Air Time (19 page)

And then the door closes.

“Let me see, let me see.” I’m clamoring for the tape before Franklin’s even all the way into the driver’s seat. “Did she tell you her name? Was it Marshal? Did she
have a French accent? I couldn’t see her at all, can you believe it? And I could barely hear a thing.”

The door slams. Franklin loops the handle of the camera bag over his head and onto the passenger seat. I reach over to grab it.

“Can we just get out of here, Charlotte?” He sounds relieved that the pretense, and his performance, is over. “And then we’ll pull over and look at the video. And you can get out of there.”

“Okay, fine. My body is one big cramp. But what about her name?” I’ll wait for her pictures, but not for her name.

“Let me see. She has gray hair, in a pageboy, just like you described,” Franklin says. “Flashy ring, expensive shoes. Gucci, if I know my logos. And I do.”

“Franklin B. Parrish, you tell me right now. Is she Sylvie’s sister?”

“There was mail on a side table, addressed to Simone Marshal. She picked it up, and looked through it. She had on a necklace with a diamond initial. The initial is M.”

I purse my lips. Trying to convince myself that’s persuasive. And I need to be supportive of Franklin. He did the best he could. “Well, I guess that’s pretty good,” I say. “And we’ll be able to use the video at some point, anyway, to get an identification. The pictures are really the most important thing.”

From my vantage point, still stuffed into the hatchback, I see Franklin’s face in the rearview mirror. His eyes are twinkling.

“Oh, you’re asking her name?” he says, all innocence. “Why didn’t y’all say so, ma’am? She sounded a lot like Catherine Deneuve, but she told me her name is Simone Marshal.”

Franklin’s driving so I can’t punch him, but that
means Simone is French. And his description sounds like she was the same person who picked up the bags in the airport.

“It makes you wonder about the other people you see in airports, you know?” I say. I’m now on my back, looking at the ceiling, trying to uncrick my neck and wishing for a seat belt. “You figure everyone at baggage claim was on the plane, and yet, how would you know? But who knows how many times the same person might show up there, pretending to be a passenger. I just noticed Regine because she gave me that card. I might have seen her a million times before.”

“Everyone’s anonymous in airports. Just focused on the suitcases,” Franklin says. “That’s why the counterfeit passenger scheme works.”

“That’s why they call it organized crime,” I say. “We know the crime. We just don’t know who organized it.”

I feel the car make a wide turn, and brace myself on the back of the front seat so I don’t get plastered against it. The car moves forward, then back, then forward. We’re parking.

“Here’s Beacon Street,” Franklin says. “Let’s get you out of there.”

There’s a click of a lock, then the hatchback pops open. My eyes squint as blue sky and sunlight replace the gloom of my camouflage position. I twist my legs around and slide to the ground, my knees protesting with every move. My neck will never be the same and I’ve got polka dots of hatchback lint sprinkled over my black sweater. But there’s only one thing I care about.

“Let’s see that video, undercover man,” I say, holding out a hand to take the camera.

Franklin’s sitting on a low stone wall lining the lawn
in front of a Beacon Street brownstone. He’s zipped open his bag, and he’s flipping the switches that change the Sony from camera mode into viewing mode. He holds up a hand to stop me. “Hang on, Charlotte. I’m getting it.”

“Push Rewind,” I instruct, unnecessarily. I can see he’s already doing that. I can also see he looks perplexed.

“Is it not working? Is the screen just blue?” I persist. “That means you haven’t pushed the right buttons. Let me see. Let me do it,” I say, sitting down next to him. I stretch my legs out across the sidewalk and lean in close to Franklin, peering with him at the tiny screen. It’s not blue.

It’s shoes.

“Maybe it’s just…” he begins.

“Yeah.” Not good. Not good. I’m doing my best to stay calm, but tell that to my racing heart and clenching lungs. Years of experience recognizes what’s about to happen, but I still try to ignore what I fear is the inevitable.

“You took a lot of video,” I say. I’m riveted to the screen. “All we need is one shot. Literally, one frame of her face. We can freeze it in the edit booth. Let’s not panic.”

Franklin’s face is grim as he hands me the camera. “I can’t stand it. You have to watch the rest of it. Just tell me what you see. I might have to throw up.” He puts his elbows on his knees, face in his hands. His glasses are pushed to the top of his head. “Just tell me.”

