Air Time

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Happy Anniversary, Brenda Starr.” Josh yanks the sheet back up over his knees. And mine. I’m not sure we’ll ever find all the clothing that’s strewn across the floor, fallen behind the mattress, pushed down between the sheet and the puffy chocolate-and-caramel striped comforter of Josh’s classically sleek cherrywood bed. Propped up on pillows against the slatted headboard, we’re the definition of disheveled. It’s almost four in the morning. We’re wide-awake.

Glass clinks on metal as the ice cubes settle in the silver champagne bucket on the nightstand. I settle in myself, burrowing into my pillow and curving into Josh’s shoulder, remembering. Savoring. Wanting.

“Would you like a little more?” Josh asks. I can feel him adjust his body, turning ever so slightly, his skin sliding against mine.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly…” I begin. And then I hear the slosh as Josh pulls the dark green bottle of Moët White Label from its icy cooler. Ah. He meant more champagne. “Well, if you insist.”

Josh turns toward me, legs outstretched, propping himself on one elbow. He holds his glass for a toast. “To you, my sweetheart. And to your big story. And to the perhaps the wildest evening of your life.”

I’m blushing.

“Charlie McNally. I meant at the airport,” Josh says, clinking my glass. “But I still can’t get my brain around this. You’re telling me Lattimer was behind it? And Katie Harkins doesn’t exist?”

“Yup. Nope,” I say, closing my eyes to savor the crisp chill of the champagne. But Josh is right. Wild. I turn to face him, mirroring his propped-on-elbow position. “Keresey was suspicious, she said, since usually CIs whose tips don’t pan out are dumped. And apparently the State Police counterfeit squad was also getting bogus info from ‘Katie.’ That’s how Keresey met Yens. And remind me to tell you the scoop about that.”

I take another bubbly sip. “Anyway, when Keresey asked Yens about her, turns out, he’d been suspicious, too. He’d never seen her. Neither had she. So they wanted to know if Franko and I had, and, of course, we hadn’t. When Ker pushed Lattimer for more info, that’s when he gave her those photos. Supposed to be proof she existed. Ker gave copies to Yens. They each checked with me and Franko. The ‘missing persons’ thing was just their cover story. To pump us for what we knew.

“But here’s what clinched it-Keresey’s agent pal found the photos on the Web. The woman was some photographer’s model. Public domain. ‘Katie Harkins’ is the handiwork of Lattimer’s imagination. A fake.”

Josh drains his glass, then sits up, cross-legged, and pours us each some more. His hair is a salt-and-pepper haystack. His chest is still tanned from his Cape Cod summer. I curl one hand around his ankle. I can’t resist touching him.

“So if Harkins was…” he pauses, tilting his glass, thinking. “And the information was phony…that means…Lattimer had his own agent killed? Hurt?”

“Yes, or had his confederates do the job,” I say. “It was all a…a diversion. He did everything by e-mail and voice mail. He just made up all the information. Then he’d redirect all the bureau’s attention into the phony raids. And meanwhile, the real counterfeiters would be shipping and distributing. And out of the line of fire. I just hope they can prove it.”

“Twisted,” Josh says. He puts his glass back on the nightstand.

“Lucrative,” I answer. “Very, very lucrative. We’re talking multi, multi, millions.”

Josh leans toward me, one lock of hair falling across his forehead. He takes my glass, deliberately, and puts it aside. There’s a look in his eyes, strong. Soft. Only he smells like this. Only he tastes like this.

And the phone rings. “Let the voice mail get it,” he says, leaning closer. I can feel his warmth. Or maybe it’s my own.

The phone rings again. “Forget it,” Josh whispers. “I’m making other plans.”

Then Penny’s little voice warbles from the answering machine. “Daddy-o?” she says. “I woke up because I had a bad dream, and Mom said I could-”

With an apologetic sag of his shoulders, Josh picks up the phone. I tuck myself beside him. I can wait. I listen to Josh’s comforting words, something about Dickens her stuffed dog, and Harriet the Spy, and Halloween candy. I’m floating, almost sleeping, when I hear him hang up.

And then he starts dialing.

“What, honey?” I say. I don’t even open my eyes. “Who are you calling?”

“I’m just erasing that whole conversation,” he says. “You know. I picked up while she was leaving a message, so the whole thing is there. Saved. All recorded.”

Something shifts in the back of my mind. Now my eyes are open. Wide-open. I sit up, staring at the wall, my hands laced across the top of my head.

“Charlie?”

I turn to Josh. “Hand me the phone, okay?”

