Air Time (20 page)
S
“Are you a collector?” I ask, as Franklin and I take our places in the brown vinyl leather chairs across from the FBI Chief. I see Franklin eyeing the Cube. “Or are those high-tech secret weapons, like in James Bond?”
I feel Franklin shift in his chair and even attempt to give me a surreptitious kick to shut me up. I know he thinks I’m not being deferential enough. After all, this guy’s the honcho of the FBI. But I don’t like turning over our research and our results to law enforcement. I know Kevin insisted, but I still think it’s crossing the line. And moreover, Mr. FBI should be grateful we’re here. We’ve accomplished what his team couldn’t.
Luckily Keresey arrives, interrupting my nervous chatter. Today she’s Ralph Lauren chic in jeans and a black turtleneck.
“Guess you got the clothing memo, Charlie,” she says, eyeing my duplicate getup. She perches on a wooden sideboard against the wall, showing her sleek black boots under her narrow jeans. “You and I could be, what, sisters? If you had a badge. So, what’s up? Hey, Franklin. Hey, Chief.”
“Agent Stone.” Lattimer’s all business. Not interested in girl talk. He looks at his watch. “Miss McNally? You asked to meet with us?”
“I know you’re busy,” I say, to acknowledge I’ve noticed his patronizing watch move. “But at our initial meeting you said you were interested in cracking the distribution system. For counterfeit purses.”
Lattimer nods. “Correct.”
“And you said, at that time, at least, you hadn’t made any progress.”
“What’s your point, Miss McNally?” Lattimer says. His computer beeps, and he turns to look at his monitor, clicking his mouse. “Keep talking. I’m listening.”
Well. That’s rude.
“My point, Agent Lattimer, is that Franklin and I
have
made progress.”
“Progress in what?” Lattimer doesn’t take his eyes off his monitor.
I mentally count to ten, quickly. And get to about five. “Progress. In cracking the distribution system.”
Keresey stands, and walks to a spot behind Lattimer. He looks up at her, then, slowly, swivels his chair back toward me.
“Say again?”
“I said. We know how the phony bags are transported and disseminated.”
“We think we know,” Franklin puts in. “It’s our theory.”
Lattimer and Keresey exchange another look. Keresey looks distressed. And I realize—maybe she’s worried I’ve accomplished what she couldn’t. Which might not be good for her career. Lattimer looks skeptical.
“Well, that certainly takes a load off my mind,” he says, finally looking at me. His voice is bitterly dismissive. “If you’ll just outline your findings, I’m sure my agents will be grateful.”
What a jerk. I stand up, ready to bolt. Then sit down again. This isn’t my play. Nevertheless, I don’t have to be sneered at, even by the FBI.
“I’m not here because I want to be,” I say. I keep my tone chilly. “I’m here because our news director asked us to talk with you. Believe me, sir, I’d be just as happy to leave this investigation in your very capable hands. And we’ll just put our story on the air. You can hear about it then.”
I’m pushing this, I know. So I wait. He wants our info, he can ask for it. No matter what Kevin says.
Lattimer picks up his Rubik’s Cube, twisting the multicolored squares. “I assume, Ms. McNally,” he says, staring at his toy, “you didn’t come to my office to turn over your notes to the feds. So…what are we talking about here?” With each phrase he snaps another color into place.
“My news director has instructed me to tell you what we found,” I say. “But only if you’ll agree to give us an exclusive on the story. Exclusive on the takedown. Exclusive on the aftermath. Exclusive on the arrests.”
Lattimer snaps another color into line. “I gather we’re about to hear an ‘or else’?”
“If you want to put it that way, fine. Here’s the way I’d put it. In an unprecedented move for the benefit of
public safety, and one which I must admit I’m not convinced is acceptable, we’re willing to give you raw information. In exchange for some access.” I cross my arms across my chest and lean back in my uncomfortable chair. “Your call.”
I’m halfway hoping he says no. Then we will have at least tried, and then we can do this on our own. But I’m just an employee. And would prefer to stay employed.
“Chief? May I say something?” Keresey is frowning, and fingers the necklace cord that holds her badge around her neck.
Lattimer raises a hand, giving permission.
