Air Time

Chapter Eighteen

Back at luggage claim, it’s as if I’d never been gone. It’s still crowded, departure confusion still in full swing. More luggage arriving. Keeping my expression confident and nonchalant, I wheel the bag full of contraband back to the carousel. There I see hundreds of circling bags are still waiting to be collected by hundreds of travel-worn passengers. Most people are in a congested pack, milling around where the bags come out, some pushing those ungainly gray steel rented baggage carts. I make my way to the end of the line where the bags go back outside.

Lifting the black suitcase back onto the carousel, I watch as it gets carried through the black baffles and outside, out of sight and swallowed up into baggage anonymity. If all goes as planned, soon it’ll be coming down the chute again.

I can’t wait to see what’ll happen next.

My own bag is still, thankfully, circling. Grabbing it, I post myself at the exit to the claim area as if I’m waiting for a fellow passenger. And that’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m stationed at the only way out. Travelers will have to walk right by me, either heading up the escalators to the parking area, or out the door to buses and cabs. When the person I’m looking for walks by, I’ll follow right behind.

I consider calling Franklin, but I’m not sure what I’d tell him. And I may not have time. I fold my red Hartford bag in half and tuck it inside my suitcase, just to be safe. No sense having that on display. Crossing my arms in front of me, I lean back against a pillar. It can’t be long now.

The bag of bags is now at the top of the chute again. I watch it hesitate at the top, then get pushed over the side by the luggage behind it. It slides down to the carousel. And then, someone grabs it.

It’s a woman, elegant, graying hair cut in a chic bob. Do I remember her from the plane? I don’t. She looks like a traveling executive, in her slim tweed skirt, white shirt, hip-length cardigan sweater tied with a soft belt, low-heeled shoes. Her rented baggage cart is already carrying two other suitcases, a large black one and an overstuffed maroon carryall. She sets the contraband case on its wheels, then looks again at its baggage claim check.

Get a cab, I send her a silent plea. If she has a car, there’s no way for me to follow her. I’d have to settle for a license plate. If she takes a bus, that has its pros and cons. I pray she’s getting a cab. That’s got only pros.

The woman shifts the other two bags, and slides the black bag onto the cart’s lower shelf. Pausing a moment to retie her belt, she pushes her cart toward the exit. And me.

Turning my back to her, I hoist my purse onto my shoulder as if I’m also on the way out. Get a cab. I ESP her another message. You. Need. A. Cab.

Yes. She goes past the escalator and through the automatic doors. Above her is an orange arrow with a sign proclaiming This Way to Ground Transportation. And I’m right behind her. Just another tired and harried late-night traveler who wants to get home.

Sliding just behind her in the crowded and lengthening cab line, I figure I can get her cab number, and then, somehow, find out where she told the driver to take her. I have a fleeting “follow that cab” idea, but in Boston that’s doomed to failure. We might make it through the sleek new Ted Williams Tunnel, or even the two-lanes-only fifties-era Sumner Tunnel. But as soon as we hit the centuries-old cowpaths that are now paved over and used as Boston city streets, there’s no way to follow anyone without being snagged at a light or trapped by a one-way street.

“Where you headed, ma’am?” The stocky red-faced cab dispatcher, a pencil stuck behind each ear, organizes his passengers like a pudgy sheepdog, asking each for a destination, then forming us into docile groups.

“Cab sharing in effect, lookit the posted rules,” he announces, waving his clipboard, invoking Logan Airport’s time-honored crowd-control method. He dodges out of the way as a brown-and-white Town Taxi almost sideswipes him, sliding into place at the curb with the passenger door swinging open. “Who’s for the south shore?” Foh-ah the south show-ah, it sounds like, proving he’s a Boston native. “Who’s for downtown? Cab sharing in effect.”

Three passengers for downtown raise their hands. He shepherds them to a dented Yellow Cab, waiting, engine running, with its trunk already popped. Doors and trunks slam, engines rev, exhaust plumes as my quarry and I move closer to our turn.

“Who’s for the western burbs?” The dispatcher scans the line. “Brookline, Newton, Framingham, Natick?”

“Here.” Luggage woman raises her hand and the clipboard approaches. “Brookline,” the woman says.

Perfect.

I don’t delay. “I’m for Newton,” I say, wheeling my suitcase closer. “I can share.” Newton is the town just past Brookline and I know Madam Suitcase will be dropped off at her destination first. And I, Nancy Drew reincarnated, will be able to see exactly where that is.

