“I’m an idiot. I might as well have called and said, ‘Be careful, we’re on your trail.’” I peeked out through my fingers, spotting a ray of hope. “Is here any way to undo a phone message?”
“Sorry, Charlotte. Of course, it’s possible you could be right. We’ll soon find out, that’s for sure. And listen, if Sylvie’s sister lived near Boston, wouldn’t Luca have mentioned it? Maybe the Marshal-Marachelle thing is wrong.”
“Bzzzzt.” I made the international sound for incorrect. Franklin’s trying to make me feel better. Impossible. “He certainly would not have told me if she were the key to the knockoff plot. If they were in it together.”
“On the other hand, he could be just protecting her privacy. Maybe she’s turning her back on her past. Getting an American name. Fitting in.” He tapped his keyboard with a dramatic flourish. “Voilà. Here’s the town list. Okay, Internet. Show me something good.”
And then he went quiet. Staring at the screen.
The air in the room changed. Franklin turned to me, silent. His eyes wide. He had something.
Once again, I scooted my chair closer to him. And for a moment, I was silent, too. And then Franklin read the town list entry out loud, his voice heavy with disbelief.
“The owner is listed as Simone Marshal, age 48, occupation, homemaker. Under other occupants, it lists Reggie Webber, age 22, student.”
“Sacre frigging bleu,” I said. “Excuse me. But Reggie? That’s Regine, if I’m not mistaken. And I’m not. Reggie is Regine, and she’s Simone Marachelle’s daughter. Whatever that means. But who’s ‘Webber’?”
“I’m hitting print,” Franklin said, clicking his mouse. “And if we’re going to get their pictures, I think we should go. If we knock on the door now and they’re not home, we can try again. But if they leave for good, we’re screwed.”
“Because they were alerted by my phone call, you mean. Because Luca instantly called them. And then everyone shredded everything. And we’ve-I’ve-ruined our story.”
Franklin’s forehead furrowed, and he smoothed his already impeccable khaki pants as he stood to leave. “I hate to say it,” he said, his voice full of reluctant apology. “But maybe.”
Finished with my fast-forward replay of the entire morning, I watch Franklin head up the flower-lined front walk of 325 Strathmeyer Road from my backseat hideout. Our snazzy Sony HC-43 camera is hidden in his L.L.Bean monogrammed briefcase and he looks for all the world like a prep-school alum in khakis, old school tie and suede designer jacket who’s searching for his long-lost buddy. Our fervent hope is that Simone Marshal not only answers the door, but also buys our story.
We have to verify her name to make sure the person who arrived last night is “Simone Marshal,” alias Simone Marachelle, and not a visitor. Or a renter. Or, the idea creeps unpleasantly into my consciousness, some random person whose name is Simone Marshal.
No. I shake off my own second-guessing. Someone who arrived at that house carried in at least one suitcase full of fake bags. And I’m convinced all three she picked up were contraband.
We have to get her photo to confirm who she is. And I’m considering-it might be time to tell Keresey. I eye the beeper that’s now clipped inside my purse.
I wish I were going to the door. But I’m a team player. And I know how to take turns. I’m still clinging to a faint hope that Luca’s not the mastermind. That I didn’t get carried away by my own overconfidence and spill the beans.
My cell phone is on and so is Franklin’s. I don’t want to miss anything. State law says we can’t record audio, so her voice won’t be on the tape. In the worst possible scenario, if Franklin needs help…well, I’d just have to risk getting recognized.
“I see you,” I say. “We found a perfect parking spot. You rolling? The lens in the right position? I can’t wait to see her. Make sure you don’t block my view when she opens the door.”
“If she opens the door,” Franklin answers. “And shush. Let’s go radio silence. I don’t want anyone to see me chatting with Mr. Suede Jacket.”
“Radio silence?” I can’t help laughing. He’s always so earnest. “You’re so…” Then I stop. He’s right.
Stretching out my legs behind me, I prop my chin on my hands and don’t take my eyes away from Franklin. He walks up the three cobblestone steps, past the terracotta urns of elaborately topiaried ivy, and pushes a black button by the doorjamb. The bell. He turns to me for half a second, then turns back to the door.
Nothing.
Here’s where undercover works gets sticky. Your goal as a journalist is to get answers without the subject realizing it’s happening. But the only way to be convincing is to do what you would do if you actually were the person you’re pretending to be. Franklin the “old school chum,” guilelessly hunting for a friend, would simply ring the doorbell again.
Franklin the producer would start wondering if there were a way to see if anyone is actually home without ringing the buzzer again. I see him scan the second-floor windows. Looking for open screens, blowing curtains. He’s listening for noise from a television. He turns back to me again. But I know he can’t see me.
He lifts the lid of the rectangular mailbox beside the door. Checking for mail. And any names that might be on the mail. In plain sight, of course, so he doesn’t have to commit a federal offense by touching someone else’s mail. I see him point to the box, then shake his head. Dramatically, to make sure I see it. The box is empty.
“Just ring the buzzer again,” I say to myself. “No big deal. A real person on the trail of a friend would just ring again.”
Franklin pushes the button.
I nod. Good move.
A beat. Another beat.
And the door opens.
“Yes?”
I hear the voice, barely, through Franklin’s phone. A woman. But even squinting, I can’t make out her face, She’s two steps back from the light, still in the interior shadows.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” Franklin begins the spiel we’d devised. “I’m looking for Steve Rosenfeld?”
Binoculars. I need binoculars. I cup my hands around my eyes, and press them to the window, somehow thinking this might create a binocular effect. It fails.
“I’m sorry?” The woman has moved even farther back into the house.
Franklin adjusts the bag on his shoulder and I know he’s anxious about getting the shot. I am, too, because if she keeps backing up, I’m never going to be able to see her. I can hear Franklin using his most courteous dinner-guest voice as he explains what he’s doing.
“…and this is the last address I have,” he says. “Your last name is not Rosenfeld?”
If this woman is totally unsuspecting or hasn’t had her coffee, this is where she might offer her real name.
“No,” she says. “They were the previous owners.”
We know this from the Registry of Deeds records. Which if she’s the current owner, she clearly knows. Which is why we used the name.
“Ah,” Franklin says. “That’s so disappointing. When did you buy it from them? When did they leave?”
Good move.
I strain to hear. Both for her answer and for a French accent. I can see Franklin is listening. But I can’t hear a thing.
And then the door closes.
“Let me see, let me see.” I’m clamoring for the tape before Franklin’s even all the way into the driver’s seat. “Did she tell you her name? Was it Marshal? Did she have a French accent? I couldn’t see her at all, can you believe it? And I could barely hear a thing.”