Franklin and I exchange uneasy glances. I’m sure we’ve just thought of the same two things. And we should have thought of them earlier. One of them I’ll bring up now.
“Is, uh, buying the purses illegal?” I ask.
“Time to call your congressman,” Lattimer replies. Scornful. “Why? Because it’s perfectly legal to buy the things. And to own them, just for personal use. Until they change the law, that’s what we we’re dealing with. What we’d like to do? Swoop down on one of those unsuspecting housewives and cart her and her purse-happy friends off to the slammer.” A brief look of conquest crosses his face. “That’d send a message.”
“But you can’t now? I mean, you’d think you could arrest at least the hostess,” Franklin puts in. “Selling the stuff is illegal, right?”
I grimace, picturing that. And the complications that would ensue. “I guess the headlines might be pretty unpleasant, though: ‘Fashion Police Feds Collar Neighborhood Moms.’”
“I get my orders from the top,” Lattimer says. “Brass says, we’re going after the big guns. The source. Cut off supply, you kill the demand.”
Now he’s talking. This is the kind of nitty gritty information we came here to get.
“So you see our situation,” he continues. “We can’t go to China, close down the big fish there. No jurisdiction. Our U. S. Customs teams intercept what they can at the border. But once these bags get into the States, that’s what we’re targeting. The distribution chain.”
“So, just for background for our story, may I ask how you’re tracing the products?” I turn to a new page in my notebook, hoping for some inside scoop. “You see these bags all over Canal Street in New York, Downtown Crossing here in Boston, people selling them right out in the open. Where do they get them? Are there warehouses someplace, full of purses? Have you raided them? How do they get to the little fish? When? Where? Who?”
“Are there records of the raids?” Franklin adds. “If we could analyze, say, your database of searches and seizures…”
“Classified.” Lattimer says, making a no way gesture with both hands. “No can do.”
He lifts the World Trade Center photo from the wall, revealing what looks like a wall safe underneath, a number pad imbedded on the wall beside it. He plants himself in front of the pad, ostentatiously blocking our view as if there’s some possibility we’re going to come back into his office later and open the safe. I can tell he’s entering in a code. He moves aside as the metal door clicks open, then reaches in and pulls out a purse. Then another and another and another. He piles them on his desk, a mound of designer logos, camel-and-red plaid fabric, elaborate initials adorned with painted pastel flowers. Susannah would drool over the sleek black quilted-leather pouches and their silver-embroidered interlinked C’s.
“All these?” says Lattimer, waving a hand over the contraband. “All fakes. And all purchased at suburban purse parties. All in Massachusetts. Our undercover teams are-Well, stand by.” He pushes a buzzer on his desk phone.
“Yes, sir,” a voice instantly answers.
“Send in Agent Stone, please,” Lattimer says.
“When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.” Agent Keresey Stone sweeps into the SAC’s office, managing to look about as masculine as a centerfold in her FBI regulation man-centric dark blue trousers, white oxford button-down and navy blazer. Her leonine hair threatens, as always, to escape its taut chignon, and she wears her gold badge, encased in plastic and hanging from a government-issue aluminum chain, with the flair of a Tiffany necklace. She’s pushing the limits with her sturdy shoes. They’re not standard issue, but no one else in the Bureau will recognize Ferragamo.
“This is-” Lattimer begins. But Franklin and I are already on our feet.
“Hey, Keresey,” I say. Even in this professional environment, I feel comfortable giving her a quick hug. “I didn’t know you were on the-”
“Hey, Keresey,” Franklin says, at the same time. He holds out a hand, but I’ve gotten to our old friend first.
“I see you’re already acquainted,” Lattimer puts in. He frowns. “Agent Stone. I’m certain you haven’t discussed Operation Knockoff with the media without going through the proper channels.”
“No, sir, Chief. Charlie and I know each other from way back. When I was still in Firearms. I taught her how to shoot a Smith & Wesson-” she pats her hip holster as she continues her explanation “-for a story on illegal weapons and women’s self-defense. Took her to the range at Fort Devens, in fact.”
She points to me. “You been practicing? You were quite a prodigy.”
Lattimer clears his throat, cutting off our nostalgia and reminding us he’s the man in charge. He leans back in his cordovan vinyl leather swivel chair, and waves us to our seats. Keresey stands, looking more cover girl than cop, next to Lattimer’s desk. “I brought Agent Stone in because she’s the primary on our local undercover operations.”
So Keresey’s now with the counterfeit squad. That’s promising. Maybe we can convince them to let me go undercover with her. Double team.
“You know, I’m wondering…” I stop myself, mid-sentence. If we tell them we’re going undercover, what if they order us not to? I’m pretty sure they can’t do that, but it’s a legal tangle I’d rather avoid.
“Never mind, sorry. Go ahead.” I smile apologetically at Lattimer. “Lost my train of thought.” Maybe Keresey will tell me more, off the record.
“We have one squad targeting supply side,” Lattimer continues. “Agent Stone and her crew target demand. We’re laying groundwork now, seeing if we can follow the trail backward. See where these ladies are copping their product. Trace it back to the source.”
“It’s like dealing drugs,” Keresey adds. “We know the big fish are hiding somewhere. They distribute to the street dealers regionally, and they in turn, distribute to Internet dealers, and of course, the house parties.”
“Exactly like drugs, actually,” I say. I pick up a Chanel knockoff, examining it. “Except those women are addicted to fashion. Addicted to labels.”
“And these ass-sorry, these guys, provide a cheap fix,” Lattimer agrees. “All the bag at half the price. That’s what they say. And it’s a gold mine. All cash.”
“I’m still interested in your raids,” Franklin says. “Where they were. What the results were. What you seized.”
“Let me just say,” I add, “if we make a public records request, even for redacted material, I think legally you’d have to give it to us.”
“Negative. Exemption 7. Investigative sources and methods. Investigation’s still underway.” Lattimer’s shaking his head, signaling subject closed.
I don’t think so.
“How about if you just blacked out the specific places?” I persist, going for the “see, we’re going to make you look successful so you should help us” gambit. “Just to show the public you’re making some progress? Getting the goods?”
Lattimer’s confident posture suddenly seems to sag. He leans forward, arms crossed on his desk. He’s wearing a mammoth Rolex and a chunky ring with a square blue sapphire. “Kere-Agent Stone?” he says. His voice seems to sag, too. “As we discussed, this will be off the record.”
“Off the-?” I say.
“Off the-?” Franklin repeats the dreaded words at the same time. We both know if we agree to “off the record” it means what’s coming is something we’d love to know and that probably no one else knows. A news tidbit made frustratingly unusable because we’re not allowed to put it in our story. We’re dying to hear it because it’s undoubtedly major-league info. Not being able to use it, however, is a major-league pain. Sometimes, there’s a compromise.