“Cab 576.” The dispatcher waves both of us to a reasonably safe-looking Red Cab. Here we go. If she recognizes me somehow, or the cabdriver does, well, I guess that won’t be a problem. I’ll just say I’m coming back from a trip. Like everyone else. But no question, it would be better if I can just stay Elsa.

Thank goodness for text messaging. If I call Franklin on my cell, this person might recognize my voice from television. But I’ve got to let him know I’m all right. I wait until we motor through gloomy old Sumner Tunnel, where my phone won’t work anyway. As we emerge into the neon and streetlights of Boston’s North End, I flip my cell open, holding it up to my window so I can see the numbers. I punch Franklin’s speed dial, and with two thumbs, text as best I can. Home. Katie? Fire? FBI? Got big ifno.

Rats. No time to fix spelling errors. Call u L8TR.

We turn onto Storrow Drive, the Charles River reflecting MIT on the right, the lights of Beacon Hill flashing by me on the left. It feels strange, knowing we’re going past the turnoff for my own apartment headed to Brookline and points unknown. Stranger still, I’m sitting in the backseat of a cab, right next to someone who’s clearly up to her stylish rear end in the counterfeit purse syndicate.

I pretend to yawn, so I can look at her but still keep my hand over my face.

She’s now peering through red-rimmed reading glasses as she examines the screen of her cell, a complicated multitasking PDA with a tiny keyboard and green screen. No way for me to read what it says. On her right hand, she’s wearing a square-cut emerald, surrounded by diamonds. Very pricey. If it’s real. And in her lap, a Louis Vuitton shoulder bag. Very pricey. If it’s real. Gucci shoes. This woman has bucks. Or connections.

Unfortunately, she must have told the driver her address while he was loading her stuff in the trunk. So I don’t know exactly where we’re going. But she said Brookline. And I do know we’re almost there.

I look at my cell again. I type another message, quickly, before I can decide not to. “To Josh. Sorry. V V late. Talk 2morrow. Miss U.” I pause. That’s true. I do miss him.

We’re almost at the exit marked Fenway. The border crossing into Brookline is just down Beacon Street and across Park Drive. I stare at my pending text message again. XOXO I add. And before I can reconsider, I hit send.

And then I hear a beeper go off. The one from the airport. The one from the man behind the luggage carousel. The one on my belt.

I startle upright, slapping a hand to my waistband, yanking the beeper off and into my hand. I glance at the woman, panic surging into my chest. Calm down, I tell myself. You got beeped. Everyone gets beeped. She has no idea how critical this might be. And how, if I’m on the right track, it might be connected to her. I offer an apologetic look, sorry to disturb you, but she’s already back to her message screen.

I punch the green button. As the message winds through the ether toward me, our cab crosses the border into Brookline. I stare at the message screen. It’s past midnight. They can’t expect me to do anything now, can they? And what would it even be? Call someone? Go somewhere? Pick up contraband purses? I still worry it could be a setup.

The tiny rectangular screen on my beeper now shows just one word. TOMORROW.

And then the cab comes to a stop.

I look up, scrambling to get my bearings. I was so involved with my beeper, I missed all the turns. We’re in a residential neighborhood, tree-lined, affluent. Well-kept houses, Georgian, Victorian, set back from the street, shapes of elegant landscaping just visible in the glowing streetlights. It’s the familiarly prosperous Brookline, but could be any number of streets.

The woman extracts a few bills from her wallet and hands them to the driver. “Have a nice evening,” she murmurs over her shoulder at me, perfunctorily polite. She opens her door and gets out. A porch light goes on.

Where are we? I lean forward, and back, and forward again, twisting and straining to see a street sign. Or maybe there’s a marking on the house. The fire department requires there be a number; visible, so emergency responders can quickly find their destination. I squint, looking down the impatiens-lined cobblestone walk to her front door. The porch light now illuminates the brass numbers on the white molding. Three. Two. Five.

Three twenty-five-what?

“What street is this?” I ask the cabdriver as he gets back into the front seat. Duh. I must be a bit more tired than I realized. And a bit more freaked out. Out the window, I see the woman entering the house. A silhouette inside is helping her bring in the bags.

“Strathmeyer,” he says, putting the car into Drive. “Now where to?”

