Air Time

Chapter Seventeen

I’m still punching buttons on the beeper as I race to Baggage Claim A, hoping my suitcase is still there and not already swiped by some treasure-hunting traveler. The black plastic device was already switched on, but there were no messages and no instructions. I clip it, still turned on, to the waistband of my jeans. I guess I’m supposed to wait. And I cannot wait to tell Franklin. But first I’m going to retrieve my suitcase. If it’s still there.

Thankful for my flats, I run down the escalator steps. There’s a lighted sign indicating my Flight 242 from Boston. Underneath, the luggage carousel is still carrying a collection of suitcases. A few others are disgorging down a chute onto the conveyer below. I spot my black wheelie, with my new silver-gray tag still attached, tumbling end over end as it hits bottom and begins to circle.

“Yes,” I say out loud. Score. I trot over toward my quarry, then stop in my tracks. I’ve spotted something more interesting than my suitcase. There’s someone I recognize at the far end of the baggage claim.

Regine.

Tucking myself out of sight behind an information booth, I keep half an eye on my bag as I watch Regine surveying the arriving cargo. She’s wearing perfectly tailored jeans again and pointy-toed boots. This time she’s in a leather jacket. Her tawny blond hair, just as I remember, falls sleekly around her shoulders. She’s already chosen one large black suitcase from the carousel. Not the designer bag that had brought us together in Baltimore. And she’s clearly scouting for more.

What the hell is Regine doing picking up suitcases from Flight 242? I’m certain as I can be that she was not on my plane. I didn’t see her when I checked my bag at the ticket counter in Boston. I didn’t see her in the waiting area. Reluctant-to-fly me was, as always, the last to board. My seat was in the back. I walked past all the other passengers. She wasn’t there. But maybe she’s meeting someone.

I’m an idiot. Was it me? It certainly was not her voice giving me instructions.

Is she the girl in Luca’s photograph? I strain to get a better look at her, comparing her face with my fading memory of the somewhat younger girl in the photo. Possibly, but I can’t be sure.

Regine is watching the selection of suitcases move steadily by her, tapping one booted toe. A garishly patterned tapestry satchel with a red ribbon tied on the handle. A little girl’s pink plastic Little Mermaid bag. A battered brown leather case, so old-fashioned it doesn’t have wheels. My black bag with its iconic and expensive designer tag edges into her line of vision. I see her body language shift, and she leans over, as if to check the tag.

Or take my suitcase.

The puzzle falls into place. Maybe that’s why she “practically lives at airports,” as I remember she told me in Baltimore. She steals suitcases.

Not this time, honey.

Before she can make a move, I’m beside her. I reach across in front of her, blocking her view and her access. “Excuse me, that’s mine,” I say, keeping my voice pleasant. No need for a confrontation. I hoist my bag from the belt, and place it protectively behind me, realizing I’m probably overreacting. After all, lots of suitcases look alike.

“Sorry?” she says. She looks me up and down, as if I’d interrupted her very important train of thought.

Now we’ll see if she recognizes me. Not as Charlie McNally, but as the woman she gave the Designer Doubles card to in Baltimore. Today, as Elsa, I look a lot different. But if she says something, so what. I have as much right to be here as she does.

There’s no reaction. Nothing. She whirls away, looking annoyed at my intrusion. She’s focused on the luggage, not on a middle-aged traveler.

Is she the girl in the photo? Impossible to tell. I open my mouth to ask, then stop. That’s a can of worms. What good would it do? And I have to make sure I get a flight back to Boston.

I loop the strap of the I Heart Hartford bag over the extended handle of my suitcase, annoyed. This baggage claim system does not work. That girl could have taken my suitcase. Airports are all about security when the bags go onto the plane, but coming off? You’re on your own.

Heading back up the escalator and into the terminal, I’m hyper-aware of the unfamiliar beeper clipped to my waistband. I check it again, flipping up the screen so I can see it as I walk. Still no messages. Still no buzzes or beeps or vibrations. I’m connected to someone now, that’s for sure. And I wish I knew who.

My eyes are glued to the screen above me. I’ve already confirmed there’s one last flight to Boston tonight, leaving at ten. Just enough time for me to check my bag again and get to the gate with a few minutes to spare. This is a good thing, because right now I have to watch TV. The local all-news cable channel, all graphics and swirling images, is flashing “Developing Story.”

