Air Time (18 page)

“Ta dah,” I say, keeping my voice down so neighbors don’t call the police. Even though they’re already here. And I’m wary, playing for time a bit until I understand what’s going on. “This better? You’re right, I am ‘wondering’. If you mean wondering why you’re here. So, why?”

“You undercover?” he says, ignoring my question.

“Nope. Just comfortable.” No reason to tell him more than he needs to know.

“Your producer Franklin Parrish told me everything,” he says.

I look down at my still-open purse, where a glowing light indicates my cell phone is still on. I wonder if Franklin is still there.

“He told you what?” I say to Yens. “And do you always bring flowers when you visit reporters in the middle of the night?”

Yens gestures to my front door. “Shall we chat where it’s a bit less public? I expect you might want to put those in water.”

I dig for my phone. The connection is still open. “Heellloo, Franklin,” I trill. “I’m home. Guess who’s here?”

“Mr. Parrish apparently called your news director first,” Yens says. He’s sitting on one of my taupe-and-navy striped living room wing chairs, elbows on his knees. Leaning toward me. Almost interrogating. “Where were you? He said he couldn’t reach you.”

“That’s what Franklin just told me. But he knew I was out of town,” I reply, gesturing to the cell phone on the glass coffee table. I’m perched on the edge of the leather couch, facing the detective. He looks casual, and I’m not too tired to notice, even attractive, but he’s all business. Total cop.

Botox is curled up on top of my suitcase, still parked in the entryway, making sure I don’t leave again. The white box—I still don’t know whether it’s flowers—is propped against the door where Yens left it. Maybe he’s on his way to a later rendezvous and they’re not for me after all.

On the way upstairs, finishing our phone conversation, Franklin had quickly filled me in. He’d been trying to warn me Yens might be at my doorstep. And in reality, he hadn’t told Yens everything. Not even close. He’d
only revealed I’d gotten a text message from Katie Harkins. He’d gotten a similar message on his e-mail. He’d tried to call me, couldn’t get through, and decided to call Kevin.

That, I can handle. “So. Might I ask why you’re here in the middle of the night?” I ask.

“Well, after he talked to Mr. Parrish, Mr. O’Bannon called me. As we agreed in our meeting.” He looks at me, confirming.

I nod. “Go on.”

“So Mr. O’Bannon allowed me…” he drags out the phrase, as if the whole journalism thing was too much trouble to bear “…he allowed me to talk to Franklin. Who told me about his e-mail and your text message. I told him as far as we knew, Miss Harkins was still missing.

“As a result,” Yens says, pointing to the coffee table, “I’ve come to take your cell phone. We’re getting our IT people to put it on a trace. See where the text came from. See if we can find her. I’ll return your phone. Soon as I can. We need to find her. I’ve e-mailed her. Called her. She’s not responding to me. She is responding to you.” He reaches toward my cell, but I whisk it off the table before he can take it.

Botox leaps up at the sound of my sudden laughter and skitters away down the hall. “I don’t think so, Detective. Take my phone? Do you have a warrant? Or a subpoena? Let me ask you, Detective. Are you ‘taking’ Franklin’s computer?”

“Look. I’m not playing games, Miss McNally.” The detective’s face hardens. “This is serious business. An FBI agent was killed in a raid, just yesterday. In L.A. Our sources say the agency had been tipped off to a warehouse on the south side. By Harkins. The mes
sages you got indicate she was alive, last night at least. If the counterfeiters know where she is, she may be in danger.”

“How did the agent get killed? Did they find purses? Any kind of contraband?” A raid 3,000 miles away wouldn’t involve Lattimer or Keresey, I figure. But I’m still nervous about my pal. “Let me ask you, Detective. Do you know Agent Keresey Stone? FBI Boston? Was she involved in the raid?”

“The agent killed was a man, that’s all I can tell you,” Yens replies. He slides his hands down his jeans, then holds out one palm. “Your phone, please.”

I’m exhausted and confused, but I know what I have to do. I shake my head as I get to my feet. “Not going to happen. I get why you want my phone. Off the record? Part of me even wants to give it to you. I do. But you know I can’t. Not until you get a subpoena.”