I hold up the beeper that had given me chills just a few moments ago. “Plans changed,” I say. “Now I have to go back to Beacon Hill. Sorry.”

“Your dime,” the driver replies.

And I’m finally headed for home.

“Where the hell have you been?” Franklin’s voice hisses in my ear. Concerned, critical. “I didn’t want to call you, didn’t want to interrupt anything. But your meeting in Hartford was four fricking hours ago. It’s now after midnight. What did y’all think I would do? What did y’all think I would think, Charlotte?”

I close the plastic window between me and the cabdriver, not that he could overhear my phone conversation, being so deeply immersed in his own. Franklin’s Mississippi accent signals he’s truly stressed. I can envision him pacing the hallway of his South End apartment. Or complaining about me to Stephen.

“Listen, Franko, I’m sorry. I wanted to call you, several times, but I just couldn’t manage it.” I pause, not sure what to tell him first. “Let me ask you though, did you hear anything about-”

“Where are you now, Charlotte?” Franklin interrupts me.

I look out the cab window. “We’re just on Charles Street. Getting ready to turn onto Mt. Vernon. I’ll be home in two seconds. Why? Should I just call you from there?”

“Ma’am?” The cabdriver turns around and slides the window between us back open. The cab is still moving. I’m grateful narrow Charles Street is deserted this time of night. Morning. “Cash or charge?”

“Hang on, Franklin. I’ve gotta pay this guy.”

“But, Charlotte, I should warn you…”

“Putting down the phone for a sec,” I reply. I plop the cell, still on, into my lap and get ready to pay the cabdriver with the last of my cash. Kevin is going to go ballistic over my expense report. Although it’s looking like our story might be worth the unpredicted expenditure.

“I’ll need a receipt, please,” I say to the driver, handing him the money. “Hang on,” I say into my lap. I can hear Franklin’s voice, buzzing, unintelligible.

We turn the final corner into the narrow turnaround of Mount Vernon Square. I’m suddenly out of energy, so glad to be safely home. I’m tired of pretending to be someone else. Tired of being afraid. Tired of thinking and worrying and planning my next move. Tired of feeling alone. I’ll sleep, I’ll take a shower, and tomorrow-today-we’ll get some answers.

There’s my apartment, brownstone in shadow, but illuminated by the old-fashioned streetlights, not burned to the ground as I had secretly feared. And there are the overflowing baskets of scarlet mums on the porch, just as I left them. And next to them, on the front steps is something else. I blink, shaking my head to clear it.

I hear Franklin still buzzing in my lap. I hear the cabdriver pop the trunk, then get out to retrieve my suitcase.

When I look again at my front steps, the unfamiliar shape is still there. There’s a man sitting on the top step. He’s leaning back against the wrought iron railing. Across his lap, there’s something long and narrow.

I lean back against the seat of the cab, too perplexed to open my own door. Sitting on my front steps is State Police Detective Christopher Yens. And in his lap, a long white box, the shiny slick kind that only comes from flower shops. It’s tied with a big white ribbon. The detective is bringing me flowers? He’s sitting on my steps, after midnight, in jeans and a brown leather jacket? With-flowers? My brain has finally, formally, crashed.

I put my face in my hands, briefly, and then I hear the back door open. As I look up, the cabdriver, shirttail out and receipt in hand, is staring at me. “This is correct address, yes?” he says.

“Yes. This is correct.” I say. It’s also weird as hell. I sling my purse over my shoulder and push my way out of the backseat. Never a dull moment. And so much for my sleeping plans.

The cab backs up into the curve of the cul-de-sac and pulls out into Mt. Vernon Street. Leaving me with my new suitcase, my befuddled brain and my unexpected guest.

Detective Yens sets the flower box on the steps and slowly gets to his feet. As he comes toward me, his face is unreadable. “Welcome home, Miz McNally,” he says. His voice is pleasant, unchallenging. “I suppose you’re wondering…” As he approaches, I see his expression change. He takes a step back.

I get it. He’s seeing Elsa.

I take off my Red Sox cap, yank off the scrunchie holding my ponytail in place, and push my glasses onto the top of my head.

“Ta dah,” I say, keeping my voice down so neighbors don’t call the police. Even though they’re already here. And I’m wary, playing for time a bit until I understand what’s going on. “This better? You’re right, I am ‘wondering’. If you mean wondering why you’re here. So, why?”

