Air Time

Chapter Three

“Welcome back to bad news, Charlotte. So you got my beep? The Prada P.I. postponed our meeting. So now we have to wait to hear from her.” Franklin’s at his desk, holding two brown-and-tan logo-covered purses, one in each hand. He holds them out to me. “So meantime, here’s a quiz for you. Which one is the real thing and which is the copy?”

At first glance, it looks like both purses are Delleton-Marachelle hobo totes. If they’re real, they’re worth at least four thousand dollars each. I’m embarrassed to admit to myself that I’d love to have one. I’m working on dampening my lust to own a designer bag displaying those intertwined D-M initials. It’s actually Mom’s fault. She educated my little sister, Nora, and me using Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar like textbooks for a course in acquisition. What to Want: 101. I know it’s unworthy. But I’m guilty. I want it.

“You know how I feel about pop quizzes,” I say, throwing my tote bag onto the extra chair in our office. I glare at my desk. “And you know how I feel about mail piled on my desk.” I gather up the pile of letters, press releases and junk our current intern has unceremoniously delivered and deposit it on the floor. Swiveling into my chair, I put down my coffee and hold out my hand. “Let’s see those bags again. What’s the scoop? Is one a fake? Who do they belong to? Did you get them from the Prada P.I.? Today? I can’t believe she canceled the meeting.”

“Me, either. And no note about why she cancelled. Annoying. Someone in her office left a message on my voice mail, just saying ‘Katie Harkins will have to reschedule.’ I e-mailed her to set us up again, but I haven’t heard back. I also talked to the special agent in charge of the FBI’s counterfeit squad. Marren Lattimer? You know of him, right? He’s new?”

I nod. My FBI pals told me he’d just been transferred to the Boston office from down south someplace. The new special agent in charge. “SAC” they call it. Like “sack.” “So the new SAC’s interested? He’ll help us?” I ask.

“Yup. I explained what we’re looking for,” Franklin continues. “Lattimer says the bureau has started a whole operation targeting fakes-they’ve even named it. Operation Knockoff. Says he ‘blew the lid off’ a phony purse ring in Atlanta, so the ‘brass’ sent him here. We’ve got an appointment at headquarters tomorrow.”

Franklin picks up the bags again, offering them to me. “Anyway. Speaking of knockoffs. Which is real? Can you tell? And if so, how? Oh.”

He stops, looking toward our office doorway, and puts the bags back down. “Hello, Susannah.”

I can’t believe I didn’t smell the warning fragrance. A waft of her trademark Poison usually heralds the arrival of Susannah Smith-Bagley, the “news doctor” consultant Channel 3 management hired to “young up” the news. She actually says “young up.” I think she’s more about “the buzz” than “the news,” all platinum hair and collagened face, a package of pretense straight from the coast. Even her shoes. The platforms of her patent leather pumps rival that girl in the airport. Regine. The belt artfully twisted over Susannah’s bouclé jacket alternates chunky pearls and gold links. She might as well be wearing a T-shirt that says “I heart Chanel.” No one I know of hearts Susannah.

“Thanks for the teamwork in Baltimore, Charlie. Too bad there wasn’t a plane crash,” she says, eyeing me. A pause. A curl of her plump lip. “You haven’t been home yet, I see.”

Franklin risks giving me a surreptitious eye-roll as Susannah attempts to raise one waxed brow at my tote that’s occupying our extra chair. I grab the bag and stash it under my desk, balancing it atop my collection of backup shoes.

She descends into the throne, one silky leg swishing over the other. Queen bee and the drones.

“Anyway, you two. Just checking on your ‘It’s in the Bag’ story for November,” she says. “Do you love it?” She looks at us, back and forth, as if she’s expecting we’ll applaud yet another cliché of a title ripped from the news-consultant handbook. We don’t.

I smile noncommittally. Change direction. “Well, we were just looking at some purses, matter of fact. From the Prada P.I.? She’s the private investigator who scouts for the fakes. Franklin found her mentioned in some newspaper article and tracked her down. She’s been giving us the scoop via e-mail on the secret signs manufacturers use to designate the genuine article. And she’s arranging for us to visit the actual Delleton-Marachelle design studio in Georgia.”

