Air Time (17 page)

This looks exactly like the Angelina bag. A purse that’s not even on the market yet. A purse that supposedly no one has seen outside of the Delleton-Marachelle inner circle. Real ones will sell for ten thousand dollars each.

I attempt the math. Which involves too many zeroes.
But I can easily calculate that if bags of bags like this are crisscrossing the U.S., bringing big bucks to those who foist them off as authentic, or even as cut-rate copies, this is a bonanza. I stare at the faux Angelina. Should I just sneak it into my bag? Take it as evidence?

I yank my ponytail tighter into the scrunchie. No one to discuss this with but myself.

Yes.
I’ll take it. I’ll need it as proof of what appears to be an amazing scheme: that phony claim checks are being used to send extra baggage, carrying counterfeit merchandise, onto airplanes. At the other end of the pipeline, counterfeit passengers just stroll in and pick up the unclaimed suitcases at the baggage carousel. Then they sell the purses inside them for a big profit.

Talk about free shipping.

The FBI—and Katie Harkins—will go crazy. They’ll be able to trace airplane passengers, see who else was issued claim checks. And which ticket agents issued them. David K., for one, is clearly involved. And Edgar in Atlanta. And I realize, if anyone traced the numbers, this bag would be assigned to my ticket.

No.
It’s stealing. What if it isn’t what I think it is? Even if it is, I will have taken someone’s bag. Not taken,
stolen
someone’s bag, albeit briefly. And now I’m contemplating stealing something out of the bag? Taking it with me? I flash a mental replay of that video of the Housatonic River. And then of that burned-out shell of a house on Glendower Street.

Definitely no.
I pause, using up even more time that I don’t have. Then I yank my purse open and take out my cell phone. I know it’s never taken longer to power up. “Come on, come on,” I silently mouth the words. “Do it, do it, do it.”

I snap one photo of the bag. Then one of the suitcase
full of plastic bags. I allow myself a smile, hoping no one’s hearing me take photos in the bathroom stall. That would be hard to explain.

One more item to check. And thanks to Zuzu, I know what it is. I zip open a side pocket in the Angelina and slide my fingers down deep inside. I know a real D-M has a tiny metal bead sewn into the right corner seam. In this bag, there’s nothing. This is a fake.

Carefully folding up the brown suede, I attempt to recreate the way it was originally, then slide the resealed pouch into the middle of one of the piles. I zip up the suitcase again, leaning my whole weight onto the top to get it to close.

Thread the tiny lock back through the zipper pull. Stash the key in the outside pocket. Slide open the latch to my secret bathroom hideaway. And go.

Question is—will someone be watching for this bag? And will they see me put it back?

B

Lifting the black suitcase back onto the carousel, I watch as it gets carried through the black baffles and outside, out of sight and swallowed up into baggage anonymity. If all goes as planned, soon it’ll be coming down the chute again.

I can’t wait to see what’ll happen next.

My own bag is still, thankfully, circling. Grabbing it, I post myself at the exit to the claim area as if I’m waiting for a fellow passenger. And that’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m stationed at the only way out. Travelers will have to walk right by me, either heading up the escalators to the parking area, or out the door to buses and cabs. When the person I’m looking for walks by, I’ll follow right behind.

I consider calling Franklin, but I’m not sure what I’d tell him. And I may not have time. I fold my red Hartford bag in half and tuck it inside my suitcase, just to be safe. No sense having that on display. Crossing my arms in front of me, I lean back against a pillar. It can’t be long now.

The bag of bags is now at the top of the chute again. I watch it hesitate at the top, then get pushed over the side by the luggage behind it. It slides down to the carousel. And then, someone grabs it.

It’s a woman, elegant, graying hair cut in a chic bob. Do I remember her from the plane? I don’t. She looks like a traveling executive, in her slim tweed skirt, white shirt, hip-length cardigan sweater tied with a soft belt, low-heeled shoes. Her rented baggage cart is already carrying two other suitcases, a large black one and an overstuffed maroon carryall. She sets the contraband case on its wheels, then looks again at its baggage claim check.

Get a cab,
I send her a silent plea. If she has a car, there’s no way for me to follow her. I’d have to settle for a license plate. If she takes a bus, that has its pros and cons. I pray she’s getting a cab. That’s got only pros.

The woman shifts the other two bags, and slides the black bag onto the cart’s lower shelf. Pausing a moment to retie her belt, she pushes her cart toward the exit. And me.

Turning my back to her, I hoist my purse onto my shoulder as if I’m also on the way out.
Get a cab.
I ESP her another message.
You. Need. A. Cab.

Yes. She goes past the escalator and through the automatic doors. Above her is an orange arrow with a sign proclaiming This Way to Ground Transportation. And I’m right behind her. Just another tired and harried late-night traveler who wants to get home.

