Air Time

Chapter Nineteen

Hiding in the hatchback of Franklin’s Passat is not the most comfortable place to spend a Monday morning. But someone has to carry a hidden camera up to the door of 325 Strathmeyer Road and try to get video of who we now suspect lives there. It should have been me with the camera, but Franklin and I decided she might recognize me from last night at the airport and in the cab. And we can’t take that chance.

So today I, too, have to stay hidden. Luckily for my backseat situation, I’m wearing my black turtleneck sweater, comfortable jeans and flat boots. I have a stash of sugar-free Swedish fish and a latte. My third. I e-mailed Josh to call me at his lunch break. So I’m set. I could camp here for a while without caffeine withdrawal or hunger pangs or missing a call from my sweetheart, but I’m thinking Franklin won’t be too long.

“Test, test.” I check my connection with Franklin. I have my phone on, and so does he. I should be able to hear everything he says. And everything she says.

“Gotcha, Roger, ten-four,” Franklin answers. He’s about halfway to the house. “You okay?”

“Not taking my eyes off you,” I answer.

I rearrange myself on the floor, peering out the side window. We parked about half a block away, across the street, and snagged a spot with a perfect view. Our first thought was to have me just sit in the front, pretending to read the paper, pretending to wait for someone. But some nosy neighborhood-watch fanatic would certainly call the cops about an unfamiliar car with a stranger at the wheel lurking in their posh neighborhood. So we practiced my backseat maneuver in a parking spot outside Channel 3. Because of the tinted windows, I can see out of my hidey-hole, but no one can see in. I can almost, but not quite, sit up. My neck is not happy. But it’s necessary.

All we need is a name, maybe two. And a photograph. Maybe two.

Franklin’s almost to the front walk.

We’d looked up the real estate ownership records on the Registry of Deeds Web site as soon as we arrived at Channel 3 this morning. And what we’d found stopped us both in our tracks.

“Simone-Marshal?” Franklin had said. He held his fingers poised over this keyboard as he read me the results of his search. “Is the owner of 325 Strathmeyer. Does that sound familiar? Bought the place in 2005, a few years ago. For 850 thou.”

I swiveled my desk chair, almost knocking over my second latte of the morning, then used my heels to wheel myself closer to his computer. “Marshal? Are you completely kidding me? Do you think someone would be that obvious?”

“Obvio-?” Franklin frowned as he looked back at his monitor. Then back at me. He tilted his head, wondering. “You think?”

“Ab-so-totally-lutely,” I said. “As Penny says, no bout adoubt it.”

Franklin waved me off. “Oh, come on. You think everything is a conspiracy.”

“That’s because lots of things are a conspiracy,” I replied. “You think we just got home from talking to purse magnate Sylvie Marachelle and now there’s a Simone Marshal involved with this whole thing? Who I followed home from Logan Airport with a stash of phony bags? And the two things aren’t connected? I beg you.”

I pursed my lips, mentally replaying our visit to Delleton-Marachelle, then pointed to Franklin with a one-finger jab. “Of course. They said there was a sister. Remember? Luca said, ‘Sylvie and her sister, something something.’ Before the conglomerate bought D-M. When was that, anyway? I bet the sister was the one in that photo on Luca’s desk. There’s a pretty darn easy way to find out.” I waggled a hand, very French. “Très facile.”

Franklin pulled up a new screen on his computer. “Brookline town list,” he said. “Getting it.”

“Perfect. If ‘Simone Marshal’ filled out a town census report, it should also list all the occupants. Let’s see if anyone else lives there. Rats,” I said, rummaging in my purse. “I can’t ever find anything in here.”

“No comment,” Franklin said over his shoulder. “Your purse is the black hole of Boston. Probably Amelia Earhart is in there.”

“You said ‘no comment.’ So don’t comment.” I scrounged through the multiple zip pockets of my purse once again, in order, down one side and up the other. Muttering.

I finally find what I’m looking for. Luca’s business card, the one from my luggage tag. And just as I remembered, Luca’s private number added in marker.

“You know, Franko? How somehow, sometimes, your instinct just kicks in? It’s as if the whole picture suddenly appears. It’s probably my extensive experience.” I stretch, pantomiming nonchalance. “Ah, yes. And this is why I get the big reporter bucks.”

“Why again?” he asked.

“Because I’m going to call Luca,” I explained as I punched in the numbers. “See what he says about-oh, here it comes. Damn. The machine.”

Franklin turned to me. “Charlotte, wait.”

I held up a hand, stopping him.

“Hi, Luca, it’s Charlie McNally. In Boston.” Like there’s another Charlie McNally. Why am I so tongue-tied by this guy? “Sorry to bother you, but I’m wondering if you could tell me…” I hesitated. Suddenly alarm bells were beginning to ring in my head. How much should I say? Who knows who might be listening to his messages? The bells got louder. What if he’s-

Franklin moved in front of me, waving both hands as if he wanted to have a turn on the phone. I gave him a look, exasperated, and a quick shake of the head. Made me lose my train of thought. I turned my focus back to my call, hoping it hadn’t disconnected. “I’m wondering if you could tell me,” I continued, “whether Sylvie’s sister? The one you told us about?”

Franklin stood, hands on hips, almost glaring at me.

“I wonder if she lives near Boston,” I continued, ignoring him. “And could you tell me her name? I’ll be on my cell. And thank you again.”

I gestured to our wall clock as I hung up the phone. “It’s just after nine, maybe they’re just not in yet,” I said, dismissing my earlier misgivings. “He’ll call me back, I guess. He has my number.”

“If he’s not the mastermind behind the whole thing, Charlotte,” Franklin answered. His entire face was a frown. “That’s why I was trying to stop you.”

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.

“Let me see, let me see.” I’m clamoring for the tape before Franklin’s even all the way into the driver’s seat. “Did she tell you her name? Was it Marshal? Did she have a French accent? I couldn’t see her at all, can you believe it? And I could barely hear a thing.”

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.