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.
And then the door closes.
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.
Chapter Twenty
“I
t’s okay, we’ll just move to plan B.” I reassure Franklin for about the millionth time. We’re on the way back to the station, me comfortably in the front seat now. 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.
Air Time Page 19