Sliding just behind her in the crowded and lengthening cab line, I figure I can get her cab number, and then, somehow, find out where she told the driver to take her. I have a fleeting “follow that cab” idea, but in Boston that’s doomed to failure. We might make it through the sleek new Ted Williams Tunnel, or even the two-lanes-only fifties-era Sumner Tunnel. But as soon as we hit the centuries-old cowpaths that are now paved over and used as Boston city streets, there’s no way to follow anyone without being snagged at a light or trapped by a one-way street.

“Where you headed, ma’am?” The stocky red-faced cab dispatcher, a pencil stuck behind each ear, organizes his passengers like a pudgy sheepdog, asking each for a destination, then forming us into docile groups.

“Cab sharing in effect, lookit the posted rules,” he announces, waving his clipboard, invoking Logan Airport’s time-honored crowd-control method. He dodges out of the way as a brown-and-white Town Taxi almost sideswipes him, sliding into place at the curb with the passenger door swinging open. “Who’s for the south shore?” Foh-ah the south show-ah, it sounds like, proving he’s a Boston native. “Who’s for downtown? Cab sharing in effect.”

Three passengers for downtown raise their hands. He shepherds them to a dented Yellow Cab, waiting, engine running, with its trunk already popped. Doors and trunks slam, engines rev, exhaust plumes as my quarry and I move closer to our turn.

“Who’s for the western burbs?” The dispatcher scans the line. “Brookline, Newton, Framingham, Natick?”

“Here.” Luggage woman raises her hand and the clipboard approaches. “Brookline,” the woman says.

Perfect.

I don’t delay. “I’m for Newton,” I say, wheeling my suitcase closer. “I can share.” Newton is the town just past Brookline and I know Madam Suitcase will be dropped off at her destination first. And I, Nancy Drew reincarnated, will be able to see exactly where that is.

“Cab 576.” The dispatcher waves both of us to a reasonably safe-looking Red Cab. Here we go. If she recognizes me somehow, or the cabdriver does, well, I guess that won’t be a problem. I’ll just say I’m coming back from a trip. Like everyone else. But no question, it would be better if I can just stay Elsa.

Thank goodness for text messaging. If I call Franklin on my cell, this person might recognize my voice from television. But I’ve got to let him know I’m all right. I wait until we motor through gloomy old Sumner Tunnel, where my phone won’t work anyway. As we emerge into the neon and streetlights of Boston’s North End, I flip my cell open, holding it up to my window so I can see the numbers. I punch Franklin’s speed dial, and with two thumbs, text as best I can. Home. Katie? Fire? FBI? Got big ifno.

Rats. No time to fix spelling errors. Call u L8TR.

We turn onto Storrow Drive, the Charles River reflecting MIT on the right, the lights of Beacon Hill flashing by me on the left. It feels strange, knowing we’re going past the turnoff for my own apartment headed to Brookline and points unknown. Stranger still, I’m sitting in the backseat of a cab, right next to someone who’s clearly up to her stylish rear end in the counterfeit purse syndicate.

I pretend to yawn, so I can look at her but still keep my hand over my face.

She’s now peering through red-rimmed reading
glasses as she examines the screen of her cell, a complicated multitasking PDA with a tiny keyboard and green screen. No way for me to read what it says. On her right hand, she’s wearing a square-cut emerald, surrounded by diamonds. Very pricey. If it’s real. And in her lap, a Louis Vuitton shoulder bag. Very pricey. If it’s real. Gucci shoes. This woman has bucks. Or connections.

Unfortunately, she must have told the driver her address while he was loading her stuff in the trunk. So I don’t know exactly where we’re going. But she said Brookline. And I do know we’re almost there.

I look at my cell again. I type another message, quickly, before I can decide not to. “To Josh. Sorry. V V late. Talk 2morrow. Miss U.” I pause. That’s true. I do miss him.

We’re almost at the exit marked Fenway. The border crossing into Brookline is just down Beacon Street and across Park Drive. I stare at my pending text message again. XOXO I add. And before I can reconsider, I hit send.

And then I hear a beeper go off. The one from the airport. The one from the man behind the luggage carousel. The one on my belt.

I startle upright, slapping a hand to my waistband, yanking the beeper off and into my hand. I glance at the woman, panic surging into my chest.
Calm down,
I tell myself.
You got beeped. Everyone gets beeped.
She has no idea how critical this might be. And how, if I’m on the right track, it might be connected to her. I offer an apologetic look,
sorry to disturb you,
but she’s already back to her message screen.

I punch the green button. As the message winds through the ether toward me, our cab crosses the border into Brookline. I stare at the message screen. It’s past
midnight. They can’t expect me to do anything now, can they? And what would it even be? Call someone? Go somewhere? Pick up contraband purses? I still worry it could be a setup.

The tiny rectangular screen on my beeper now shows just one word. TOMORROW.

And then the cab comes to a stop.

I look up, scrambling to get my bearings. I was so involved with my beeper, I missed all the turns. We’re in a residential neighborhood, tree-lined, affluent. Well-kept houses, Georgian, Victorian, set back from the street, shapes of elegant landscaping just visible in the glowing streetlights. It’s the familiarly prosperous Brookline, but could be any number of streets.