“Well, in fact, I found her through a reporter pal who had used her as a source in Atlanta. Gave me her e-mail. And she didn’t-” Franklin begins.

I’m realizing it might actually be a good thing old Susannah showed up. This creates the perfect opportunity for us to make her think we’re really working on the story she thinks we are. I can’t let Franklin interrupt my flow. “See the two Delleton-Marachelles Franklin has? One of them is-”

“Stand by,” Susannah interrupts. She flips open a leather-bound portfolio and pulls a calendar out of a pocket, checking the dates with a chunky black ballpoint. She holds up the calendar, her pen pointing to one square. “We’re thinking-first week of November? Thursday? We’ll have a solid lead-in from that new ‘top model’ reality show. Models at ten, then you’re all about fashion at eleven. Perfectamundo. So, Frank? Charlie? Do you love it? I mean, do you love it?”

My turn for a furtive eye-roll. No one calls him Frank. And I don’t love it. Not one bit.

“No problem,” I say. “Can do.” I’m performing my dependable reliable worker-bee act. Then I take the two bags from Franklin’s desk and offer them, one in each hand, to Susannah. Big smile.

“Up for a pop quiz?” I ask. “Think you can pick out the authentic D-M? Franklin just asked me if I can-but maybe you should try.”

“Let’s see if Charlotte can do it,” Franklin says, interrupting. He pushes the two purses back toward me, smiling like a ten-year-old trying to taunt his big sister. “Just for fun.”

“Sure,” I say. I look at Susannah, and try for some wiggle room. “I just got back from Baltimore, though, remember? Franklin’s had more time.”

“Chicken,” Franklin says.

“You’re on.” I wish I could stick my tongue out at him, but I know that’s unprofessional. And it would let him know he’s won.

Okay. How do I tell the real thing? At first, the bags look identical. I choose one, and turn it over, examining, remembering the research Franklin and I have already done. I check the stitching, the leather piping around the edges, the metal d-rings that hold the camel leather handle. The brown-and-tan logo pattern matches at the side seams. That’s a point for authentic. The zipper sticks. Possible fake. The lining is flat and the stitches are even. I open an inner pocket. There’s a tiny brown leather rectangle, stamped in gold with the D-M logo. Good. A tiny label says: made in China. Hmm.

The second bag. This one’s handle is wrapped in protective plastic. When I zip it open, the zipper sticks. There’s no “made in China” label. I zip open an inner pocket. Inside is an identical tiny dark brown leather rectangle, letters on it stamped in gold: Delleton-Marachelle. Below the name, it says: Made in Paris.

“Aha!” I say, pointing a finger to the ceiling in triumph. I attempt a French accent. “I have deescovaired ze secrette. Eeet ess-” I can see Susannah is not amused. To her, humor is as alien a concept as compassion. I hold out the bag marked “made in China” and talk like myself again. “This one.”

Susannah deflates, her shoulders drooping and her lined lips pursed in disapproval. “Made in China? That’s how you tell it’s fake?” Her voice gets more brittle with each word. She taps her folder with that pen. Considering. “I’m thinking we may have to re-slot this story. Maybe hold it for after the sweeps. I mean,” she pauses, closing her eyes as if we’re just too, too ridiculous. “China?”

“No, wait, Susannah,” I say. “You’ve got it wrong.” Almost always, I don’t add.

Franklin’s turn to pantomime applause. “You’re good, McNally,” he says with a double thumbs-up. “How’d you know?”

“Well, it’s the label of origin,” I explain. “Isn’t that it? This one says Paris. And we know-”

“Right,” Franklin interrupts. “Most people think D-M bags are made in France. But we know-”

I turn to Susannah, picking up Franklin’s train of thought. “Their main office is in Paris. Their fabric is made in France. Their hardware is stamped in France. Their brand-new design headquarters are in Atlanta. But these babies are actually put together…”

I pause just long enough for Franklin to know it’s a cue.

“In China.” We say it together.

“Sensational.” Susannah says. She flips her notebook closed with a snap. “Four weeks until airtime. ‘It’s In The Bag.’ Do you love it? I mean, do you love it?”

