“Poor thing,” she says, nodding. “And you like purses, huh? Like I do.”
I look up and down the hall again, then put on a conspiratorial face. Now that we’re sisters in man-hating, perhaps she’ll think we can also be sisters in crime. “Can I-talk to you briefly? Go for coffee, maybe? Somewhere? I’m thinking maybe you could help me get started on my own.”
“Yes, she’s meeting me here at the mall,” I explain to Franklin. I’m holding my cell with one hand, and with the other, I’m trying to jam sugar packets under the annoyingly uneven table at the food court in the Lee Discount Mall. My disgusting faux-latte from Coffee King has already almost tipped over several times. They can copy a complicated purse for cheap. Why is perfectly simple coffee so tough?
“I told her I was interested in getting into the purse biz, and she seemed open to discussing it. So, we’ll see.” I sit back up and rescue my latte once again. Watching both ways down the halls of the bustling mall, I scout for Sally. She’s almost late.
“I’ll see if I can get some kind of a lead from her, you know? Find out her source. Listen, anything new on Katie Harkins? Have you heard from Detective Yens?”
“Nothing,” Franklin replies. “Are you on your cell? You’re breaking up. Just tell me, before I completely lose you. Did you get the shots? Purses?”
“Yup. Can you hear me now? I got a great D-M copy, just like the ones we have, and the fakest Burberry you’ve ever seen. The place was a madhouse. Money out the wazoo.”
“Did you get the money shots?”
“Are you kidding me? You’re talking to the undercover queen.” Then, down by the entrance to Macy’s, I spot an unmistakable copper mop of curls. “She’s here,” I whisper to Franklin. “Bingo.”
By the time Sally arrives at my table, my cell is tucked into my bag. My bag is sitting on a chair. The lens is carefully pointed right where I hoped Sally would sit.
She yanks her chair to the right, right out of range. I scoot around, pretending to give her more room, moving my purse at the same time. She’s already in full sales pitch, a nonstop, slang-heavy staccato. I can’t record her audio of course, but this video could cover the part of our script that’ll say “One woman who admitted she’s made thousands of dollars selling counterfeit bags told us…”
“Legal? We don’t even go there,” Sally is saying. “We’re talking purses, ya know? It’s not like we’re selling, I don’t know, guns or something. This is harmless, right? What’s a purse or two going to hurt?”
“Sure,” I reply, playing along, remembering what Lattimer said. “That’s what I thought, too. And you know how it is, money and all. Anyway, I’m so glad you could meet me. Because, you know I was wondering…”
I was actually wondering how one casually asks a person engaged in a criminal enterprise how you sign up to be part of it. Especially how you have that discussion in the center of a crowded discount mall, surrounded by bargain-hunting tourists and drooling babies and teenagers showing off their piercings. It seems outrageous. And, then, suddenly, I’m clutched by fear.
What if Sally’s FBI? And they, of course, don’t know anything about me, Charlie, being undercover. Sally thinks I’m Elsa. So wouldn’t it be one for the books if I’m secretly taping her? And she’s secretly taping me? And the real bad guys are getting away with it? Laughing all the way to the bank?
“We don’t say outright the bags are fake.” Sally’s talking right over me. “So that makes it legal. Ya know? The way the law works, if you don’t make a promise, you can’t break a promise. And everyone is happy.”
I mentally hold my nose and jump in. What Sally’s saying of course, is absurd. And wrong.
“So, do you have more of the bags? Do you ever let-do you ever let anyone else sell them for you? Split the, um…” I pretend to be nervous, which isn’t all that difficult, since I’m still not one hundred percent sure I’m not the one being set up.
I lean toward her, almost covering my mouth with one hand, speaking through my fingers. “Do you worry about being…” I look both ways, as if making sure we’re not overheard “…arrested?” I whisper.
Sally eyes me, cagey. She crosses her arms in front of her T-shirted chest and tilts back in her chair, almost hitting the iPod-wearing teen in the chair behind her.
“Where do you live?” she asks, flipping the heel of one high-heeled strappy mule against the sole of her foot. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Connecticut. Hartford. I’m an artist, just visiting the Berkshires, you know, for the fall colors.” I shrug, embellishing my cover story. “Can’t make much money doing watercolors, you know? And my ex-husband…”
“What’s your phone number? Write it down for me.”
Ah. Now I’m going to have to think of a reason why I don’t look in my purse. Although why should I necessarily have a pen? I’m not a reporter.
“I-” I begin.
“Look. Don’t make a big deal out of this,” Sally says. Her voice gets tough, dismissive. She clunks her chair back down onto all four legs, and plops her purse-a fake Coach, I can tell-on the table. “You ever hear of some mom in the suburbs hauled away to the slammer for selling purses? It’s like Tupperware, ya know? Don’t get hot over it. You want to sell purses?”
That phony Coach had better not contain a hidden camera. She’d better not be taking my picture.
Before I can decide on my answer, she yanks open the drawstring, and digs around inside, talking the whole time. “Listen. Who cares if those snazzy purse makers lose a little profit? We wouldn’t be buying their overpriced stuff, anyway. It’s not our money they’re losing.” Apparently not finding what she wants, she turns the bag on its side and shakes the contents out onto the table.
And voilà. There’s no camera. She’s just purse-pushing Sally, suburban entrepreneur, and I’m the only one undercover. I feel my shoulders relax, and glance at my own purse. Even if the battery runs out now, I’ve got the shots we need.
Sally plows through her belongings, and finally finds a slim black plastic cardholder. She extracts two business cards. They look like the one Regine gave me.
She then selects a pencil, and offers it to me, eyebrows raised. “You want to work for me? Here’s the deal. I’m getting into this full-time. Frankly, it’s a gold mine. And perfect timing for you. I’m dumping my supplier and going on my own. You don’t need to know more than that. But if this all works out, there’ll be plenty for everyone. So. Write your number on one card. Keep the other. So you have my number.”
She nods as I follow her instructions. One card has a phone number on the back, local area code, written in marker. I tuck that in my pocket. On the other, I write the number for the safe phone line Franklin and I have set up for exactly these occasions. And now, my “name.” Elsa, um. I consider using the last name Murrow, just for a little in-joke, then decide on Walters. Barbara won’t know.
Sally’s stuffing her possessions back into her bag. “Ever hear of a woman who said, sorry I don’t need another purse? My new supplier…” she pauses, still smiling. “Well, I’ll call you. Do what the message says. Soon you and I will be able to buy ourselves the real thing.”
“It’s in the bag,” I say. Nervous Elsa pretends to stifle a giggle at her bad joke.
“You got it, girl,” Sally replies, turning to go. “And you’re gonna love it.”
I watch the redhead wind her way through the rickety chairs and tables and out of the food court. I’m gonna love it? Flickers of suspicion are still flaring in my head, and I’m not sure how to extinguish them.
If Sally’s the real thing, I’m in.
If she’s not, I’m in trouble.
Chapter Nine
I haven’t done this since high school. It was silly, as a teenager, to drive by Tommy Thornburg’s house just to see if he was home. Or if any cars were in his driveway. Or maybe, to see if cheerleader goddess and most-likely-to-succeed-at-everything Nancy Rachel Hartline’s convertible was in his driveway. To do it as a grownup is beyond explanation. Plus, driving barely five miles an hour past someone’s house at ten o’clock at night is probably illegal. It’s stalking, or reverse-speeding or something. I hope no Neighborhood Watch goon calls the cops.