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 behind 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 yo
u 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.”
Chapter Twenty-One
S
pecial Agent Marren Lattimer’s office is now a combination art gallery and gadget shop. All of the framed photos he had leaning against the wall are now arrayed ceiling to floor behind him and beside him. His government-issue block of a wooden desk is strewn with stainless steel, leather and plastic gizmos. What looks like a row of toy guns. A cigarette box? One of those games with the clacking metal balls. A Rubik’s Cube. A couple of cell phones in different sizes. “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 balcony 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.”
Air Time Page 20