“Black. With wheels. From Baltimore. It had a name tag.” I should not have come to the airport. I should not be leaning on Logan Airport’s lost luggage counter, at what should be dinnertime, discussing my missing possessions with an overpierced and overworked clerk. The name tag on his wilting blue polyester shirt says Todd. And I predict Todd is just pretending to talk on the phone and check his computer records until I agree to go away. And I do want to go away. But I also want my stuff. And I can’t believe it’s not here somewhere.

“Excuse me?” I say, entreating. I point to the expanse of unclaimed luggage covering the floor. “Could I just look through the misdirected bags you’re holding?”

Todd is talking through a headphone, and covers the tiny mouthpiece with one hand. “I can’t hear you,” he says, obsessively clicking a ballpoint open and closed. And goes back to his “conversation.”

I scan the wretched moonscape of black wheelie bags, stranded and orphaned, a forlorn dumping ground surrounded by a sagging strip of webbing that’s stretched between two stanchions. I shrug at Todd, then head into the forest of black canvas and plastic, picking my way through hundreds of astonishingly identical suitcases. Some with colorful bows, some with leather name tags. Some bigger, some smaller. So far, everyone’s bag but mine.

“Passengers arriving on Flight…” A barely decipherable announcement crackles over the public address system. I squint my ears to understand. But all I get is “…now at Claim Station C.”

Suddenly, a wave of travelers troops wearily past me toward the area ceiling signs designate Claim Station C. Carry-on bags slung over their shoulders, cell phones in their hands, kids in tow. They stand in clumps, staring dully at the still-empty black conveyor belt each one is hoping will hold their belongings. A few more passengers straggle in, also focused on the conveyor belt. With a flashing of red warning lights, the blare of the “luggage arriving” klaxon echoes through the baggage claim area. The segmented belt lurches mechanically into motion. The black plastic strips over the opening flap and flutter as the parade of suitcases begins.

I’m hypnotized, staring in amazement as the once-placid passengers power into fast forward, swarming the conveyor, grabbing bags, yanking them, tossing them onto carts and wheeling them away. Kids ignored, the travelers elbow and shoulder their way closer to the belt, manners and turn-taking forgotten. They’re all talking at once, jockeying for position, and it’s every man for himself. No person and no bag is safe.

And suddenly, it’s clear what’s happened to my suitcase. It’s not lost. It’s stolen.

Sidestepping and tiptoeing my way back through the maze of luggage leftovers, I stomp back to Todd, my realization swelling my tired brain into anger. Todd’s still staring only at his computer screen, playing with his ridiculous pen. I slap both palms on his desk and lean toward him, almost hissing.

“You guys don’t even compare claim checks,” I say. I know it’s not Todd’s fault, exactly, but he’s the only one here. And I’m tired and cranky and need a shower and the stupid airline has lost my suitcase. Again. And I’m sick of being nice about it. “It’s outrageous. And it’s probably why you guys have such a disastrous record of lost luggage. It’s not the curbside check-in agents getting the tags wrong. It’s not the weather. It’s just open season around here. People could just come in and-I mean…”

I wave a disdainful hand at the bag-hungry crowd, shaking my head. I knew I shouldn’t have come here. I’m making myself even crankier, heading toward full-out rant. “Look at them all! Anyone could just walk in and take a bag. Who would know? And they just hope they grab one with good stuff in it, and head for the door.”

I pause for breath. Wondering who took home my bag with the only jeans that have ever fit me. Wondering who’s wearing my had-to-have-them boots. I hate flying.

Todd furrows his forehead and flips the phone mouthpiece up over his spiky hair. “Aren’t you Charlie McNally?” he asks. “On TV?”

Fine. Now he’ll probably call the Boston Herald’s gossip columnist to say that I’m a complete bitch and describe how I lost it at Baggage Claim C.

“So how come your luggage is under someone else’s name?” he continues, narrowing his already squinty eyes. “You’re not supposed to do that.”

“Who cares?” I say, hands in the air, newspaper threat forgotten. “Anyone could have picked it up and they probably did. It’ll never get returned.”

I turn my back on Todd, and lean against his desk, my arms crossed, frowning at the universe. Then, slowly, one click at a time, my brain shifts gears. What if there’s a bigger story than phony purses?