“Charlotte-” Franklin briefly puts his hand on my arm as we step onto the sidewalk. “We need to talk this over. What are you going to do at this purse party, wear a paper bag over your head?”
My brain is so absorbed by my collapsing universe I’m barely keeping up with what Franklin is saying. I used more than my quota of under-eye concealer this morning. And I’m grateful that September has provided just enough sunshine so I can logically wear sunglasses. They’ll at least prevent Franklin from focusing on my certainly still puffy-from-crying face. FBI Special Agent Marren Lattimer has never met me, so he’ll just have to live with it.
“Wear what? A paper bag over my head?” I’m confused. Then I get his point. “Oh, come on, Franko, no way the women at the purse party are going to recognize me, way out in western Massachusetts.”
We revolve through the front door of the anonymous-looking gray stone building and show our station ID cards to the front desk guard. Self-important in his blue blazer and packing a two-way radio, he shows us how conscientious he is, holding up each card briefly and matching our faces. He doesn’t ask me to take off my Jackie O sunglasses, though. So I could be anyone.
“Channel 3’s signal doesn’t carry out to Great Barrington,” I continue. “They get TV from Albany, New York, someplace like that. Not Boston.”
Franklin and I sign the loose-leaf notebook, as instructed, struggling with a pen attached by a tangled and too-short strip of plastic. “I’ll leave off all my makeup, pull my hair back, wear my glasses, some dumpy outfit. They won’t suspect a thing.”
I lower my voice, so the guard won’t overhear. “They especially won’t suspect that I’ll be carrying a hidden camera.”
Ignoring us, the guard is now comparing our sign-in signatures with the ones on our ID cards. My signature is illegible, so he’s just matching scrawls.
“I still think, Charlotte, that you may be taking an unnecessary chance.” Franklin says, shaking his head. “If you get recognized, you’ve blown our story. Maybe we should think of another way.”
Somehow Franklin’s tone clicks the “upset” button in my brain and tears well in my eyes again. Why is everyone suddenly criticizing everything I do?
“I hardly think I’d put our story in jeopardy,” I say, hearing an unusual haughtiness creep into my own voice. “I have thought this through, you know. It’s not like I’m some kind of novice.”
The guard shoulders his way between us to slip a glossy white key card into a slot outside one chrome elevator. With a ping the door instantly slides open. Motioning us in, the guard taps a five-digit code on a number pad, then pushes the button marked sixteen. He holds the door in place, looking stern. “Someone will meet you on sixteen,” he instructs. “Wait there until they arrive. Don’t leave the sixteenth-floor lobby until they escort you.”
He looks up at a corner of elevator, gestures with his head. “Surveillance cameras. They’re watching you.”
As the doors slide shut, I push my sunglasses onto the top of my head, which knocks the reading glasses I’ve perched there onto the elevator’s carpeted floor. This is the last straw.
“Dammit,” I hiss. I snatch up the glasses and stuff them, without putting them in a case, into my bag. I hear Franklin make some sort of sound of disapproval.
“What?” I look at him, challenging. They’re my glasses. I can put them in my purse however I want. If everyone wants to fight, I’ll fight.
Franklin’s face evolves from surprise to concern. “Charlotte, are you okay?” he whispers. He reaches out and touches my shoulder. “The sunglasses? And you look, uh, tired. And as for the paper bag thing-we always discuss story strategy. I’m just brainstorming. You know? What’s up with you today?”
Leaning against the brass railing of the elevator, I try to figure out how to answer him. The car slowly carries us past floor 5 to 6, and then to 7. I press my lips together, realizing how close to tears I am. And Franklin’s gesture, his offer of comfort, pushes me even closer. Glancing at the elevator buttons, I measure our progress to the top. Eight floors to pull myself together.
“Yeah, Franko, I’m sorry,” I say softly. “Josh and I had a fight. A downright real fight. And he left, went home. At about one in the morning.”
Seven, six floors to go.
“You’ll see each other tonight, as usual, right?” Franklin interrupts, gently. “And you can talk it out.”
Five, four.
I sigh, briefly considering whether he might be right. I feel a flutter of hope attempt to break through to the surface. Franklin and Stephen have what they call “tiffs,” I know. They even joke about it later. But I fear this is different. The wisp of hope evaporates, destroyed by reality.
“I don’t think so,” I say. And with that, I recognize what I’m feeling. My heart is breaking.
Two, one.
And the door opens on the sixteenth floor. I struggle to manage a fragile smile, attempting to reassure Franklin that I’m tough. I’m a reporter. Don’t have to worry about me. And then I remember I haven’t even mentioned last night’s anonymous phone call. Too late now.
I hitch my tote bag higher on my shoulder, but it catches on the shoulder flap of my new camel suede jacket and falls back into the crook of my elbow, yanking the sleeve out of shape. Now even my own purse is fighting me. I glare at it, then take a deep breath. Edward R. Murrow would not be defeated by a few emotional bumps in the road.
“Let’s catch some bad guys, Franko,” I say. “It’s Emmy time.”
“Profits? Two billion dollars a year. Maybe three.” FBI Special Agent in Charge Marren Lattimer is spewing stats, staccato, almost faster than Franklin and I can write them in our spiral notepads. I’ve got three pages covered already and we’ve only been here two minutes. “Terrorists make more money selling counterfeit than selling dope.”
Lattimer’s as hard-nosed and craggy as a recruiting poster for the Marines. White shirt. Boring tie. His navy blazer falls open to reveal just a corner of under-the-shoulder holster.
“Recognize this?” he asks, pointing to a framed photo on the wall. “They haven’t got all my stuff on the wall yet, just moved into the place of course. But I said, make sure this one goes up asap. Top priority. Keeps my eye on the target. So. Do you know where this is?”
I look up from my notebook, examining the black-and-white poster-sized photograph hanging beside an array of eight-by-tens. Lattimer piloting a helicopter. A younger Lattimer, before the gray hair, with a former president. An even younger Lattimer, tallest in a group of crew-cutted young men and determined women, all holding diplomas. Lattimer posing in a leather bomber jacket, tough guy, with a huge machine gun. A stack of framed pieces, probably more Lattimer nostalgia, leans against the wall.
“It’s, um…” The shot isn’t wide enough for instant context. Only the first floor is showing. I see smoke billowing from the front of a stone-and-glass building. Cops. TV cameras. I know it perfectly. But I hate pop quizzes.
“World Trade Center, 1993,” Franklin answers.
“Correct,” Lattimer says. “And how do you think those assholes-excuse me, Ms. McNally-how do you think that operation was financed? With the ill-gotten gains from counterfeit goods. Those women who think they’re picking up a bargain deal on a knockoff Prada?” He taps on the poster again. “Think they realize they may have paid for this?”
“Brass brought me up here to clean up this mess.” Lattimer leans toward us, palms down, over his expanse of government-issue, beige metal desk. “Organized crime. In on it, too. Guys with names like Billy the Animal. Kurt the Russian. That’s who’s selling this stuff. And that’s what Susie Suburban doesn’t know. She thinks having one purse party for the gals in her neighborhood won’t hurt anyone.”