“You undercover?” he says, ignoring my question.

“Nope. Just comfortable.” No reason to tell him more than he needs to know.

“Your producer Franklin Parrish told me everything,” he says.

I look down at my still-open purse, where a glowing light indicates my cell phone is still on. I wonder if Franklin is still there.

“He told you what?” I say to Yens. “And do you always bring flowers when you visit reporters in the middle of the night?”

Yens gestures to my front door. “Shall we chat where it’s a bit less public? I expect you might want to put those in water.”

I dig for my phone. The connection is still open. “Heellloo, Franklin,” I trill. “I’m home. Guess who’s here?”

“Mr. Parrish apparently called your news director first,” Yens says. He’s sitting on one of my taupe-and-navy striped living room wing chairs, elbows on his knees. Leaning toward me. Almost interrogating. “Where were you? He said he couldn’t reach you.”

“That’s what Franklin just told me. But he knew I was out of town,” I reply, gesturing to the cell phone on the glass coffee table. I’m perched on the edge of the leather couch, facing the detective. He looks casual, and I’m not too tired to notice, even attractive, but he’s all business. Total cop.

Botox is curled up on top of my suitcase, still parked in the entryway, making sure I don’t leave again. The white box-I still don’t know whether it’s flowers-is propped against the door where Yens left it. Maybe he’s on his way to a later rendezvous and they’re not for me after all.

On the way upstairs, finishing our phone conversation, Franklin had quickly filled me in. He’d been trying to warn me Yens might be at my doorstep. And in reality, he hadn’t told Yens everything. Not even close. He’d only revealed I’d gotten a text message from Katie Harkins. He’d gotten a similar message on his e-mail. He’d tried to call me, couldn’t get through, and decided to call Kevin.

That, I can handle. “So. Might I ask why you’re here in the middle of the night?” I ask.

“Well, after he talked to Mr. Parrish, Mr. O’Bannon called me. As we agreed in our meeting.” He looks at me, confirming.

I nod. “Go on.”

“So Mr. O’Bannon allowed me…” he drags out the phrase, as if the whole journalism thing was too much trouble to bear “…he allowed me to talk to Franklin. Who told me about his e-mail and your text message. I told him as far as we knew, Miss Harkins was still missing.

“As a result,” Yens says, pointing to the coffee table, “I’ve come to take your cell phone. We’re getting our IT people to put it on a trace. See where the text came from. See if we can find her. I’ll return your phone. Soon as I can. We need to find her. I’ve e-mailed her. Called her. She’s not responding to me. She is responding to you.” He reaches toward my cell, but I whisk it off the table before he can take it.

Botox leaps up at the sound of my sudden laughter and skitters away down the hall. “I don’t think so, Detective. Take my phone? Do you have a warrant? Or a subpoena? Let me ask you, Detective. Are you ‘taking’ Franklin’s computer?”

“Look. I’m not playing games, Miss McNally.” The detective’s face hardens. “This is serious business. An FBI agent was killed in a raid, just yesterday. In L.A. Our sources say the agency had been tipped off to a warehouse on the south side. By Harkins. The messages you got indicate she was alive, last night at least. If the counterfeiters know where she is, she may be in danger.”

“How did the agent get killed? Did they find purses? Any kind of contraband?” A raid 3,000 miles away wouldn’t involve Lattimer or Keresey, I figure. But I’m still nervous about my pal. “Let me ask you, Detective. Do you know Agent Keresey Stone? FBI Boston? Was she involved in the raid?”

“The agent killed was a man, that’s all I can tell you,” Yens replies. He slides his hands down his jeans, then holds out one palm. “Your phone, please.”

I’m exhausted and confused, but I know what I have to do. I shake my head as I get to my feet. “Not going to happen. I get why you want my phone. Off the record? Part of me even wants to give it to you. I do. But you know I can’t. Not until you get a subpoena.”

Yens stands, too, but makes no move toward the door. His face softens and he seems almost sad. “Is this what they teach you in journalism school? Are there some misguided rules about not helping law enforcement officials when someone’s life may be at stake? Maybe more than one person? If your FBI agent friend was in trouble, would you still be on your little get-a-subpoena soapbox?”