Josh looks baffled.

But I know I’ve just clinched the case against Lattimer. And I have to call Keresey. “That anonymous phone call? The one I’m convinced was from Lattimer? It’s still on my phone. It happened just like you and Penny. I answered during the message. But I never erased it. And that means it was saved. And that means it’s all still there. And that means Lattimer’s going down.”

Josh reaches toward the phone. And then hits the light switch, dissolving the room into darkness.

“Tomorrow,” he says.

And lusciously, gradually, in the soft expanse of Josh’s bed I realize he’s right. Tomorrow will be fine. Because right now I’m not Elsa. I’m not Keresey. Luckily, happily, deliriously I’m Charlie McNally. And I think I’m beginning to recognize the real thing.

“Hurry!”

“I’m hurrying,” I yell back at Franklin. “You don’t have to tell me to hurry.”

We’re clattering down the two flights of stairs from our office into the newsroom.

“The video’s supposed to feed by microwave from FBI headquarters,” Franklin says. “The receive techs are ready to roll on it. It should be coming in any second now.”

“Should be?” I can hear my voice, taut and nervous.

I’m sleep-deprived, wearing jeans and a backup black wool jacket I grabbed from my news-emergency stash. My hair is a Glamour “don’t.” But we’ve got breaking news and it can’t wait. It’s 10:54 a.m. There’s a local news break scheduled for 10:58 a.m. Plenty of time to get it on the air. If we hurry.

I grab the banister, swinging myself down to the next flight. Franklin’s right behind me.

“Producer’s Jessica!” I point to the punked-out blonde at the on-call producer’s desk. “Franko, tell her the scoop. I don’t need prompter. I’ll wing it. I need a minute-thirty. Two minutes, tops. I’m heading for the anchor desk. And make sure that video is rolling.”

“We have bars and tone from the fibbies HQ,” a voice calls from the glass-walled video-receive room. “Exterior FBI. No heads.”

I careen into the anchor desk chair, click on my microphone and plug in my earpiece. If we only have video of the FBI headquarters and no people, that’ll still work. The clock says 10:57 a.m.

“One minute to air, Charlie.” I hear Jessica, now in the control room, through my earpiece. “Franklin’s in here with me. We’ll roll the video live. Just narrate what you see. Great job, kiddo.”

The in-house monitor flashes from black into the familiar gray stone edifice of the FBI headquarters. The massive metal front doors, embossed with menacingly clawed bald eagles, remain closed. I organize my thoughts, knowing I have only two minutes to tell this whole story.

“Fifteen seconds,” Jessica says.

My fifteen-seconds-to-air routine never changes. I slide my tongue across my front teeth, removing any stray red smudges. I give my hair one last-and today, futile-fluff into place. I pat my lapel to reassure myself the tiny microphone is where it should be. “I’m a pro,” I chant silently. My pre-air mantra. “Bring it on.”

In my ear, I hear the brass and synthesizer anthem that means breaking news. In my on-air monitor, blue and silver graphics tilt and whirl, commanding viewers’ attention. Jessica’s voice buzzes her final instructions.

“Two. One. And go.”

“This is Charlie McNally in the Channel 3 newsroom with breaking news. On your screen now, live pictures of the headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Only on Channel 3, this exclusive story. We have learned federal officials say they have solved the murder of Sarah Garcinkevich, age 44, of Great Barrington, whose body was found in the Housatonic River last week.

“In developments that are sending shock waves through government agencies, as well as the world of high fashion:

“Now in custody for murder and international counterfeiting and potentially a host of other charges is airline union boss James Webber.

“The identity of his co-conspirator creates another scandal in FBI history-we have learned it is Boston’s FBI Special Agent in Charge Marren Lattimer. He is also now in federal custody, and sources say each suspect is in negotiations to turn state’s evidence against the other.

“Law enforcement officials are still keeping details confidential. But I can tell you the evidence against Lattimer includes an answering machine recording of the now-disgraced special agent making a sinister and threatening phone call.

“What’s more, we have learned federal agents have descended on Logan Airport, as well as several other airports across the country. Baggage claim areas are in lockdown, and several baggage agents, members of the airline union, are being taken into custody.

“Bottom line, what some call the ‘victimless crime’ of counterfeit designer purses has turned deadly. Channel 3 news and government officials have cracked an ugly conspiracy of murder, money and make-believe couture.

“We’ll have much more on this megabucks international counterfeiting conspiracy in my exclusive report…” I pause, just a fraction of a second. And the perfect title comes to mind. “‘The Real Thing,’ next week at 11:00 p.m. on Channel 3 news. I’m Charlie McNally reporting.”

