiny gold buckle on the tag’s strap and wind it through the handle of my new suitcase. I pat it into place, admiring it.

“So I see you’ve charmed Purse Man,” Franklin says, watching me. “Very cozy. How’s Josh, by the way?”

“It’s a luggage tag,” I retort. I tuck Luca’s card in my purse. “What could be the harm? Now let’s get these babies onto the plane and go home. We’ve got more important stuff to think about.”

“Anyone pack your suitcase for you?” The gate agent is checking my ticket, punching something into his computer, reciting his litany of questions at the same time. He’s said this a million times a day. I can’t imagine anyone saying yes.

“I wish,” I answer with a smile. My suitcase, and Franklin’s beside it, is still on the floor in front of me. I
read the agent’s name tag. “No, Edgar, no one packed my suitcase for me.”

“Anyone ask you to carry on anything?” One chubby finger is poised over his keyboard.

Again, why would anyone say yes? Because bad guys, when confronted with the insightful and incisive questioning of a ticket agent, are suddenly intimidated into telling the truth? “No,” I reply.

With that, the agent’s no longer interested in me. My luggage claim check whirs out from a slot behind the counter. Then another one.

“Oh, excuse me,” I say. I gesture to the two suitcases in front of me, and point to Franklin, who’s standing behind me. I lift my suitcase onto the scale. “I’m only checking one bag.”

“Sorry,” the agent says. He folds the second claim check, puts it under the counter and slings my bag onto the conveyor belt behind him. “Next.”

I flash Franklin a long-suffering expression that’s supposed to convey “these people have no idea and no wonder so much luggage gets lost” as he takes his place in line. Then I give myself a silent scolding. Agents have a difficult job. They’re attempting the impossible.

I just hate to fly. And no matter how I work to fight it, I lose. Spiders, no problem. Heights, fine. Snakes. Public speaking. All a breeze. Flying is my only fear. I start my “pretend the fear doesn’t exist” exercise.

“We’re delayed,” Franklin says, interrupting my self-help session. He tucks his ticket flap into the pocket of his navy blazer. “The agent just got the word. Another hour.”

“There’s a dilemma. Which is worse, flying now or flying later?” I ask. It’s still difficult to keep the nerves out of my voice. And yet, I admonish myself to remem
ber, I’m not the only one inconvenienced. I shift back into pretend mode. “No problem. Franko. Let’s make the best of it. Let’s see if we can get through to the Great Barrington Police on a Sunday afternoon. And I’ll check our undercover line.”

“You’re a fun travel buddy, Charlotte,” he says. “Laugh a minute. I was thinking, let’s go have a beer and watch baseball. But you’re the boss. I’ll try the cops. And the GBFD.”

We both pull out our cell phones. While Franklin looks up the number for the Great Barrington Fire Department, I dial into the voice mail on our undercover phone line.

“Received, today at 7:42 a.m.,”
the mechanical voice says. And then I hear a stranger’s voice. A man? Maybe a woman. It’s difficult to tell. A slow smile spreads across my face as I listen to the new message.

“This is a message for Elsa. You indicated you are interested in making arrangements with us. If you wish to continue, please appear at Baggage Claim area D at the Hartford airport, tonight at 7:00 p.m….”

I listen to the rest of the instructions, then hand my phone to Franklin. “Bingo, bingo, bingo,” I say, doing a little dance move with my hips. “Push 2–2 to listen to this message. I bet I can easily fly to Hartford from Boston and get there in time. And I’ll have my suitcase if I need to stay over.”

Franklin holds the phone to this ear, his eyes widening as the message plays back.

“It’s just after one now,” I say. “We have the stop in Baltimore. If our plane’s not late again we’ll get to Boston by four. If we’re lucky, and we sometimes are, there’ll be a flight out of Boston and I can get to Hartford just in time.” More flying, my favorite. I don’t say that.

Franklin has one hand over his ear and has his eyes closed, blocking me out as he focuses on the message and its instructions.

“Don’t erase it,” I remind him. “This is our ticket to the big story.”

