Air Time (22 page)

“Bullshit, Lattimer,” Keresey sneers back at him.
“You turned off the radio and unloaded the gun before you gave them to me. Why do you think he wanted you to do the pickup, Charlie? He wanted you dead. And that’s exactly what was going to happen. If you give him that gun now, we’re both done. He’ll kill us. Leave us here. Like the people he’s already had killed. We’d be victims in another failed raid.”

She holds out her hand, imploring. “The gun, Charlie. Let me use it. And this whole charade will be over.”

How do I tell who’s the real thing? How do I recognize the fake? The gun in my hand is the balance of power.

If I’m wrong, I’m probably dead.

Keresey edges closer to me. Almost pushing me away from Lattimer. “How did you know we were here, Lattimer? In this hangar? Did you get a call from your pal Katie Harkins?” Her voice is sarcastic, sinister, mocking. “Charlie, ever ask yourself why no one has ever seen that woman? No one but Lattimer here. That’s because she doesn’t exist. Lattimer made her up.”

“Listen, hotshot,” Lattimer says. “If you and your hotshot buddies—”

With a flash of memory and a stomach-lurching realization, my brain shifts into overdrive. How would he know the radio was off? The gun was unloaded? And in an instant, I realize that anonymous phone call, threatening me, was from Lattimer. That voice called me “hotshot,” talked about my “hotshot buddy.” The clicks were his infantile Rubik’s Cube.

My turn to fake.

Smiling, I look down at the weapon as if my decision has been made. “I guess I understand what you’re saying now, Lattimer.”

His shoulders relax. He glances at the plane.

I hand the gun to Keresey.

And I dive for the floor. With a blaze of light and a blast that ricochets through the shadowy recesses of the hangar, Keresey fires once, twice, and Lattimer slams to the ground. His gun is still in his hand. He’s silent. Motionless. He’s dead. Or he’s pretending.

Lifting my head, I watch Keresey walk toward him. She’s taking one cautious step at a time. Her arms are still outstretched, the gun braced in front of her. Pointed at her boss.

Suddenly, the whine of the plane’s engine starts again. Nolan grabs the door handle and swings himself into the cockpit. The noise of the prop muffles whatever he’s screaming at the pilot and the wheels of the Cessna slowly begin to move.

“Keresey!” I yell, scrambling to my feet. “They’re going!

“I hear it! Get that radio!” Keresey commands. Her voice is strident. She’s still heading, cautiously, toward Lattimer. He hasn’t moved. But I know that means nothing. He could be faking.

The clatter of the prop revs louder and louder, the whine of the engine speeds to a roar. Keresey’s voice rises, powering over the increasingly ear-splitting clamor. “Call in a mayday! Red button! Whatever freq’s open! We can’t let them get off the ground. Tell them it’s a code double alpha. Double Alpha. Got that?”

The plane’s wheels continue rolling, slowly, deliberately, across the hangar floor, the nose of the plane headed into the vast darkness of the tarmac. The noise is now deafening, the metal walls reverberating. I can see the two blue uniforms in the cockpit, headphones on, adjusting control switches above the windshield.

“Got that!” I flip a silver toggle to ON, and the slim black radio crackles to life with a burst of static and a high-pitched beep, green lights flashing. “Mayday. Mayday!” I push the red button, trying to keep my voice calm. Hoping they can hear me over the engine noise. Hoping I’m actually getting through to someone. “This is a code Double Alpha. General Aviation Hangar!”

There’s a crackle as I release the button, and then more static. The plane is halfway to the door.

“Roger that.” A voice comes back. Calm. “We copy your Mayday. Please specify which Gen Av hangar. Over.”

Dammit. Dammit. I have no idea which hangar. And the plane is still moving. It’s almost too loud to think. All I know is…“Behind Baggage Claim A!” I yell into the radio. “A white Cessna. Headed for takeoff! Code Double Alpha!” Which I hope means—stop the darn plane, there are bad guys on it.

“Lattimer’s clear,” Keresey yells. He’s still on the ground, facedown on the cement, arms behind his back. Keresey’s clicking him into handcuffs—his own? She’s tucked his weapon into the back of her Levi’s.

“Over here,” I call back to her. “Help me with this!”

I race behind one of the wheeled baggage carts, trying to whirl it around. It’s enormous, and cumbersome, thick-gauged chains along each side clanking in protest as I maneuver it across the floor and aim it at the Cessna. One hand on each side of the cart, shoulder high, I try to push the ungainly metal carrier—like a grocery cart on growth hormones—pressing forward, straining, one step at a time. I’m too slow. The cart is too big. I can’t possibly get there in time.

“Keresey!” I call again. “Hurry! This needs both of us!”

Keresey falls in beside me, still holding her gun. She takes the left side, and I take the right. “Now!” I yell. This is our last chance. Whoever I just radioed to help us may not be able to find us in time. The plane will take off. The guys will get away. With the evidence.

“Push it, push it, push it,” I scream. “Into the propeller! This will work! Do it!”

We move forward together, shoulders bent and legs extended, trying to aim our ungainly weapon where it’ll do the most good. Suddenly, we feel the wheels align. The cart picks up speed, seeming to acquire a momentum and will of its own.

“Don’t get too close to the prop!” Keresey screams as we power the cart, faster, toward the moving Cessna. “We have to let it go!”