I hear the news theme in the background. I’m done.

So much for Susannah’s hypercute “It’s in the Bag” brand. She’s out of town and word is she’s on a job interview. We’ve got a big story, a new title, and one week to get it on the air. Cake. I unclick my microphone, and think about a nap.

Jessica’s voice buzzes through my earpiece.

“Great job, C. You rock,” Jessica says. “Who’s the guy in Kevin’s office, by the way? He’s hot.”

I twist in my chair, looking past the reporters’ desks, then the producers’ desks, and past the expanse of the assignment desk. I can only see a corner of Kevin’s office, but the door is open. And in the visitor’s chair is a lanky figure. All attitude. Elegance. I don’t even need to see his face.

“He’s French,” I say into my microphone.

Close up, Luca Chartiers looks more sleep-deprived than I do. He must have taken the first plane out of Atlanta, and his pale gray pinstriped suit and starched white shirt seem to be all that’s holding him up. He stands and takes my hand briefly, solemnly, seeming to tread cautiously through unfamiliar territory.

“I’m not sure the company will survive this,” he says. “But had it continued, we would certainly have perished. Zuzu and I will do our best. But I wanted to come thank you in person. Without you, we…” He shakes his head slowly and drops back into his chair.

“Survive?” This is the rest of the puzzle, that’s for sure. And I’m betting it’s centered on Strathmeyer Road. Why else could he be here?

“Was Simone Marshal really Simone Marachelle? And Reggie Webber her daughter? And why were they-?”

Kevin interrupts, holding up a video cassette. “FBI just sent us this statement,” he says. “Mr. Chartiers here has seen it. Sylvie Marachelle is in custody in Atlanta. Simone Marachelle and Regine are in lockup here in Boston.”

Kevin pauses, then slides the cassette into his playback machine and pushes the green button. “Well, it’s best if you hear it for yourself. Listen.”

I hear the tape click into place and the whir as the video begins to roll. Luca Chartiers studies the floor, his hands, the ceiling, his eyes anywhere but on the flickering television monitor.

At the sound of Simone Marshal-Marachelle’s-voice, we turn to the screen.

“You bastards have no right,” she says, her voice rising. “I have done nothing wrong. The designs are mine. Mine! My sister and I are the victims. The victims!”

It’s the woman from the cab, no doubt about that. She’s all points, narrowed eyes, hollow cheeks, hair gelled and slick to her head. She’s wearing some sort of close-fitting black sweater, and still manages to look chic, even in custody. Her tone is bitter, menacing, and she’s spitting each word at the camera, and at whoever is doing the questioning.

Keresey’s voice is next. “Simone Marachelle Marshal Webber,” she pronounces. She’s all business, sounding formal and detached. “You are under arrest for the theft of proprietary designs from the firm Delleton-Marachelle. You are additionally charged with organizing the illegal manufacture of-”

“It is not ‘theft,’” Simone tosses her head, defiant. Her voice goes shrill and insistent. “They are our designs, Sylvie’s and mine. How can we steal our own designs? Why should we allow that…that…”

She leans forward into the camera, so close her face goes suddenly out of focus. The camera adjusts, clicking her into a clear close-up.

“That company is the criminal, not I. Not my sister. Not my daughter. We were only taking what is rightfully ours. We are not-indentured servants to that, that, manufacturer of potato chips. The Marachelles-”

“Sylvie. Stop. That’s enough.” A cuff-link-sleeved hand appears from offscreen, and goes to Sylvie’s shoulder. A male voice continues from offscreen. “That’s all my client has to say, Agent Stone. We’re done here.”

The screen frizzes into buzzing black-and-white snow. Kevin pushes eject. The truth is recorded and inescapable.

Luca’s face is spiritless, flat. He’s still staring at the now-blank monitor. I remember his across-the-dinner-table cosmopolitan twinkle at La Caleche, the pride flashing in his eyes as he discussed his designs. Now he’s drained and disillusioned as a soldier in defeat. Sabotaged by his own colleagues. And his ex-wife.

“So they were just pretending to be estranged?” I ask. I think I understand the rest of the story. “Sylvie and Simone were actually conspiring to-”

“They believed their legacy had been stolen,” Luca says, interrupting my theory. “That it was their duty to take it back. And take the profits for themselves. The sisters knew where to get the bags manufactured, of course. So they invented a quarrel. Sylvie left and changed her name. It was all part of the ruse. The groundwork for the scheme. When Simone married Webber, they had a ready-made pipeline.”