Yens stands, too, but makes no move toward the door. His face softens and he seems almost sad. “Is this what they teach you in journalism school? Are there some misguided rules about not helping law enforcement officials when someone’s life may be at stake? Maybe more than one person? If your FBI agent friend was in trouble, would you still be on your little get-a-subpoena soapbox?”

“Keresey Stone,” I reply, looking at the floor. The pattern in my navy-and-burgundy oriental rug swims a bit as my eyes unexpectedly mist over. This is the dilemma that’s haunting me, more and more. The undercover video of the purse party. The fire. The bag of bags. The claim check scheme. Whoever lives at 325 Strathmeyer Road. How do I juggle my responsibility as a reporter, my job, my career, my goals—with my responsibility as a good citizen? Why are they different? And the bigger the story, the bigger the stakes.

I rub my hands over my face, slick back my shampoo-needy hair and struggle to muster some self-confidence. Choosing my words carefully, I try to explain. To this earnest cop, and even to myself.

“I’m a reporter. I can’t make decisions based on my feelings. Yes, in my heart, I’d love to give you that phone. I’m uneasy about Katie Harkins. Like you, I wonder where she is. Wonder if she’s safe. But if I break the rules now, hand over information because I want to, what happens when I don’t want to? You’ll say ‘Well, you gave me your phone that time. So now, give me your notes. Your sources. Your raw video.’ And eventually I’ll have no principles left.”

I shrug, searching his face for understanding. “You won’t tell me about the FBI raid. You won’t tell me about your relationship with Katie Harkins. I understand. It’s your job. You do what you’ve got to do,” I say, turning toward the door. I gesture, pointing him the way out. “I’ll do the same thing.”

Yens arrives at the door first and picks up the white box. He hands it to me with one raised eyebrow. “Apparently someone, at least, thinks you’re doing everything right,” he says. “But you haven’t heard the last from us. I’ll be calling your boss in the morning.”

I take the box in my arms. “These aren’t from you?”

Yens allows himself a fleeting smile, then lifts a hand in farewell. “They were here when I arrived.”

And he’s gone.

I stare at the white card. Reading it yet again. The glorious white roses that were inside the box—a dozen, each kept fresh in an individual plastic-topped test tube of water and now in my favorite dark green vase—seem to fill my bedroom with their fragrance. Botox hops up
onto the nightstand, almost knocking the airport beeper onto the floor. She pretends not to notice, batting a sleek blade of the bear grass that surrounds the bouquet, then she curls up on my lap, tucking her head through my arm. She’s does a convincing cuddle, but I know she’s actually trying to block my view of the card. Because it’s getting too much attention.

I move the card back into view. “Tomorrow is the anniversary of the day we met,” it says. “A year ago today I had never met you. A year ago tomorrow, my life changed. I hope it’s changed forever.” And it’s signed: Josh.

“Our anniversary,” I say to Botox, smoothing her calico fur as I test the phrase. Two words, I realize disconcertingly, I’ve never said together before. At age twenty, I walked out of my marriage to Sweet Baby James before our first year together had even passed.

In lust and inseparable, James and I went to City Hall after knowing each other for about three months. We clung to each other in front of an affable clerk, promised to love and cherish, smiled for the resident rent-a-photographer, then went out for pizza and champagne. I carried cellophane-wrapped flowers purchased at a sidewalk kiosk. I left them at the restaurant. We stayed in bed the entire weekend.

Vows of “till death do us part” aside, clearly James and I each had some misgivings. We never discussed it, but we didn’t combine our book collections. Didn’t combine our tape cassettes. Didn’t have a joint bank account. He paid the rent. I bought the groceries. I wanted a cat. He was allergic. He wanted to go camping. I was allergic. He became more interested in how he looked than how I looked.

After yet another argument about why his six-o’clock
dinner was more important than my six-o’clock news, I packed up Gramma’s heirloom china, my cassette collection, plus a whole new understanding about sharing life with someone else, and walked out. I’ve been married to my job ever since. It’s demanding, but doesn’t demand laundry or dinner.

At age twenty, it’s easy to think you know love is the real thing. And it’s easy to change when you decide it isn’t. Twenty-some years later, I’ve learned it’s difficult to know anything.

“I hope it’s changed forever.” I read the last line of Josh’s card out loud. Do I hope my life has changed?

I do.

But so far, I’m not doing a very good job. While Josh was planning a surprise evening at the theater, I was planning a trip out of town. He sent flowers. I sent a text.