“It’s risky,” Franklin finally says, handing the phone back to me. His face is solemn, downcast. “They could recognize you. I wish we had our hidden camera. Damn. I should go with you, camera or no.”

“They don’t get Boston TV in Hartford,” I remind him. “And even you wouldn’t recognize the counterfeit me. Just go back to the station. Put our tape somewhere safe. See if Katie Harkins e-mails. And call Keresey. See if you can find out about that raid. Anything from the fire department PR guy?”

“No answer on his line. The emergency line says they’ll page him. It’s Sunday. Nobody’s anywhere.” Franklin consults his watch. “And it’s time to go. Look, we can talk about this more on the flight. And remember. Just-call-me-Sally is nowhere to be found, last we heard. We don’t want you to end up nowhere, too.”

Elsa looks back at me from the Hartford airport’s ladies’ room bathroom mirror. Of course, the plane from Boston was late. I made it here in time, but now I’m down to the wire. Moving as fast as I could, knowing I had only minutes to make my rendezvous, I slicked back my hair into a high ponytail. Took out my contacts and put on my glasses. A whirlwind visit to a couple of airport shops provided everything else I needed. Some dangly “what did you bring me” earrings and a pink Red Sox cap courtesy of Airport Gifts. From the Minit-Manicures “Retro-Metro” collection, I grabbed a tube of “Purple Rain Pink” lipstick and BeeGees Blue eye
shadow. Luckily for my insta-disguise, I already had on plain black slacks and a Levi jacket.

Franklin gave in on my plan, of course, finally forced to agree this was too good an opportunity to pass up. I had reminded him I’d be in the most public of places. What’s more secure than an airport? Even he couldn’t argue with that.

I check my image again. Goodbye, Charlie. I check my watch. Hello, someone Elsa.

Across the way, I spot a bank of escalators, red arrows above them pointing to ground transportation, rental cars, USO and Baggage Claim C and D. I know my suitcase from Boston will soon be in Claim Area A. A green arrow indicates that’s down the opposite bank of escalators.

Decision. Which way to go? With a wince and a quick prayer to the airport gods, I realize there’s not enough time to retrieve my bag and make it back for my rendezvous. I’ll have to abandon my suitcase until I’m finished.

From my perch at the top of the steep escalator, I scan the area below as I ride down, using the time to get my bearings. A bank of flickering televisions is mounted on the wall, one showing CNN, another the local news, another the weather. Only a few other people are in this part of the airport, lugging bags and clutching water bottles. No one at all is on the escalator going up.

I mentally run through my instructions. I’m carrying a bright red I Heart Hartford tote bag, also from the airport gift shop. Tucked inside, but visibly poking out the unzipped top is a copy of the latest
Elle
magazine. It’s just seven o’clock, right on time. I know what I’m supposed to do.

At the baggage carousel marked D, only a few straggling bags make their way slowly around the segmented
black conveyor belt. They look ignored, like the last of the kids waiting to be chosen for a team. No passengers are waiting to pick them up.

Strips of rubber baffles cover the openings at the beginning and end of the belt. They flap and flutter as the conveyor moves in a sinuous elongated S-shape across the room. I walk to the end of the line, where the belt disappears though more strips of rubber and continues back outside. I’m in the designated place. I wait. I’m alone.

“I can see you.” The disembodied voice comes from through the rubber baffles. Someone is outside, behind the wall, in the baggage distribution area. Which is supposed to be off-limits to everyone but airline and airport employees. And TSA.

“Should I be seeing you?” I lean in closer to the voice. Squinting my eyes, trying to catch a glimpse through the black flaps and into the darkness beyond. “Should I come through to where you are? How?”

“Stand back,” the voice says. A man. “No more questions.”

Glancing around the claim area, I hope no one is watching me talk to the conveyor belt. I consider taking out my cell phone and pretending to have a conversation. No one would notice me then. But it hardly matters. There’s not a soul nearby. And maybe the black flaps are hiding me from view, too. That’s a comforting thought, disguise or not.