Luca sighs.

“And Regine.” His voice is quiet. “She is Simone’s daughter. The father-I do not know. Quite the family affair.”

“Quite the setup,” Kevin puts in. “Access, production, and distribution.”

“And profits,” Franklin says. He’s standing in the open doorway, holding a legal-sized sheet of paper. “I just talked to Christopher Yens. Here’s the return on the search warrant, fully executed last night in Brookline. His guys found thousands of fake bags hidden in the house on Strathmeyer Road. Ready for parties. Ready for the street. Ready to rake in the big bucks.”

“The counterfeits came from insiders at the authentic purse company itself,” I say slowly. “Some of the very people who pretended to be victims. Wow. That’s major league.”

“Sylvie and Simone were getting the profits from both ends,” Luca confirms. “From all of us at D-M, and then from their own scheme.”

I look at Luca, then Kevin. Remembering why we started this in the first place. Our story. “You’ll agree to be interviewed for our story, won’t you?” I ask. “On camera? Before you leave today?”

Luca nods. “I am here until this evening.”

I plop onto Kevin’s couch, scouting his desk for a notebook or something to write on. I grab a pad of yellow stickies and take the sleek fountain pen from the marble holder, looking at the news director for permission. “Let’s make a list of what we still need. First, this only solves the origin of the Delleton-Marachelle copies. So there’s much more out there. But “The Real Thing”-can just be the D-M story.”

I bite my lower lip, thinking. There’s something else. “How did Lattimer get involved, anyway?”

“Keresey told me that,” Franklin says. “Apparently he confessed that Sylvie seduced him, back when he was assigned to the Atlanta bureau. He was sick of government paychecks and she promised him a gold mine. He’s trying to make it all her idea, of course. But that’s why Zuzu acted so hinky when we mentioned Katie Harkins. She’d never heard of her.”

The bleat of the intercom on Kevin’s desk interrupts. “Mr. O’Bannon? Mr. Char…” the tentative voice pauses. “The cab is here.”

Luca gathers his briefcase and shakes hands with Franklin, then me. “I’ll be at the Copley Plaza Hotel. One journey ends, another begins,” he says with an uncertain smile. “I must try to remember that.”

We watch Luca and Kevin cross the newsroom, heading for the front door.

“I’ll get a photographer,” Franklin says, turning toward the assignment desk. “See how fast we can get to the Copley. Maybe we can get Keresey on cam today, too.”

“Franko.” I stand, stopping him.

“What? I’ve got to-”

The rest of his question is muffled by my quick hug.

“Thank you, Franko. You did great. As Mom always says, be careful what you wish for. We wanted a biggie. And we sure got it. And I almost got it in the head.”

“The world of make-believe fashion is not a pretty place,” Franklin agrees. “The bags were phony, but the danger was certainly real.”

“Lattimer tried to tell us it was terrorists,” I say, remembering that day in Lattimer’s office. “And I guess he was right. They took the law into their own hands. They stole millions of dollars from legitimate businesses. They killed whoever was in their way. Sounds like terrorists to me.”

Of course the doorbell rings, right during the good part. Right in the midst of the eleven-o’clock news. Right at the part of our story where Franklin’s undercover video shows me vaulting through the luggage claim, then reveals a furtive Marren Lattimer snaking the black suitcase from the conveyor belt.

I snuggle in closer to Josh, my legs on top of his, our wool-socked feet entwined on the leather ottoman in front of us.

“I’m not budging from this couch,” I say, hitting the pause button on my TiVo remote. I punch another button. “And now, I’m rewinding. That’s the glory of digital recording. You can watch our perfectly perfect story again, uninterrupted, from the beginning.”

The doorbell rings again. Botox leaps from my lap and scampers off to hide in one of her secret cat hangouts.

Josh takes the remote from me with a laugh, and points to the door. “See who it is,” he says. “It might be, just a wild guess, here. Maybe the pizza we ordered from Late Night Sam’s? Or I suppose it could be the Attorney General with some sort of medal of honor. A reward for your first-night-of-the-November-book scoop. Either way, a good thing.”

“Oh, yeah, the pizza,” I say, disentangling myself, briefly, from Josh’s arms. “Of course.”

I pad to the doorway and click the speaker button on the intercom.

“Yes?” I say. Pepperoni, mushrooms and extra mozzarella. Just what I need.

“Velocity Delivery Service,” a voice says. “You lost a suitcase? The airlines found it. We have it here for you. We just need a signature.”