My bedside clock taunts me. It’s now past three in the morning. I can’t call Josh, no matter how much I want to. He’s got classes to teach tomorrow. Today. If Penny’s there, she might wake up.

Curling up under the covers, burrowing into my pillow, I’m thinking about “our anniversary.” Savoring the words.

Then I think of Luca. He was right. My heart’s desire was indeed at the end of the journey.

H

So today I, too, have to stay hidden. Luckily for my backseat situation, I’m wearing my black turtleneck sweater, comfortable jeans and flat boots. I have a stash of sugar-free Swedish fish and a latte. My third. I e-mailed Josh to call me at his lunch break. So I’m set. I could camp here for a while without caffeine withdrawal or hunger pangs or missing a call from my sweetheart, but I’m thinking Franklin won’t be too long.

“Test, test.” I check my connection with Franklin. I have my phone on, and so does he. I should be able to hear everything he says. And everything she says.

“Gotcha, Roger, ten-four,” Franklin answers. He’s about halfway to the house. “You okay?”

“Not taking my eyes off you,” I answer.

I rearrange myself on the floor, peering out the side window. We parked about half a block away, across the
street, and snagged a spot with a perfect view. Our first thought was to have me just sit in the front, pretending to read the paper, pretending to wait for someone. But some nosy neighborhood-watch fanatic would certainly call the cops about an unfamiliar car with a stranger at the wheel lurking in their posh neighborhood. So we practiced my backseat maneuver in a parking spot outside Channel 3. Because of the tinted windows, I can see out of my hidey-hole, but no one can see in. I can almost, but not quite, sit up. My neck is not happy. But it’s necessary.

All we need is a name, maybe two. And a photograph. Maybe two.

Franklin’s almost to the front walk.

We’d looked up the real estate ownership records on the Registry of Deeds Web site as soon as we arrived at Channel 3 this morning. And what we’d found stopped us both in our tracks.

“Simone—Marshal?” Franklin had said. He held his fingers poised over this keyboard as he read me the results of his search. “Is the owner of 325 Strathmeyer. Does that sound familiar? Bought the place in 2005, a few years ago. For 850 thou.”

I swiveled my desk chair, almost knocking over my second latte of the morning, then used my heels to wheel myself closer to his computer. “Marshal? Are you completely kidding me? Do you think someone would be that obvious?”

“Obvio—?” Franklin frowned as he looked back at his monitor. Then back at me. He tilted his head, wondering. “You think?”

“Ab-so-totally-lutely,” I said. “As Penny says, no bout adoubt it.”

Franklin waved me off. “Oh, come on. You think everything is a conspiracy.”

“That’s because lots of things are a conspiracy,” I replied. “You think we just got home from talking to purse magnate Sylvie Marachelle and now there’s a Simone Marshal involved with this whole thing? Who I followed home from Logan Airport with a stash of phony bags? And the two things aren’t connected? I beg you.”

I pursed my lips, mentally replaying our visit to Delleton-Marachelle, then pointed to Franklin with a one-finger jab. “Of course. They said there was a sister. Remember? Luca said, ‘Sylvie and her sister, something something.’ Before the conglomerate bought D-M. When was that, anyway? I bet the sister was the one in that photo on Luca’s desk. There’s a pretty darn easy way to find out.” I waggled a hand, very French.
“Très facile.”

Franklin pulled up a new screen on his computer. “Brookline town list,” he said. “Getting it.”

“Perfect. If ‘Simone Marshal’ filled out a town census report, it should also list all the occupants. Let’s see if anyone else lives there. Rats,” I said, rummaging in my purse. “I can’t ever find anything in here.”

“No comment,” Franklin said over his shoulder. “Your purse is the black hole of Boston. Probably Amelia Earhart is in there.”

“You said ‘no comment.’ So don’t comment.” I scrounged through the multiple zip pockets of my purse once again, in order, down one side and up the other. Muttering.

I finally find what I’m looking for. Luca’s business card, the one from my luggage tag. And just as I remembered, Luca’s private number added in marker.

“You know, Franko? How somehow, sometimes, your instinct just kicks in? It’s as if the whole picture suddenly
appears. It’s probably my extensive experience.” I stretch, pantomiming nonchalance. “Ah, yes. And this is why I get the big reporter bucks.”

