Air Time

Chapter Sixteen

I dive for my cell phone. It’s in my purse, somewhere. I turned it off to save the batteries last night, and forgot to turn it on before we left the hotel. Kevin probably called. Again.

We’re crammed into the back of a ramshackle taxicab, trapped in out-of-control highway traffic, twisting and turning our way to the Atlanta airport. The car smells like some maniac’s idea of strawberries. There must not be one functioning spring left in the low-rider backseat. Whatever music is blasting from the radio surrounds us like a swarm of demented bees, the buzz punctuated by the driver’s unintelligible and probably untranslatable challenges to the cars he insists on passing. Franklin, his face headed for green, clutches his briefcase as we weave across two lanes of cars, then back again, on the NASCAR-wannabe free-for-all that’s Georgia’s I-85.

“Don’t you get carsick? Checking your messages in the backseat?” Franklin manages to say.

“Nope. Reading, texting, using my laptop in a car? No problem. I spent my childhood reading Mad Magazine lying across the wayback of our station wagon,” I reply, punching buttons on my cell. “Mother was in despair, but turns out, it was all practice.”

“We’re flying home through Baltimore again, I told you, right?” Franklin says. “I hope you make it all the way home this time. With your suitcase.”

“Yeah, I’m living dangerously, though. Checking it. You should, too.” I say. “It too much of a pain to lug it through security. Besides, how many suitcases can the airlines lose?”

“Well, the latest Department of Transportation statistics show it’s about-”

As the phone powers up, I whap Franklin in the arm before he can reel off his stats again. “Rhetorical question. I don’t even want to know. Uh-oh. There are already text messages. Two of them. I’m betting: Kevin and Kevin.”

I’m hoping: Josh and Josh. Or Keresey, telling me she’s okay.

The first message appears. From Maysie. U 2 BACK TOGETHER? HOPE NO STRIKE OUTS. TXT ME IN NYC.

“Maysie,” I report to Franklin. That girl is relentless. I delete her message, and the next one appears.

SORRY MISSED MTG. CALLED AWAY. RESKED.

I close my eyes, thinking I must be mistaken as I stare at the signature. I hold my phone out to Franklin. “Read this,” I say. I can hear my own voice, tentative and hollow.

“I told you I can’t read in this cab,” Franklin says. He glances at the phone, grimacing, then waves it away. “Just read it out loud to me.”

“It says, sorry missed meeting, called away, resked. Like, reschedule. And then…”

Franklin slowly swivels his head toward me. “You’re kidding.”

I press my lips together, staring again at the name of the sender. “Nope, not kidding. It’s signed, K Harkins. And it came in overnight while my phone was off.”

“Holy…”

“Yup,” I say, clicking my phone into reply mode. “This is fantastic. This is great. What a relief, you know? I was feeling somehow responsible. I guess we were all overreacting. So mystery solved. She’s fine. She’s a P.I. after all. They have to disappear from time to time. I’m texting her back.” I pause, concentrating briefly on the screen. “Okay, sent. I said we’ll be in the office today.”

“Wonder if Keresey knows,” Franklin says. “And that state cop. Yens.”

The cab careens into the departures lane at Hartsfield Airport, me grabbing the strap above my window so I don’t crash into Franklin, Franklin bracing himself against his door. We climb out, weak-kneed and grateful for solid ground. If only briefly. I’d rather be in that cab than in the air.

“Want to do curbside check-in?” Franklin asks.

“I’m not that much of a risk taker,” I say. “Let’s just go in, get coffee and papers, then go to the regular desk agent. I never trust leaving my suitcases outside. It’s like asking someone to steal it. Or send it someplace I’m not going.”

A whoosh of air as the doors to Terminal A slide open. We check the destinations board. We’re on time. For now.

“So the usual plan, right? You guard the stuff, I’ll get coffee and papers,” Franklin says. “Meet you right here. We have plenty of time.”

As Franklin heads off in search of caffeine, I deposit our bags on the floor and plop my purse down on the chair next to me. Inside, I see that lavender ribbon.

Franklin’s nowhere in sight. And Luca told me to open the box in the airport. I hold it in the palm of my hand, then with one quick tug on the ribbon, the bow slithers open. I lift the lid. On top of a carefully folded puff of tissue paper, there’s a tiny white envelope. With a business card inside. Luca’s.

“May every journey’s end bring your heart’s desire,” it says on the back. And it’s signed: L.

I carefully peel away the metallic oval D-M sticker holding the tissue paper together. Inside is a luggage tag. The signature pale silvery-gray leather, also embossed with the D-M logo. I lift a flap and my business card-maybe the one I gave Luca at the studio-is already inside.

“What’s that?” Franklin says. He’s peering at the tag, and points to the box and tissue paper on top of my bag. “Where’d you get that?”