“Keresey Stone,” I reply, looking at the floor. The pattern in my navy-and-burgundy oriental rug swims a bit as my eyes unexpectedly mist over. This is the dilemma that’s haunting me, more and more. The undercover video of the purse party. The fire. The bag of bags. The claim check scheme. Whoever lives at 325 Strathmeyer Road. How do I juggle my responsibility as a reporter, my job, my career, my goals-with my responsibility as a good citizen? Why are they different? And the bigger the story, the bigger the stakes.

I rub my hands over my face, slick back my shampoo-needy hair and struggle to muster some self-confidence. Choosing my words carefully, I try to explain. To this earnest cop, and even to myself.

“I’m a reporter. I can’t make decisions based on my feelings. Yes, in my heart, I’d love to give you that phone. I’m uneasy about Katie Harkins. Like you, I wonder where she is. Wonder if she’s safe. But if I break the rules now, hand over information because I want to, what happens when I don’t want to? You’ll say ‘Well, you gave me your phone that time. So now, give me your notes. Your sources. Your raw video.’ And eventually I’ll have no principles left.”

I shrug, searching his face for understanding. “You won’t tell me about the FBI raid. You won’t tell me about your relationship with Katie Harkins. I understand. It’s your job. You do what you’ve got to do,” I say, turning toward the door. I gesture, pointing him the way out. “I’ll do the same thing.”

Yens arrives at the door first and picks up the white box. He hands it to me with one raised eyebrow. “Apparently someone, at least, thinks you’re doing everything right,” he says. “But you haven’t heard the last from us. I’ll be calling your boss in the morning.”

I take the box in my arms. “These aren’t from you?”

Yens allows himself a fleeting smile, then lifts a hand in farewell. “They were here when I arrived.”

And he’s gone.

I stare at the white card. Reading it yet again. The glorious white roses that were inside the box-a dozen, each kept fresh in an individual plastic-topped test tube of water and now in my favorite dark green vase-seem to fill my bedroom with their fragrance. Botox hops up onto the nightstand, almost knocking the airport beeper onto the floor. She pretends not to notice, batting a sleek blade of the bear grass that surrounds the bouquet, then she curls up on my lap, tucking her head through my arm. She’s does a convincing cuddle, but I know she’s actually trying to block my view of the card. Because it’s getting too much attention.

I move the card back into view. “Tomorrow is the anniversary of the day we met,” it says. “A year ago today I had never met you. A year ago tomorrow, my life changed. I hope it’s changed forever.” And it’s signed: Josh.

“Our anniversary,” I say to Botox, smoothing her calico fur as I test the phrase. Two words, I realize disconcertingly, I’ve never said together before. At age twenty, I walked out of my marriage to Sweet Baby James before our first year together had even passed.

In lust and inseparable, James and I went to City Hall after knowing each other for about three months. We clung to each other in front of an affable clerk, promised to love and cherish, smiled for the resident rent-a-photographer, then went out for pizza and champagne. I carried cellophane-wrapped flowers purchased at a sidewalk kiosk. I left them at the restaurant. We stayed in bed the entire weekend.

Vows of “till death do us part” aside, clearly James and I each had some misgivings. We never discussed it, but we didn’t combine our book collections. Didn’t combine our tape cassettes. Didn’t have a joint bank account. He paid the rent. I bought the groceries. I wanted a cat. He was allergic. He wanted to go camping. I was allergic. He became more interested in how he looked than how I looked.

After yet another argument about why his six-o’clock dinner was more important than my six-o’clock news, I packed up Gramma’s heirloom china, my cassette collection, plus a whole new understanding about sharing life with someone else, and walked out. I’ve been married to my job ever since. It’s demanding, but doesn’t demand laundry or dinner.

At age twenty, it’s easy to think you know love is the real thing. And it’s easy to change when you decide it isn’t. Twenty-some years later, I’ve learned it’s difficult to know anything.

“I hope it’s changed forever.” I read the last line of Josh’s card out loud. Do I hope my life has changed?

I do.

But so far, I’m not doing a very good job. While Josh was planning a surprise evening at the theater, I was planning a trip out of town. He sent flowers. I sent a text.

My bedside clock taunts me. It’s now past three in the morning. I can’t call Josh, no matter how much I want to. He’s got classes to teach tomorrow. Today. If Penny’s there, she might wake up.

Curling up under the covers, burrowing into my pillow, I’m thinking about “our anniversary.” Savoring the words.

Then I think of Luca. He was right. My heart’s desire was indeed at the end of the journey.