The wind kicks up, the Boston promise of the cold to come. I’m glad I wore a leather jacket of my own over my black turtleneck sweater dress, and happy for my flat boots as we trot along the sidewalk. A fleet of J-boats glide, sails stiff, across the choppy water, and a few sculls power their way back up the river toward MIT. Beside us, a parade of cars and bicycles cross the wide expanse.
“You undercover?” I ask, as we arrive. “Headed to a purse party? Or sneaking out of the office to the Red Sox game?”
I’m trying to be casual, but I can already feel she’s all business.
“Hey, guys,” she says. Her smile is tense. “Walk with me, okay?”
The three of us turn toward Cambridge, the sidewalk just wide enough. Keresey’s in the middle. Across the way, a Red Line train, passengers in each window, hurtles by, headed into the tunnels of the Boston-side subways.
“I know it’s not SOP. Meeting you like this,” Keresey begins. “But standard operating procedure means I have to notify the PIO, and the SAC, if I want to talk with you.”
I wait, pulling my jacket more closely around me as the wind picks up over the water. Franklin stuffs his hands into the pockets of his maroon suede jacket. He’s silent, too. We know it’s best to just let her talk.
“I don’t want to put you in an awkward position. Let’s put it this way. I didn’t want to put any of us in an awkward position. But, Charlie, I saw your eyes light up when the SAC was discussing our undercover operations. And don’t even begin to try to convince me you two don’t have a plan to do some U-C investigating. Attend some purse parties on your own. I’ve known you both long enough.”
I halfway open my mouth to reply, then think better of it.
Keresey holds up a hand, then turns to me with a rueful smile. “Hey. I don’t want to know. That’s the awkward part. If I know, I’ll have to order you to stop. I’d also be obligated to ask you if your expeditions are already underway. So I won’t ask. You don’t tell.”
She stops, mid-river, and points to an alcove where a concrete bench carved into the side of the bridge provides room enough for us to sit down. As we sit, she takes the strap of the messenger bag from her shoulder and, slowly, zips the pouch open.
Franklin flickers a questioning glance at me. What?
I reply with the briefest shrug. No idea.
Keresey is pulling out a brown legal-sized envelope. She unwraps a red string from around the two paper discs on the flap, then reaches in and extracts an eight-by-ten photograph. And another. They flutter, caught briefly in a puff of wind. She juggles the envelope and the photos to keep it all from blowing away.
I crane my neck to see who’s in the pictures, but she’s holding them face-to-face. I can tell Franklin is checking them out from his side, too, but he signals with a slight shake of his head. Nothing. Nothing to do but wait.
Keresey puts the envelope back into the bag, and puts it down on the sidewalk, taking a moment to balance it so it’s standing upright. Apparently she doesn’t want to spill what’s still inside. Apparently she’s trying to drive me crazy with suspense.
Finally she holds up the two pictures. Shows them to Franklin, then turns to show them to me.
Keresey, with her back to Franklin, doesn’t see him put a hand to his mouth. I understand his startled gesture. We saw these same photos earlier this morning. The international spy. And the raspberry-glossed fashionista.
I see Franklin’s eyes widen as he watches me examine the photos. He bites his lower lip. We have no way of communicating. No way to collaborate. No way to plan our response. Do we reveal the state police are asking us the same questions?
“Charlie?” Keresey prompts. “I’m betting you’ve attended a purse party or two. You don’t have to tell me any more. All I want to know is whether either of you have seen this woman at any of the parties? And if you have, did you get video of her? So, Charlie, you first.”
Which means I’m the one who has to make the strategy decision. Right now. Three long-legged girls jog by us, wearing crimson Harvard T-shirts and tight black shorts. We have to pull our legs in to let them by.
In that second, I decide. I’ll tell her the truth.
But not the whole truth.
“No, I never saw this woman at a party,” I say, shaking my head as I point to the pictures. Which is true. I didn’t see her at the party. Or on our tape. Or anywhere in real life. Keresey didn’t ask if I’d seen her photograph.
“Franklin?”
“Nope.” His dark skin goes a little gray, which only I would notice. Franklin, son of a Mississippi minister, still has a tough time lying.
“Who is she?” I ask. I do want to know, but I also want to let Franklin recover. I hope Keresey doesn’t push us here, because we’re headed toward some murky journalism waters. As Kevin explained to Detective Yens, sharing our raw information with law enforcement is totally taboo. We do research, we examine documents, we get the scoop. And we keep it to ourselves until we decide how much of it goes on the air. What’s kept off the air stays off-limits.
Plus, if the FBI doesn’t know what the state cops are doing, maybe there’s a good reason. I’m not going to be the doofus who compromises some complicated investigation.
Keresey tamps the photos on her knees, lining them up, then slips them back into her bag.
“It was a long shot. Look,” she says. “I’m not saying you guys are going undercover. But if you do-keep an eye out for her, okay? Just let me know, back channel, if and when you see her. And where. Can you do that for me? I promise, I’ll make it worth your while.”
A little journalism bargaining is fine with me, but I’m still curious.
“Keresey, who is she?” I ask, ignoring her proposition. “And forgive me, but does Lattimer know you’re here?”
Keresey stands, and turns back toward the Boston side of the bridge. She gestures with a hand, let’s walk. “I’ve only talked with her via e-mail. She’s a former agent, Lattimer says. Years ago. Ten. Maybe more. Lives in D.C. now. Knows Lattimer.”
“And what does she do these days?” Like I don’t already know.
“Out on her own, Lattimer says. Private investigations. Lots of retired agents go that route. No money in working for Uncle Sam, as we all know. Guess she figured she paid her patriotic dues. Anyway, apparently she’s working with some big purse companies. Tracking down counterfeits. Her name is Katherine Harkins. Katie Harkins. Lattimer calls her the Prada P.I., though he says she works for several companies. Fendi. Delleton-Marachelle. Ever hear of her?”
I calculate, hesitating before I answer. I’m exceptionally fond of Keresey. But it’s tough to have friends when you’re a reporter. I need to balance our relationship with our responsibilities. The almost-truth will work here. “I think I’ve seen her mentioned in newspaper articles, yes,” I say.
“Anyway, she’s been feeding us info on some in-house investigations, leads they’ve picked up,” Keresey says. “Many companies now are trying to track counterfeiters on their own. They’re looking for manufacturers. Suppliers. Distribution chains. Even little fish. But they have no police powers. They rely on law enforcement to take them down.”
“And so?” Franklin asks. “This Katie Harkins? What about her?”
“And so,” Keresey says, “we haven’t heard from her in a few days. And that’s unusual.”