A woman navigating a double-baby stroller approaches, eyeing us quizzically. We probably do look out of place. Two yuppies sitting on a wall along one of Boston’s main streets staring at a video camera, an
open hatchback in front of them. One of the yups clearly upset.

The nonstop traffic on Beacon Street, a din of honking horns, clattering trolleys and the occasional siren, adds an urban soundtrack to our increasingly depressing silent movie. I’ve rewound all the way to the beginning.

“Okay, starting from the top,” I say. “There’s got to be something. I see you walking to the door. I see the front walk, I see the door. Shrubs. Swish pan to me. Back to the door. The mailbox. Empty. The door opens. Darkness. The camera jiggles.” I remember watching this moment as it happened, Franklin nervously adjusting his bag. That’s where this all went from genius idea to disaster. “Then I see…feet. Shoes, actually. Like you said, Gucci shoes.”

The video keeps rolling. I keep narrating. I keep hoping. But the picture doesn’t get any better. Or different. It doesn’t tilt up for one fraction of a second.

We got nothing.

“Franko?” I say.

“Don’t even tell me,” he replies.

I puff out a sigh. I wish I didn’t have to tell him. All of our planning. All of our strategizing. Our one big chance. And we have nothing to show for it. Not one glimpse of her face is caught on camera.

“I

Franklin’s seething.

“What is plan B?” He hits the turn signal with a little more force than usual. “I can’t believe I blew it. We don’t have her picture. Without it we can’t confirm she’s Marachelle, not Marshal. And your Mr. Suave in Atlanta has probably already warned her we’re on the case. We’re not having the best of days, partner.”

We ride in silence for a while. I’m thinking about our rapidly disappearing story. We’ll have to tell Kevin and Susannah we’ve got all kinds of leads, and plenty of ideas, but so far no way to prove any of it. And our November deadline is uncomfortably looming.

“Did you hear from Katie Harkins?” I ask.

“Nope.”

“Did you call her? Leave a message?”

“Yup.”

More silence. Franklin’s the first to reassure me when I screw up. But he has a hard time handling his own failures. He flips on the radio, then instantly turns it off again. That means he’s thinking.

We pull up to a stoplight. He turns to me, eyes narrowed.

“Did he ever call you back, by the way?” he says. “Luca?”

I give Franklin a quick finger point, then plow through my tote bag. “Good thought. I turned my phone off as soon as you got to the car.”

My phone powers up. And there’s the trill that means message waiting. “I’ll put it on speaker if it’s him,” I say, pushing buttons to retrieve the message. “The call must have come in while you and I were—”

“Don’t remind me,” Franklin interrupts.

It’s from Luca.

“Listen, it’s Luca,” I say.

There’s a buzz of static as I rewind to start the message from the beginning again.

“How nice to hear from you, Charlie.” Luca’s voice, with that continental accent, comes crackling through my phone’s tinny speaker. “About Sylvie’s sister? Her name is Simone, but…”

“Whoa,” I mouth the word, and look at Franklin, my eyes widening. Franklin nods, looking almost happy again.

“…but where she lives I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”

I frown. “Why not?” I say over the voice.

“Shh.” Franklin hisses.

“I can’t tell you because—I don’t really know. She and her sister are—” Luca pauses. “Estranged. After Delleton-Marachelle was acquired by ITC, they had a falling-out. Simone never wanted to sell. She said she was embarrassed Sylvie would allow her father’s respected name to be ‘usurped by philistines who also made potato chips and canned soup.’ Sylvie won’t even discuss her sister now. Where she went? Where she lives? I’m not sure anyone here knows.”

As Luca says goodbye, my mind is racing, trying to
place this provocative piece into the increasingly complicated puzzle.

“If he’s telling the truth, that means he knows nothing about the airport baggage scheme. And of course, he doesn’t know that we know where Simone Marshal is.”

“If,” Franklin replies. “And that’s a big if. It would also be a pretty great way of throwing us off the track. If he knew she was in Brookline that would be the last thing he’d mention.”

“What is the deal with this traffic?” I say. “There’s not a baseball game here, right? Maysie’s in New York.” I look out the window into Kenmore Square, the tangled intersection that’s home to Fenway Park and constantly teeming with Boston University students, Red Sox fans and confused tourists trying to navigate rental cars. Not one vehicle is moving. And every driver is honking.