“No offense, Charlie. And I know we’ve worked together in the past. But not like this, Chief.” Keresey shakes her head, and her frown deepens as she turns to her boss. “Making deals with the news. That never works. Always some snafu. Something goes wrong. We need to handle this ourselves. In-house.”
For several moments, the only sound is the mechanism of the cube. And then all the colors fall into place. Lattimer looks up, showing off proof of his achievement. “Generally, I’d agree with Agent Stone. But the agency does have some history of, shall we say, agreements in principle with the media. In this case, it appears Miss McNally and her colleague believe they have something valuable.”
“But—”
“Agent Stone, you’re overruled. Let’s hear what these two have to say.” Lattimer sets his elbows on the desk, then tents his fingers. One raised eyebrow telegraphs
I dare you.
“Miss McNally?”
I pause, knowing this is an irrevocable step into journalism quicksand. A step I’d rather not take. But I have no choice.
“We know it’s happening in Boston, and in Hartford and in Baltimore,” I begin. I outline our discovery of the duplicate claim checks and my confirmation of the system in a stall of the Logan Airport ladies’ room. I reveal my visit to the purse party, noting that Kevin had taken our video of Sally-who-I’m-sure-is-Sarah to Detective Yens, then my meeting at the Hartford baggage claim with the red bag, and the retrieval of the beeper.
“I can’t let you take it, but I can let you see what it says,” I say, showing him the beeper.
I push the button, and the message lights up. I hold it so the agents can see. FLIGHT 1017. ATL. LOGAN. MON. CC NUMBER 2 COME.
“So we figure they’ll send the claim check number later,” Franklin says. “And that flight arrives at 9:00 p.m.”
“Tonight,” Keresey says.
“Which means we have to move fast.” Lattimer looks at his watch. He points to Keresey, then me. “You two. You’re both going to the airport.”
“And me,” Franklin says. “I can shoot the video.”
“Negative. No video.” Lattimer picks up his cube. “Here’s our M.O. Agent Stone will wear—”
“But the video’s part of the deal,” I interrupt. “We’re television. If we don’t have video, it didn’t happen.”
“We’re the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Miss McNally. And we’re in charge now. And if you two are capable of doing what I tell you, you’ll get your exclusive. But not on tape. Understood?”
What I understand is, I’m screwed. And trapped. And I’ve just given away all our leverage. Which is why trading info for access is always, always a bad idea. I’m silent. Fuming. Franklin, too.
“As I was saying,” Lattimer continues. “We’ll accompany you to Logan Airport. I’ll be stationed on the bal
cony overlooking the claim area. Out of sight, but keeping you under surveillance. Agent Stone will wear the same clothing you used as—Elsa? She and I will be in radio contact. You two look enough alike to begin with. She’ll shadow you. If there’s a snafu, she’ll move in to take your place. Or take them down.”
“Chief, may I interrupt you here? Why not just let me do the pickup? They’ll never know the difference. And if something happens, I can handle it. There’s no basis for putting Charlie out there.”
Lattimer is shaking his head, clearly ready to reject her idea.
“And what’s more,” Keresey continues, “if I do the pickup, the bags will never be out of federal custody. The chain of evidence will be stronger. We don’t want to risk losing our case based on some legal technicality.”
“Duly noted. Thank you for your input, Agent Stone.” Lattimer, dismissive, turns back to me. “Miss McNally, you’ll do the pickup as I outlined. You hand over the bags you collect. We’ll use the claim-tag routing numbers to trace the issuing ticket clerk and convince that person to give us the principal players. All we need. Chain of custody is not a consideration. We’ll be there. We’ll witness the exchange.”
“All the more reason for me to shoot it,” Franklin persists.
“But what if it goes wrong?” Keresey, both palms flat on Lattimer’s desk, leans toward her boss, pushing. “What if this move puts Charlie in danger? Should we check it out with the director in D.C.?”
“You’re over the line, Agent Stone,” Lattimer replies. “I’m in command of this operation. If these guys have someone staking out the exchange, they’ll expect to see Miss McNally. And, if she’s willing…?
I nod.
“…it’s Miss McNally they’ll get. And we’ll proceed as planned.”
“Nice purse,” I say to Keresey, pointing to the black shoulder bag on the front seat. She’s driving our nondescript unmarked car, procured from the FBI motor pool. “Is it loaded?”