“Why again?” he asked.

“Because I’m going to call Luca,” I explained as I punched in the numbers. “See what he says about—oh, here it comes. Damn. The machine.”

Franklin turned to me. “Charlotte, wait.”

I held up a hand, stopping him.

“Hi, Luca, it’s Charlie McNally. In Boston.” Like there’s another Charlie McNally. Why am I so tongue-tied by this guy? “Sorry to bother you, but I’m wondering if you could tell me…” I hesitated. Suddenly alarm bells were beginning to ring in my head. How much should I say? Who knows who might be listening to his messages? The bells got louder. What if he’s—

Franklin moved in front of me, waving both hands as if he wanted to have a turn on the phone. I gave him a look, exasperated, and a quick shake of the head. Made me lose my train of thought. I turned my focus back to my call, hoping it hadn’t disconnected. “I’m wondering if you could tell me,” I continued, “whether Sylvie’s sister? The one you told us about?”

Franklin stood, hands on hips, almost glaring at me.

“I wonder if she lives near Boston,” I continued, ignoring him. “And could you tell me her name? I’ll be on my cell. And thank you again.”

I gestured to our wall clock as I hung up the phone. “It’s just after nine, maybe they’re just not in yet,” I said, dismissing my earlier misgivings. “He’ll call me back, I guess. He has my number.”

“If he’s not the mastermind behind the whole thing, Charlotte,” Franklin answered. His entire face was a frown. “That’s why I was trying to stop you.”

I stared at him. Recalculating. Drives me crazy that he might be right. And no use to fight it.

“Yeah.” I slumped back in my chair, wrinkled my nose. Because I suddenly saw what might have happened. There’s nothing worse than being wrong. I may have just blown our whole story. Now I see the real picture.

“What if—remember Luca was married to Sylvie? And now they’re divorced. And she’s heir to all the D-M money, right? She’s the one with the big bucks. So maybe he’s getting revenge. Stealing her designs. And cashing in. Doing the worst possible thing to her he could: taking her ideas and taking the company’s good name.” I plopped my head into my hands, my remorseful words aimed at my desk.

“I’m an idiot. I might as well have called and said, ‘Be careful, we’re on your trail.’” I peeked out through my fingers, spotting a ray of hope. “Is here any way to undo a phone message?”

“Sorry, Charlotte. Of course, it’s possible you could be right. We’ll soon find out, that’s for sure. And listen, if Sylvie’s sister lived near Boston, wouldn’t Luca have mentioned it? Maybe the Marshal-Marachelle thing is wrong.”

“Bzzzzt.” I made the international sound for
incorrect
. Franklin’s trying to make me feel better. Impossible. “He certainly would not have told me if she were the key to the knockoff plot. If they were in it together.”

“On the other hand, he could be just protecting her privacy. Maybe she’s turning her back on her past. Getting an American name. Fitting in.” He tapped his keyboard with a dramatic flourish. “Voilà. Here’s the town list. Okay, Internet. Show me something good.”

And then he went quiet. Staring at the screen.

The air in the room changed. Franklin turned to me, silent. His eyes wide. He had something.

Once again, I scooted my chair closer to him. And for a moment, I was silent, too. And then Franklin read the town list entry out loud, his voice heavy with disbelief.

“The owner is listed as Simone Marshal, age 48, occupation, homemaker. Under other occupants, it lists Reggie Webber, age 22, student.”

“
Sacre
frigging
bleu
,” I said. “Excuse me. But Reggie? That’s Regine, if I’m not mistaken. And I’m not. Reggie is Regine, and she’s Simone Marachelle’s daughter. Whatever that means. But who’s ‘Webber’?”

“I’m hitting print,” Franklin said, clicking his mouse. “And if we’re going to get their pictures, I think we should go. If we knock on the door now and they’re not home, we can try again. But if they leave for good, we’re screwed.”

“Because they were alerted by my phone call, you mean. Because Luca instantly called them. And then everyone shredded everything. And we’ve—I’ve—ruined our story.”

Franklin’s forehead furrowed, and he smoothed his already impeccable khaki pants as he stood to leave. “I hate to say it,” he said, his voice full of reluctant apology. “But maybe.”