Josh is still in class now, but I don’t want to miss his lunchtime call. I’d prefer to have that conversation in private, instead of code-talking in the car with Franklin pretending not to listen. I’ve got to get back to the station.

I snap on the radio. “Let’s see if there’s a traffic report, at least.”

“—atonic River,” a plummy-voiced radio announcer is saying. “Again, state police say they now know the identity of the woman, apparently a victim of foul play, whose body was found in the Housatonic River yesterday. Stay tuned to this station for more details. And now, weather in Boston is…”

I turn down the volume. And pick up my phone. “I’ve got the assignment desk on speed dial,” I say.

“Channel 3. May I—” a voice on the other end begins.

“Listen, it’s Charlie McNally,” I interrupt, hoping it’s someone who will recognize my name. “Do me a quick favor, okay? I’m stuck in traffic.”

“Sure, I—”

“Go to the wires. Look up the regional stories. Got it?” I turn to Franklin. “I’m putting this on speaker.”

The traffic begins to inch forward. There’s only silence from the phone.

“Hello? Charlie? Okay, the Associated Press is up on my computer screen,” the voice says. “This is Kelly, by the way. Now what?”

“Okay, Kel, do an edit-find. Search for Housatonic. Read me the story about the body found in the river. The most current one. It should be in breaking news. Is there a victim’s name yet?”

Silence again.

“Got it,” we hear. “Okay, let me read it fast…Massachusetts State Police…dut dut dut…body…dut dut dut…Housatonic River, foul play…police say no leads…okay, here’s the name. It says, ‘Police say the victim is Sarah…’” Kelly pauses. “Gar-sin-ka-vich? G-a-r-c-i-n-k-e-v-i-c-h. Of Great Barrington, Mass. Then it says Sarah whatever worked as a ticket agent at the Hartford airport. Her fellow workers are planning a memorial service later this week. ‘She was a valued employee, and a staunch union member,’ says airport workers’ union president James L. Webber. ‘We have lost a colleague and a friend.’ And that’s it. Want to hear it again?”

“No, thanks,” Franklin and I answer at the same time.

“Bye,” I add, clicking off our connection.

I prop both my booted feet up on the Passat’s dashboard, then whisk them down after a warning glare from Franklin. “That’s it. I’m done. My brain is officially full,” I announce.

And then my airport beeper goes off.

“You are not going to Logan Airport by yourself to pick up phony purses,” Kevin says. He’s barricaded be
hind his I’m-the-big-exec desk, arms folded across his chest. The door to his office is closed, but every nosy snoop in the newsroom monitored Franklin and me going in. “Tonight at nine or any other time. Forget the beeper message. As your news director, I forbid it.”

He unbuttons his double-breasted jacket, smooths his elegant paisley silk tie, then rebuttons his jacket. His desk is littered with printouts of budget spreadsheets, copies of last night’s ratings, and two piles of DVDs in clear plastic cases. I figure they’re all video resumés from small-market newbies, any of whom would eagerly take my place for half my salary.

And there may be a job opening after I tell Kevin the rest of our news. Franklin and I have decided to come clean. If Sarah Garcinkevich is just-call-me-Sally, and no doubt in my mind she is, this is bigger than we can handle. We might have video of a murder victim, who she was with, and where she was the day before she was killed. Our jobs are certainly at stake. But we agreed we have to tell.

Franklin and I are side by side on the long, low couch in Kevin’s office. I imagine the two of us already look like guilty ten-year-olds. This may be our last visit to the principal’s office before we get kicked out of school.

“Well, Kevin,” I say, glancing at Franklin. Here we go. “There’s actually more to this. You know the body the police found in the Housatonic River?”

I lean forward and spill the whole story. First the baggage-claim scheme. Then Simone Marshal. This morning’s camera fiasco. That’s the easy part.

It’s suddenly very hot in Kevin’s office. My turtleneck is a cashmere toaster oven. My hands clench in nervous fists. I take a deep breath and jump.

I describe my disguise in the Plucky Chicken, and the purse party, and meeting Sally at the mall.

“I know we should have told you,” I finish, “but I took a hidden camera to the party. Before you gave us permission. It was all my idea. Franklin wasn’t there.”

“But I—” Franklin interrupts.

I know he’s trying to share the blame. But he shouldn’t.

“Nope, it was all me,” I insist. I hold out my hands, palms up, trying to explain. “But now, see, if just-call-me-Sally is the body in the river, and she was an airline ticket agent, that means she was probably in on the baggage scheme. And remember? She told me she was branching out on her own?”