“From Luca,” I say, holding out the tag. “He gave it to me at dinner. And told me to open it at the airport. It’s just a gesture. No big deal. It would have been rude not to take it.” I put the box in my suitcase, then unlatch the tiny gold buckle on the tag’s strap and wind it through the handle of my new suitcase. I pat it into place, admiring it.

“So I see you’ve charmed Purse Man,” Franklin says, watching me. “Very cozy. How’s Josh, by the way?”

“It’s a luggage tag,” I retort. I tuck Luca’s card in my purse. “What could be the harm? Now let’s get these babies onto the plane and go home. We’ve got more important stuff to think about.”

“Anyone pack your suitcase for you?” The gate agent is checking my ticket, punching something into his computer, reciting his litany of questions at the same time. He’s said this a million times a day. I can’t imagine anyone saying yes.

“I wish,” I answer with a smile. My suitcase, and Franklin’s beside it, is still on the floor in front of me. I read the agent’s name tag. “No, Edgar, no one packed my suitcase for me.”

“Anyone ask you to carry on anything?” One chubby finger is poised over his keyboard.

Again, why would anyone say yes? Because bad guys, when confronted with the insightful and incisive questioning of a ticket agent, are suddenly intimidated into telling the truth? “No,” I reply.

With that, the agent’s no longer interested in me. My luggage claim check whirs out from a slot behind the counter. Then another one.

“Oh, excuse me,” I say. I gesture to the two suitcases in front of me, and point to Franklin, who’s standing behind me. I lift my suitcase onto the scale. “I’m only checking one bag.”

“Sorry,” the agent says. He folds the second claim check, puts it under the counter and slings my bag onto the conveyor belt behind him. “Next.”

I flash Franklin a long-suffering expression that’s supposed to convey “these people have no idea and no wonder so much luggage gets lost” as he takes his place in line. Then I give myself a silent scolding. Agents have a difficult job. They’re attempting the impossible.

I just hate to fly. And no matter how I work to fight it, I lose. Spiders, no problem. Heights, fine. Snakes. Public speaking. All a breeze. Flying is my only fear. I start my “pretend the fear doesn’t exist” exercise.

“We’re delayed,” Franklin says, interrupting my self-help session. He tucks his ticket flap into the pocket of his navy blazer. “The agent just got the word. Another hour.”

“There’s a dilemma. Which is worse, flying now or flying later?” I ask. It’s still difficult to keep the nerves out of my voice. And yet, I admonish myself to remember, I’m not the only one inconvenienced. I shift back into pretend mode. “No problem. Franko. Let’s make the best of it. Let’s see if we can get through to the Great Barrington Police on a Sunday afternoon. And I’ll check our undercover line.”

“You’re a fun travel buddy, Charlotte,” he says. “Laugh a minute. I was thinking, let’s go have a beer and watch baseball. But you’re the boss. I’ll try the cops. And the GBFD.”

We both pull out our cell phones. While Franklin looks up the number for the Great Barrington Fire Department, I dial into the voice mail on our undercover phone line.

“Received, today at 7:42 a.m.,” the mechanical voice says. And then I hear a stranger’s voice. A man? Maybe a woman. It’s difficult to tell. A slow smile spreads across my face as I listen to the new message.

“This is a message for Elsa. You indicated you are interested in making arrangements with us. If you wish to continue, please appear at Baggage Claim area D at the Hartford airport, tonight at 7:00 p.m…”

I listen to the rest of the instructions, then hand my phone to Franklin. “Bingo, bingo, bingo,” I say, doing a little dance move with my hips. “Push 2-2 to listen to this message. I bet I can easily fly to Hartford from Boston and get there in time. And I’ll have my suitcase if I need to stay over.”

Franklin holds the phone to this ear, his eyes widening as the message plays back.

“It’s just after one now,” I say. “We have the stop in Baltimore. If our plane’s not late again we’ll get to Boston by four. If we’re lucky, and we sometimes are, there’ll be a flight out of Boston and I can get to Hartford just in time.” More flying, my favorite. I don’t say that.

Franklin has one hand over his ear and has his eyes closed, blocking me out as he focuses on the message and its instructions.

“Don’t erase it,” I remind him. “This is our ticket to the big story.”

“It’s risky,” Franklin finally says, handing the phone back to me. His face is solemn, downcast. “They could recognize you. I wish we had our hidden camera. Damn. I should go with you, camera or no.”

“They don’t get Boston TV in Hartford,” I remind him. “And even you wouldn’t recognize the counterfeit me. Just go back to the station. Put our tape somewhere safe. See if Katie Harkins e-mails. And call Keresey. See if you can find out about that raid. Anything from the fire department PR guy?”