“Government issue,” Keresey replies, accelerating up the winding ramp into Logan Airport’s central parking. “Assigned to me fully equipped with one loaded Smith & Wesson. Marren’s going to give me a radio set to airport emergency frequency. Under the seat, there’s another bag just like it for you, too. Put on your Elsa makeup, then you can stash your own purse in the trunk. You won’t need anything else from it.”
“Is mine fully loaded? Gun and radio? I’m still quite the hotshot, you know, after your lessons.” I point my forefingers and shoot some parked cars, making the appropriate noises.
“In your dreams,” Keresey says. “Your bag is empty. Counterfeit, you might say. But we have to match. And remember, that course was just at the firing range. I’ll take care of the bad guys. You stick with your pad and pencil, sister.”
Even now, we actually do look like sisters. We’re both still in jeans and boots, our hair down, wearing Audrey Hepburn–sized sunglasses. While I hide in the ladies’ room, she’ll soon be shopping for the accessories that will transform us into identical twins.
“Where’s Franklin, by the way?” Keresey asks, pulling into a parking space.
I shrug. “Maybe home with Stephen. Sulking.”
That’s not true. I hate to mislead Keresey, but we’re
not missing these shots. If it’s not on video, it didn’t happen. I figure Kevin will approve.
“Listen, now that we’re alone,” I say, changing the subject. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Lattimer, but we heard from Katie Harkins.”
Keresey clicks the car into Park, and turns to me, her eyes wide with surprise. Or fear. Or questions.
“I didn’t say anything in front of Lattimer, because thinking back to that day on the bridge, I didn’t remember whether you had told us he knew you were asking about her,” I continue. “But I got a text message from her. Yesterday.”
“We got a message from her, too,” Keresey replies, her face grim. “Early Saturday, Lattimer said. What did yours say?”
“Just that she wanted to reschedule our meeting. So where is she? What’s up with her? I thought she was the big insider? What did she say to you?”
“Off the record?”
Whatever. We’ll figure the rules out later. Now I just want to know.
“Sure.”
“She was apologizing. Said she got burned by a source. Katie Harkins is the one who tipped us to the L.A. warehouse, said we had to move in that day. But it was a bust. One of our agents was killed.”
I know this. From Yens. Who told me he heard it from sources. This Katie Harkins thing is haunting me. She’s the piece that doesn’t fit.
“You ever think maybe she’s in on it?” I say. “Like, she’s leading you guys to the wrong places? On purpose?”
“Sorry. Classified,” Keresey says.
A thought slams through my brain. Maybe Simone
Marshal uses yet another name. I struggle to see whether that would make sense, but Keresey is talking. And I realize it’s time for us to go.
Keresey slings her purse over her shoulder, and opens her car door. “Just to confirm we’re on the same page. We’ll go in separately. You find a spot to wait. Check the board, confirm the plane’s arrival time. I’ll get sweatshirts, hats, whatever else looks good. Meet me in the ladies’ room, departure level by the Legal Sea Foods restaurant, fifteen minutes before the flight comes in. You got the Hartford bag?”
“And the beeper.” I pat my belt. “Because we need that claim check number.”
“Right.” Keresey says. She opens the trunk for my tote bag. “Are you all set? Ready for this? It’ll go down exactly as it should. Just follow my lead.”
Of course the plane is late. Thunderstorms in Atlanta make a nine-o’clock arrival wishful thinking. The red lights across from the listing for Flight 1017 from Atlanta are flashing “delayed.” Estimated time of arrival, 9:45 p.m. I have more than an hour to wait.
I know exactly how I need to spend it. First, calling Amy to feed Botox. Then, announcing my own delays and rearranging my own arrival time. Josh had texted me he had a Bexter Board of Directors meeting, was dropping Penny at Victoria’s, and invited me to a late-night anniversary celebration. Now I know our celebration is going to have to be just a bit later. And I know I’m going to have to handle this just a bit delicately.
My cell phone is in my purse. In Keresey’s trunk. Time to hit the pay phone.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I say, as Josh answers. “Happy Anniversary, second notice. Guess where I am.”
I quickly fill him in on the strategy. Lattimer, Franklin, Keresey. Ladies’ room.