Finished with my fast-forward replay of the entire morning, I watch Franklin head up the flower-lined front walk of 325 Strathmeyer Road from my backseat hideout. Our snazzy Sony HC-43 camera is hidden in his L.L.Bean monogrammed briefcase and he looks for all the world like a prep-school alum in khakis, old school tie and suede designer jacket who’s searching for his long-lost buddy. Our fervent hope is that Simone
Marshal not only answers the door, but also buys our story.

We have to verify her name to make sure the person who arrived last night is “Simone Marshal,” alias Simone Marachelle, and not a visitor. Or a renter. Or, the idea creeps unpleasantly into my consciousness, some random person whose name is Simone Marshal.

No. I shake off my own second-guessing. Someone who arrived at that house carried in at least one suitcase full of fake bags. And I’m convinced all three she picked up were contraband.

We have to get her photo to confirm who she is. And I’m considering—it might be time to tell Keresey. I eye the beeper that’s now clipped inside my purse.

I wish I were going to the door. But I’m a team player. And I know how to take turns. I’m still clinging to a faint hope that Luca’s not the mastermind. That I didn’t get carried away by my own overconfidence and spill the beans.

My cell phone is on and so is Franklin’s. I don’t want to miss anything. State law says we can’t record audio, so her voice won’t be on the tape. In the worst possible scenario, if Franklin needs help…well, I’d just have to risk getting recognized.

“I see you,” I say. “We found a perfect parking spot. You rolling? The lens in the right position? I can’t wait to see her. Make sure you don’t block my view when she opens the door.”

“
If
she opens the door,” Franklin answers. “And shush. Let’s go radio silence. I don’t want anyone to see me chatting with Mr. Suede Jacket.”

“Radio silence?” I can’t help laughing. He’s always so earnest. “You’re so…” Then I stop. He’s right.

Stretching out my legs behind me, I prop my chin on
my hands and don’t take my eyes away from Franklin. He walks up the three cobblestone steps, past the terracotta urns of elaborately topiaried ivy, and pushes a black button by the doorjamb. The bell. He turns to me for half a second, then turns back to the door.

Nothing.

Here’s where undercover works gets sticky. Your goal as a journalist is to get answers without the subject realizing it’s happening. But the only way to be convincing is to do what you would do if you actually were the person you’re pretending to be. Franklin the “old school chum,” guilelessly hunting for a friend, would simply ring the doorbell again.

Franklin the producer would start wondering if there were a way to see if anyone is actually home without ringing the buzzer again. I see him scan the second-floor windows. Looking for open screens, blowing curtains. He’s listening for noise from a television. He turns back to me again. But I know he can’t see me.

He lifts the lid of the rectangular mailbox beside the door. Checking for mail. And any names that might be on the mail. In plain sight, of course, so he doesn’t have to commit a federal offense by touching someone else’s mail. I see him point to the box, then shake his head. Dramatically, to make sure I see it. The box is empty.

“Just ring the buzzer again,” I say to myself. “No big deal. A real person on the trail of a friend would just ring again.”

Franklin pushes the button.

I nod. Good move.

A beat. Another beat.

And the door opens.

“Yes?”

I hear the voice, barely, through Franklin’s phone. A
woman. But even squinting, I can’t make out her face, She’s two steps back from the light, still in the interior shadows.

“I’m so sorry to bother you,” Franklin begins the spiel we’d devised. “I’m looking for Steve Rosenfeld?”

Binoculars. I need binoculars. I cup my hands around my eyes, and press them to the window, somehow thinking this might create a binocular effect. It fails.

“I’m sorry?” The woman has moved even farther back into the house.

Franklin adjusts the bag on his shoulder and I know he’s anxious about getting the shot. I am, too, because if she keeps backing up, I’m never going to be able to see her. I can hear Franklin using his most courteous dinner-guest voice as he explains what he’s doing.

“…and this is the last address I have,” he says. “Your last name is not Rosenfeld?”

If this woman is totally unsuspecting or hasn’t had her coffee, this is where she might offer her real name.

“No,” she says. “They were the previous owners.”

We know this from the Registry of Deeds records. Which if she’s the current owner, she clearly knows. Which is why we used the name.

“Ah,” Franklin says. “That’s so disappointing. When did you buy it from them? When did they leave?”

Good move.

I strain to hear. Both for her answer and for a French accent. I can see Franklin is listening. But I can’t hear a thing.