“Charlie and I decided,” Franklin says deliberately, “she was simply taking the purses that were supposed to be shipped to other airports. Swiping an occasional bag for her own use. Instead of putting them on planes as she was supposed to, she just handed them off to a few trusted comrades.”

“And who could prove that something hadn’t happened on the other end?” I add. “They could have been stolen instead of picked up. It would look like just another case of lost luggage. And it’s not like the counterfeiters could have reported the theft.”

“It’s just our theory,” Franklin says. “But it makes sense. She redirected them and sold them. Along with the ones she was assigned to sell.”

“And the brains of the operation was James Webber, the union boss. He could easily have recruited the airline workers who were in on it. When he found out she was scamming him, he had her killed to send them all a message.”

“It’s just our theory,” Franklin says again.

The Channel 3 theme announcing the noon news
comes through the almost-muted speakers behind Kevin’s desk. He picks up his TV remote, and turns up the volume, staring at the four state-of-the-art flat-screen monitors attached to the wall beside him. A different station’s noon news is on each one, the sound up only on Channel 3. Our anchors introduce a story about some traffic disaster, showing video of earthmovers and broken windshields and gesticulating angry drivers and people in suits. Kevin seems absorbed by it.

Franklin and I quickly exchange baffled glances. He’s watching the news? I lace my fingers together in my lap. All we can do is wait. All he can do is fire us. Susannah can choose my replacement.

Kevin holds up his remote again, killing the audio.

“We’ll deal with your hidden-camera escapade later,” Kevin says. He spins the remote on the flat surface of his desk. And spins it again. When it stops, he picks it up and points it at me. “But for now, you just bring me that tape. And any copies you have. We’re giving it to the police. I’m calling Detective Yens. And you’re calling your pals at the FBI.”

I don’t know what to say. And apparently Franklin doesn’t, either.

Kevin shakes his head, and suddenly, just for an instant, it looks like he’s attempting to hide a smile.

“You two are too much,” he says. “But you were right about the story, I must admit. So I’ll work on the staties. You work on the feds. Today. As in, instantly. And then we’ll get this thing on television. Now—get out of here.”

“Happy Anniversary to you, too,” I say. Anyone who walks by me as I’m on my cell phone with Josh probably
thinks I won the lottery or something. I know my smile must be amped to jackpot level. At least.

“I’m out in the hall, by the elevator. We’re on the way to the FBI and Franklin will be here any minute. But I’m so glad I didn’t miss your call, sweetheart. Like I said in the message, the roses are perfect. You’re perfect.”

I look around. The coast is clear. “And I can’t wait to make you just as happy as you make me,” I whisper.

“That sounds like a possibility,” Josh replies. His voice is guarded. Ultra-business. In the background, I hear the unmistakable sounds of silverware and children’s voices. He’s got cafeteria duty. “Let me ask you though, do you provide in-home delivery? And would I be able to set up a specific appointment if I ordered your top-of-the-line full-service package?”

“Ah, the full-service package is extremely elaborate and quite special,” I reply, playing along. I tuck myself into a corner for more privacy and lean my forehead against the wall. “In fact, sir, I can’t remember a situation where we have actually provided that level of accommodations. But I’m sure, in this particular case, you will be able to have whatever you’d like.”

“Then I think we have a deal,” Josh says. “Could you hold for one moment?” I hear Josh discussing something with whoever is with him in the cafeteria, hear him say the words “cable television installation,” and “appointment.”

“Sir?” I interrupt. “If you’d like to sign up for what we call our super-deluxe package, which includes extra personal features never before offered, you’ll have to make an appointment right now. I think I could fit you in…” I hesitate, and a tiny blush begins as I hear my unintended double meaning. But on the other hand, it actually is exactly what I mean. “I think I could fit you in later this evening.”

“Charlotte? You ready? What the heck are you doing?”

Franklin’s tapping me on the shoulder.

“Oh, hello, Franklin,” I say into the phone, reentering the real world. “Hang on, it’s Josh. Josh? You there? Call me later, okay? I think I can help you hook up, just the way you’d hoped, sir. And it will be tonight.”

Franklin looks perplexed as I click the phone closed. “Huh?” he says.

“Josh is getting cable,” I say. “The total package. Apparently he just can’t wait any longer.”