My neck begins to hurt, tilted at a muscle-wrenching angle to see the screen. The sound is muted, too low to hear. But the usually bothersome graphics crawl at the bottom of the screen, coupled with the all-too-understandable video, making it clear what happened. And where it happened. Maddeningly, there’s no Who. Or Why. The crawl of words starts again.

“Rescue workers have pulled the body of an unknown woman from the Housatonic River. Police say early evidence shows signs of robbery and foul play. Police are asking the public for help in identifying her. She is in her forties, about five feet two inches tall. Very curly dark red hair, blue jeans and designer T-shirt. If you have information, please call…”

As I watch the words go by a third time, my mind is racing. Calculating. Facing reality. No question, this murder victim is just-call-me-Sally. I know it is. Yanking out my cell phone, I hit Franklin’s speed dial while trotting toward my last ticket agent of the day. I have so much to tell him. Now this. Wonder if he knows about it? He would have called me. Maybe.

It takes forever for the call to connect and of course there’s only one person in front of me. Just as Franklin’s voice mail clicks in, it’s my turn to cross the yellow line and head to the desk.

The bored-looking agent, possibly a failed bodybuilder from the looks of the biceps under his airline-issue blue polyester shirt, acknowledges me, then glares at my phone. I flap my cell shut, smiling apologetically. I dig for the proper credit card, hoping Kevin doesn’t go berserk over having to pay for all these plane tickets. They weren’t exactly authorized. I look again at the still-silent beeper. I’m hoping it’ll be worth it.

“The 10:00 p.m. flight to Boston?” I say, handing over my card. “One seat? One way? One bag to check.”

“There are seats available.” The agent taps his computer, talking to me without looking at me. Reciting. “Did anyone pack your bags for you? Anything hazardous or flammable?”

“Nope.”

I see him hit the enter button, then watch as my baggage claim check spits out from the printer. And then another one. I purse my lips, remembering. Two baggage claim checks for one bag. This is exactly what happened in Atlanta. But Franklin’s not with me this time. I’m clearly alone and I clearly said one suitcase. Maybe it’s nothing, but every reporter instinct tells me this is not a coincidence. It’s not a mistake. I’m just not sure what it actually is.

“Oh, golly, I only have one bag, David K,” I say, reading his name tag as I point to the second claim check. I try to lift my suitcase onto the scale, pretending it’s heavy, bestowing the agent-hulk a flirty smile. “Just this one.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” David says. He reaches down to help little me, then hands me one of the checks. I watch as he peels the slick backing from its matching bar-coded label and bends down to stick the identification tag around the handle of my bag.

It’s now or never. I heft my purse onto the edge of the counter, and with a squeak of damsel-in-distress dismay, tip the entire thing onto his workspace.

“I am so sorry, it just fell over,” I say, acting flustered and dismayed. I turn to the person waiting in line behind me, apologizing again, then I lean over the counter, scooping up my belongings. And along with them, the second claim check.

David is chasing after some of my pencils and a package of mints that rolled off the desk and are heading toward parts unknown. And that gives me just enough time to compare the numbers on the two checks. The one I’m giving back is just one number higher than the one I’m keeping.

“Oh, thank you,” I say. Prettily as can be. I’ve already replaced the purloined paper right where it was when we started, in plain view, on the agent’s desk.

David is signaling the person behind me to step to the front. But I can see him retrieve the claim check and slide it into a drawer. He’s not throwing it away. He’s keeping it.

This has been a pretty successful trip. And not only because the plane didn’t crash. Flying east through the darkness, even stuck in the middle seat between two armrest-hogging businessmen, I had a fairly brilliant idea. I could be way off base, of course. But if I’m right, I’ll be able to confirm my theory in the next twenty minutes. If I’m right, our story is an out-of-the-ballpark blockbuster. Still in my Elsa getup, with additional blue eye shadow and pink lipstick applied en route, I wave a thank-you to the flight attendants and head down the jetway. On full speed ahead.

Every bit of fear and worry and exhaustion has disappeared. I’m running on journalism adrenaline, the irresistible combination of lust for a story and the quest for answers. The beeper. Sally. I still have to call Franklin. But now, baggage claim.