“No answer on his line. The emergency line says they’ll page him. It’s Sunday. Nobody’s anywhere.” Franklin consults his watch. “And it’s time to go. Look, we can talk about this more on the flight. And remember. Just-call-me-Sally is nowhere to be found, last we heard. We don’t want you to end up nowhere, too.”

Elsa looks back at me from the Hartford airport’s ladies’ room bathroom mirror. Of course, the plane from Boston was late. I made it here in time, but now I’m down to the wire. Moving as fast as I could, knowing I had only minutes to make my rendezvous, I slicked back my hair into a high ponytail. Took out my contacts and put on my glasses. A whirlwind visit to a couple of airport shops provided everything else I needed. Some dangly “what did you bring me” earrings and a pink Red Sox cap courtesy of Airport Gifts. From the Minit-Manicures “Retro-Metro” collection, I grabbed a tube of “Purple Rain Pink” lipstick and BeeGees Blue eye shadow. Luckily for my insta-disguise, I already had on plain black slacks and a Levi jacket.

Franklin gave in on my plan, of course, finally forced to agree this was too good an opportunity to pass up. I had reminded him I’d be in the most public of places. What’s more secure than an airport? Even he couldn’t argue with that.

I check my image again. Goodbye, Charlie. I check my watch. Hello, someone Elsa.

Across the way, I spot a bank of escalators, red arrows above them pointing to ground transportation, rental cars, USO and Baggage Claim C and D. I know my suitcase from Boston will soon be in Claim Area A. A green arrow indicates that’s down the opposite bank of escalators.

Decision. Which way to go? With a wince and a quick prayer to the airport gods, I realize there’s not enough time to retrieve my bag and make it back for my rendezvous. I’ll have to abandon my suitcase until I’m finished.

From my perch at the top of the steep escalator, I scan the area below as I ride down, using the time to get my bearings. A bank of flickering televisions is mounted on the wall, one showing CNN, another the local news, another the weather. Only a few other people are in this part of the airport, lugging bags and clutching water bottles. No one at all is on the escalator going up.

I mentally run through my instructions. I’m carrying a bright red I Heart Hartford tote bag, also from the airport gift shop. Tucked inside, but visibly poking out the unzipped top is a copy of the latest Elle magazine. It’s just seven o’clock, right on time. I know what I’m supposed to do.

At the baggage carousel marked D, only a few straggling bags make their way slowly around the segmented black conveyor belt. They look ignored, like the last of the kids waiting to be chosen for a team. No passengers are waiting to pick them up.

Strips of rubber baffles cover the openings at the beginning and end of the belt. They flap and flutter as the conveyor moves in a sinuous elongated S-shape across the room. I walk to the end of the line, where the belt disappears though more strips of rubber and continues back outside. I’m in the designated place. I wait. I’m alone.

“I can see you.” The disembodied voice comes from through the rubber baffles. Someone is outside, behind the wall, in the baggage distribution area. Which is supposed to be off-limits to everyone but airline and airport employees. And TSA.

“Should I be seeing you?” I lean in closer to the voice. Squinting my eyes, trying to catch a glimpse through the black flaps and into the darkness beyond. “Should I come through to where you are? How?”

“Stand back,” the voice says. A man. “No more questions.”

Glancing around the claim area, I hope no one is watching me talk to the conveyor belt. I consider taking out my cell phone and pretending to have a conversation. No one would notice me then. But it hardly matters. There’s not a soul nearby. And maybe the black flaps are hiding me from view, too. That’s a comforting thought, disguise or not.

“Put your bag on the conveyor,” the voice commands. “Then wait until it comes back to you. Pick it up and look inside.”

Following directions, I watch my red bag glide through the baffles and ride out into who knows where. And into who knows whose hands. One of the orphan suitcases follows it. I wait, mesmerized by the mechanical sounds of the moving belt, the slapping of the flaps, the muffled airport public address system intermittently croaking unintelligible instructions, the televisions’ constant muted stream of shape-shifting news reports.

Then I see my shopping bag is back on the conveyor. It’s now on the other side of the claim area, all the way at the beginning of the belt. It’s moving toward me, down one side of the elongated black curve, then up the other, getting closer, inch by inch. I can see the red heart logo. Read the slogan. See the Elle magazine still sticking out the top. Every muscle in my body yearns to go grab it. But I’ve been told to wait. A little warning murmur buzzes through my brain, muttering about unattended bags in airports, did someone ask you to carry anything, did you pack your own bag. I reassure myself. That’s not what this is about.

When the bag gets almost to arm’s length, I can’t stand it. I can see it looks no different than when I placed it on the belt not five minutes ago. When it gets close enough, I snatch it, greedy to see what’s inside.

“Ten minutes.” I startle, as I hear the voice from behind me. “You have ten minutes to return the bag.”