“On my count!” I yell. Slamming every muscle in my body against the cart, I know this is our final play. I hate airplanes. “Three two one—go!”

Both of us are yelling, something, anything, as together we heave the cart directly into the path of the propeller, both of us stumbling backward as we let go. Keresey trips, and I grab her, catching her, and then, in an instant, we see it’s going to work. Perfectly. The cart is headed straight for its spinning target. We’re both breathing hard, panting, gasping. And then we realize what’s going to happen next.

“Take cover!” Keresey yells. “Now, now, now!” She grabs my arm, dragging me along with her. We run, together, and dive behind another massive baggage cart. My elbow clangs on one of the metal rails and I feel one knee of my jeans rip on the rough cement floor. “Cover your head!” she commands. “Stay low! If it’s a direct hit—”

Whatever she says next is lost in a shriek of splintering metal, a scream of mechanical rage. I lift my head, just enough to peer over the thick wood-and-metal baggage cart we’re using as a shield. The spinning propeller chokes and staggers, twisted into an angry tangle by the lumbering metal missile we launched. The crippled Cessna lurches forward, one wing tipping, scraping along the floor with an ear-shattering metallic screech, red-orange and white-hot sparks spitting ceiling high. The baggage cart is thrown into the air, its chains caught on the prop blades, then it crashes to the ground, wood splitting, chains popping, shards of rubble and wreckage jettisoned across the hangar.

And then in seconds, although it doesn’t seem possible, it’s even noisier. The screaming wail of sirens, one, then another, then another, signals—finally—Keresey and I are no longer in this alone.

I would have thought nothing could ever surprise me again. But sitting in the squad room of the State Police airport headquarters, an institutionally neutral-on-neutral array of battered office furniture and paper-piled metal desks tucked into the rear of Logan Airport terminal C, I can’t take my eyes off FBI Special Agent Keresey Stone. And I’m surprised.

It’s not only because she slammed her own boss into his handcuffs and supervised the grim-faced posse of feds who took him away. It’s not only because, as she’s just explained to an equally grim-faced U.S. Attorney, she got a buddy in the Bureau’s “facial rec” section to do an Internet photo scan and found the photos of the purported Katie Harkins on a Web site of some small-
town photographer. That’s when she realized Lattimer had created an imaginary informant—a fictional nonperson he was using to sidetrack law enforcement focus and set FBI raids up for certain defeat.

It’s also because I can’t see her face, which is buried in Detective Christopher Yens’s uniformed chest. And her still-hoodied body is being cradled in his arms. And it does not look like interagency cooperation. It looks like love. Well, lust.

“Sweetheart, you’re sure you’re okay?” Yens asks. He smooths Keresey’s hair, more tenderly than I could have predicted, lifting one strand away from her forehead, then carefully putting it into place.

Whatever Yens was saying is lost in a kiss so passionate I only allow myself to watch the beginning. The big finish, which doesn’t appear to be imminent, I’ll let them handle on their own. And I’ll grill Miss Keresey about this later. Married to Uncle Sam indeed.

Since the police operator has finally connected my phone call, I turn away from this law-enforcement love affair and focus on Franklin. Who apparently hit the video jackpot.

“So, Franko, you got it? All of it?” I ask, rolling a rickety chair up to a paper-littered desk. “You’re the best. What’s the video look like? How’d you know to—”

“Hello, to you, too, Charlotte,” Franklin says. “You’re on speaker phone here. I’m in the newsroom. With Kevin. With Susannah. Toni DuShane just left. And she says, legally, we’re fine.”

“Good to go,” Kevin’s voice interrupts. “Public place. Hidden camera, video only. And wait until you see the—”

“I totally got it all,” Franklin puts in. “First you, I mean Keresey, going for the suitcase. Then the two union goons dragging her through the door. That took about one second. Clearly they’d held the suitcase back, kept it for last, had this all arranged. And then Keresey, I mean you, making that Batgirl move through the conveyor belt entrance. Of course I thought it was Keresey going after you. So I figured you were fine. And she’d call for help.”

“But where were you?” I ask. “I looked for you.”

“Pink shirt, tan cap. Positioned just close enough to the Dunkin’ Donuts kiosk to look like an employee. It was closed, of course, but a guy who looks like a minimum wager standing next to a coffee shop? Invisible.”

Keresey and Yens have untangled themselves from each other, although they’re still holding hands, and are listening to me. She points to an orange button on the phone.

“Good one,” I say to Franklin, giving Keresey a thumbs-up. I hit the button and the squad room is filled with the buzz of the newsroom. “But how about Lattimer?”

“Well, that’s when I knew things were not, shall we say, what they seemed?” Franklin replies through the speaker. “He ran to the luggage claim, grabbed the suitcase, then bolted. But not in your direction. I followed him of course, out the door. He threw the bag onto a curbside check-in rack, then took off. And I lost him. And that’s when I called the cops.”

“And I guess we found him,” Keresey says, leaning toward the phone. “He knew exactly what was supposed to go down.”

“And we found the bag,” Yens puts in. “Full of phony Delleton-Marachelles. Now sealed tight in the evidence room. And a whole battalion of state cops are on their way to 325 Strathmeyer Road.”

“Yoo hoo,” Susannah’s voice trills through the speaker. “Let’s schedule an airtime for this, shall we? I’m off to California for a meeting. But ‘It’s In The Bag’—seems to be in the bag.”

“H

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.