I hurry, needing to be one of the first to baggage claim, which I know is all the way across the terminal. As I arrive, the black conveyor belt lurches into motion, and the klaxon alarm signals that suitcases are on the way.

Watching the passengers ignore me, I reassure myself. As Elsa, I’m invisible in Boston. Anonymous. And that works perfectly.

My black wheelie with the silver-gray tag spills over the top of the luggage belt and onto the circular carousel. As it begins its winding journey, I send it a silent promise that I’ll come back. Because that’s not the only bag I’m waiting for.

Stationing myself at the opening where the luggage first appears, I watch the bags intently as they go by, just like any other traveler. Unlike most other travelers, however, I’m looking for a claim check number. My bag is labeled with ten digits, ending in 4406. But I need a suitcase marked with the number I saw on the second check David K. printed out. And I know that one ends with 4407.

If the airlines compared claim checks before allowing passengers to take bags from the airport, what I think may be the counterfeit bag distribution scheme could never work. But in Boston, as in so many airports, they don’t.

The suitcases are appearing more quickly now. One after the other, they fall out the opening and are dumped down the angle of the belt to land on the carousel. My own bag trundles by me, and I know I have to let it continue. If my plan works, I won’t be able to carry two suitcases. I need to keep checking.

A huge black wheelie balances, briefly, at the opening of the chute. The tag is perfectly visible. And it ends with 4407.

It tips over the edge. I can’t take my eyes off it as it travels the short journey to the carousel. It’s right in front of me. With a quick glance confirming no one else has their eye on it and a fleeting prayer to the news gods, I grab the bag by its black handle and wrench it from the carousel.

The second its wheels hit the ground, I whirl away and make a dash for the ladies’ room. I look over my shoulder. Anyone see me? Anyone noticing?

No.

I hoist the black bag across the toilet seat. It’s heavier than it looks, and so big the wheels almost hit one wall of the tiny metal enclosure while the handle touches the other.

I reach for the zipper. And only then do I see the tiny padlock, holding two zipper pulls together. Of course. It’s locked.

Hands on hips, I stare with frustration at the black bag in front of me. I have to open it. Maybe it’s not really locked, the unlikely thought pops into my brain. I yank the little silver square, hoping it’ll just open. No such luck. I lean against the door of the stall, thinking. If this bag is not being picked up by the passenger who sent it from Atlanta, how would they get a key? What’s more perplexing, airline rules now say you can’t lock your suitcase, except with a TSA approved lock. And this isn’t one of them. That means…I feel my brain churning ahead, struggling to make sense of this.

That means. Someone locked this suitcase after it was put through security. And whoever locked it knew someone would need the key to open it. So where would they put it?

I unzip a flat pocket on the outside of the bag, and slide my hand to the bottom. And I feel something. Small. Metal. I scrabble to get it out. It’s the key.

It unclicks the lock instantly. Almost hearing the clock ticking away my safety, I carefully pull open the zipper all the way around the perimeter of the bag. With every inch, I search for something that may be a trap, or a setup to ensure no one has tampered with it, but I can’t see anything. And I don’t have time to look more closely.

Lifting the top of the bag, I prop the edge up against the stall wall. And stare. It’s a bonanza. I’ve uncovered a fashionista’s fantasyland, a jaw-dropping array that looks like the spoils of someone’s obsessive-compulsive shopping spree. Three separate piles, stacked so tightly they expanded when I released the constricting zipper. Each pile is a stack of flattened-out, shrink-wrapped packages. Inside each package, what looks like brown fabric. No markings on the plastic. No tags. I tentatively lift a few packages, one by one. They’re identical. And there must be-I quickly count, just getting an estimate. Two hundred of them. Two hundred fifty.

With barely a hesitation, I grab one, scrutinizing one side, then the other. A tiny piece of tape holds it closed. Easing the tape away from the plastic flap, a millimeter at a time so I don’t tear it, I put my hand inside. I feel suede. I gently, carefully, release the fabric from the plastic, trying to remember how it’s folded so I can replace it. As it emerges, I see fringe, and a braided drawstring with three gold balls at each end. I hold it up, mesmerized. I don’t have time for this. But I can’t believe it.

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?