The woman extracts a few bills from her wallet and hands them to the driver. “Have a nice evening,” she murmurs over her shoulder at me, perfunctorily polite. She opens her door and gets out. A porch light goes on.

Where are we? I lean forward, and back, and forward again, twisting and straining to see a street sign. Or maybe there’s a marking on the house. The fire department requires there be a number; visible, so emergency responders can quickly find their destination. I squint, looking down the impatiens-lined cobblestone walk to her front door. The porch light now illuminates the brass numbers on the white molding. Three. Two. Five.

Three twenty-five—what?

“What street is this?” I ask the cabdriver as he gets back into the front seat. Duh. I must be a bit more tired than I realized. And a bit more freaked out. Out the window, I see the woman entering the house. A silhouette inside is helping her bring in the bags.

“Strathmeyer,” he says, putting the car into Drive. “Now where to?”

I hold up the beeper that had given me chills just a few moments ago. “Plans changed,” I say. “Now I have to go back to Beacon Hill. Sorry.”

“Your dime,” the driver replies.

And I’m finally headed for home.

“Where the hell have you been?” Franklin’s voice hisses in my ear. Concerned, critical. “I didn’t want to call you, didn’t want to interrupt anything. But your meeting in Hartford was four fricking hours ago. It’s now after midnight. What did y’all think I would do? What did y’all think I would think, Charlotte?”

I close the plastic window between me and the cabdriver, not that he could overhear my phone conversation, being so deeply immersed in his own. Franklin’s Mississippi accent signals he’s truly stressed. I can envision him pacing the hallway of his South End apartment. Or complaining about me to Stephen.

“Listen, Franko, I’m sorry. I wanted to call you, several times, but I just couldn’t manage it.” I pause, not sure what to tell him first. “Let me ask you though, did you hear anything about—”

“Where are you now, Charlotte?” Franklin interrupts me.

I look out the cab window. “We’re just on Charles Street. Getting ready to turn onto Mt. Vernon. I’ll be home in two seconds. Why? Should I just call you from there?”

“Ma’am?” The cabdriver turns around and slides the window between us back open. The cab is still moving. I’m grateful narrow Charles Street is deserted this time of night. Morning. “Cash or charge?”

“Hang on, Franklin. I’ve gotta pay this guy.”

“But, Charlotte, I should warn you…”

“Putting down the phone for a sec,” I reply. I plop the cell, still on, into my lap and get ready to pay the cabdriver with the last of my cash. Kevin is going to go ballistic over my expense report. Although it’s looking like our story might be worth the unpredicted expenditure.

“I’ll need a receipt, please,” I say to the driver, handing him the money. “Hang on,” I say into my lap. I can hear Franklin’s voice, buzzing, unintelligible.

We turn the final corner into the narrow turnaround of Mount Vernon Square. I’m suddenly out of energy, so glad to be safely home. I’m tired of pretending to be someone else. Tired of being afraid. Tired of thinking and worrying and planning my next move. Tired of feeling alone. I’ll sleep, I’ll take a shower, and tomorrow—today—we’ll get some answers.

There’s my apartment, brownstone in shadow, but illuminated by the old-fashioned streetlights, not burned to the ground as I had secretly feared. And there are the overflowing baskets of scarlet mums on the porch, just as I left them. And next to them, on the front steps is something else. I blink, shaking my head to clear it.

I hear Franklin still buzzing in my lap. I hear the cabdriver pop the trunk, then get out to retrieve my suitcase.

When I look again at my front steps, the unfamiliar shape is still there. There’s a man sitting on the top step. He’s leaning back against the wrought iron railing. Across his lap, there’s something long and narrow.

I lean back against the seat of the cab, too perplexed to open my own door. Sitting on my front steps is State Police Detective Christopher Yens. And in his lap, a long white box, the shiny slick kind that only comes from flower shops. It’s tied with a big white ribbon. The detective is bringing me flowers? He’s sitting on my steps,
after midnight, in jeans and a brown leather jacket? With—flowers? My brain has finally, formally, crashed.

I put my face in my hands, briefly, and then I hear the back door open. As I look up, the cabdriver, shirttail out and receipt in hand, is staring at me. “This is correct address, yes?” he says.

“Yes. This is correct.” I say. It’s also weird as hell. I sling my purse over my shoulder and push my way out of the backseat. Never a dull moment. And so much for my sleeping plans.

The cab backs up into the curve of the cul-de-sac and pulls out into Mt. Vernon Street. Leaving me with my new suitcase, my befuddled brain and my unexpected guest.

Detective Yens sets the flower box on the steps and slowly gets to his feet. As he comes toward me, his face is unreadable. “Welcome home, Miz McNally,” he says. His voice is pleasant, unchallenging. “I suppose you’re wondering…” As he approaches, I see his expression change. He takes a step back.

I get it. He’s seeing Elsa.

I take off my Red Sox cap, yank off the scrunchie holding my ponytail in place, and push my glasses onto the top of my head.