“How do I…?” I begin.

“Get going,” the voice commands.

Another scan of the baggage claim area. Sunday evening in Hartford is apparently not the busiest time. For now, it looks like I’m by myself. On this side of the wall, at least.

I head for a bank of chairs, my bag clutched to my chest. Sitting down, I take a deep breath and look inside.

It’s just the magazine. I flip the pages, baffled. And then, there it is. Between the pages, something new has been added.

A triple folded, letter-sized white piece of paper. Nothing that looks even potentially dangerous. It’s obviously an order form. A photocopy. A yellow sticky note is attached to the top. In small blocky letters, the words all crammed together, someone has written instructions in magic marker. Fill out. Place in bag. Bag on belt. Then wait. You have ten minutes.

I check my watch, then skim the form, reading as fast as I can. There’s a list of descriptions, no brand names, but it’s clear what they’re offering. It’s a shopping list of knockoff bags.

Red-and-camel striped clutch bag, the first line says. That’s obviously meant to suggest Burberry. Quilted black patent tote with CC lettering. Chanel, it doesn’t say. Brown-and-cream hobo shoulder strap pouch, stripes. A fake Fendi. Black satchel with one red and green stripe, G logo. Gucci. Brown suede tote with three gold balls on drawstring.

I blink, staring at that description. That sounds like it could be the Angelina. A bag that’s not even the market yet.

A flood of fear washes over me. This is me, in over my head. As the seconds tick by, I battle the urge to get up and run. I could take the list with me as evidence. Of what? I have six minutes left.

I need to talk with someone. At least brainstorm with Franklin. Problem is, I can’t pick up my phone to call him. Whoever is behind the flaps is certainly watching me. I’m on my own. I have to decide on my own. The only person to talk to is myself.

The cons: It’s risky. They could already know who I am. They could find out. They could find Franklin. Josh. Penny. I should leave this to Keresey and Lattimer. If the bad guys are burning down houses, no story is worth that.

The pros: No one knows I’m undercover except Franklin. Those purse parties are everywhere. The bad guys, whoever they are, have no idea I was at that particular house. The fire could be a coincidence. An accident. There aren’t any other fires. And it’s not like I even expect to find Mr. Big. I’m just seeing where the darn bags come from and how they’re distributed. They gave me an order form, for heaven’s sake. How prosaically unscary can anything get?

“Do it?” I ask myself.

“Do it,” I reply.

I check off the boxes for some fake Burberrys, Fendis, three Chanels and four of what I’m theorizing might be copies of Delleton-Marachelle’s still unreleased treasure, the Angelina bag. I’ll send one of those to Zuzu right away. She’ll go bananas.

I enter the number of our undercover credit card. The last entry on the form says, “request delivery date.” I pause, my pencil hovering over the blank line. The sooner the better, I think. Day after tomorrow.

Less than a minute to go. The muscles in my neck and back tense and tighten as I walk with all the nonchalance I can muster back to the conveyor belt. I know the person waiting for this is not going to leap out and grab me, that wouldn’t make sense. And if security spots me, well, I’m not doing anything wrong. And I’m sure not going to point them to the man behind the curtain. Whoever it is.

The conveyor is still in motion, clanking and whirring, endlessly carrying those remaining suitcases on their circuitous journey. I return to my assigned place at the end of the line and watch the black plastic belt move through the flaps and get swallowed up into the darkness beyond. Hesitating only for a second, I put down the Hartford bag; the Elle magazine and completed order form now tucked inside. And I watch them disappear.

A klaxon wail, combination of buzzer and bells and alarms, instantly begins, ringing and echoing across the tile walls of the baggage claim area. A surge of panic races through me, tears well in my eyes. I’m caught. I’m caught. I’m caught. And there’s no way to explain it.

It’s a setup. Of course it’s a setup. A trap. Why didn’t I think of this? My thoughts tumble on top of each other, reality revealed with heart-stopping speed. The feds don’t know it’s me, I realize, they’re just grabbing the next stupidly greedy idiot who’s signing up to cash in on phony fashion and rip off the purse designers.

The escalator is suddenly full of people. My eyes are so blurry, on the verge of crying, it takes me a moment to grasp who they are.

Passengers.

At that moment, a tumble of bags breaks through the flaps of the conveyor belt. Black wheelies, battered backpacks, corrugated boxes tied with twine, a case of wine. The passengers, alerted to their arriving possessions by the blaring signal, swarm to claim their belongings. I’m so relieved I almost miss what’s also on the conveyor. Upright and solitary. Moving along as if it belongs with all the rest.

My red Hartford bag. I race over to grab it, now just one of dozens of weary and anonymous people yanking their property back into safety. I look inside. The magazine is gone. At the bottom of the bag is a beeper.