Whatever. We’ll figure the rules out later. Now I just want to know.
“Sure.”
“She was apologizing. Said she got burned by a source. Katie Harkins is the one who tipped us to the L.A. warehouse, said we had to move in that day. But it was a bust. One of our agents was killed.”
I know this. From Yens. Who told me he heard it from sources. This Katie Harkins thing is haunting me. She’s the piece that doesn’t fit.
“You ever think maybe she’s in on it?” I say. “Like, she’s leading you guys to the wrong places? On purpose?”
“Sorry. Classified,” Keresey says.
A thought slams through my brain. Maybe Simone Marshal uses yet another name. I struggle to see whether that would make sense, but Keresey is talking. And I realize it’s time for us to go.
Keresey slings her purse over her shoulder, and opens her car door. “Just to confirm we’re on the same page. We’ll go in separately. You find a spot to wait. Check the board, confirm the plane’s arrival time. I’ll get sweatshirts, hats, whatever else looks good. Meet me in the ladies’ room, departure level by the Legal Sea Foods restaurant, fifteen minutes before the flight comes in. You got the Hartford bag?”
“And the beeper.” I pat my belt. “Because we need that claim check number.”
“Right.” Keresey says. She opens the trunk for my tote bag. “Are you all set? Ready for this? It’ll go down exactly as it should. Just follow my lead.”
Of course the plane is late. Thunderstorms in Atlanta make a nine-o’clock arrival wishful thinking. The red lights across from the listing for Flight 1017 from Atlanta are flashing “delayed.” Estimated time of arrival, 9:45 p.m. I have more than an hour to wait.
I know exactly how I need to spend it. First, calling Amy to feed Botox. Then, announcing my own delays and rearranging my own arrival time. Josh had texted me he had a Bexter Board of Directors meeting, was dropping Penny at Victoria’s, and invited me to a late-night anniversary celebration. Now I know our celebration is going to have to be just a bit later. And I know I’m going to have to handle this just a bit delicately.
My cell phone is in my purse. In Keresey’s trunk. Time to hit the pay phone.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I say, as Josh answers. “Happy Anniversary, second notice. Guess where I am.”
I quickly fill him in on the strategy. Lattimer, Franklin, Keresey. Ladies’ room.
“This could be it,” I say. “Exactly the proof we hoped for. The clincher.”
I pause, hands clamped over my ears to keep out the airport noise, resting both elbows on the scuffed white plastic of the phone-booth counter. Waiting to hear my future.
Through a second of silence, I feel a hesitation. A tension.
Then I hear that Josh-chuckle. “Charlie Mac, I love you. All of you. And you know? That means I love how much you love your job. And that means I’ll be here. Keeping the champagne cold.”
“And yourself hot,” I add. I’m attempting to sound seductive. Sexy and suggestive.
We both burst out laughing as soon as the words came out of my mouth.
“Love you,” he says. “Stay safe. Come home soon.”
“Love you, too,” I whisper. I hang up the phone, holding the receiver just a second longer than necessary. Keeping our connection.
With luck, I’ll be sipping champagne in just a few hours.
The plane is now scheduled to land at 10:50 p.m., one of the last commercial arrivals of the night. This should all be over by 11:10 p.m. As predicted, I got beeped, and what looks like a baggage claim number appeared. And now, finally, after reading the entire Boston Globe front to back, I’m heading for the Logan Airport ladies’ room. On my way to become Elsa for the last time.
I glance up to the mezzanine where Lattimer probably has the entire baggage claim area under surveillance. I don’t see him, but I guess I shouldn’t expect to. I don’t see Franklin, either. Also a good thing. He and our Sony HC-43 are going to meet me back at the station. He’s getting the whole thing on tape. Two can play this game.
“Lattimer will kill us,” Franklin had said as we headed back to our office after our meeting with the agents. “But who cares. He reneged, completely backpedaled on what clearly was an agreement to allow us to shoot video of the baggage-claim rendezvous. I vote we go for it.”
“Shoot now, answer questions later,” I’d agreed. “Who’s he to tell us what to do?”
“Well, he’s the FBI, I guess,” Franklin said.
“Yeah, well, we pay his salary. Think you can hide? And still get the shots?”
“It’s only a question of whether I’m a sky cap. Or passenger. Or perhaps I’ll be a gray-haired minister in my Dad’s old collar and jacket. Let me figure it out. I’ll get the shots this time for sure,” Franklin said, nodding confidently. “No more feet.”
He’s still not over the Strathmeyer Road fiasco. But what happens in about twenty minutes will be the best video we could hope for.
I yank open the ladies’-room door, smiling, expectations high. A frazzled-looking mom with a baby draped across her shoulder hurries an empty stroller past me out into the corridor. The door closes, muffling the late-night sounds of the airport clatter and cleaning crews.
Once inside, it’s all hum and glare. Porcelain. Mirrors. White-and-gray tiled walls, white-and-gray tiled floors. The fluorescent ceiling lights turn every reflection haunted and harsh. A bedraggled-looking woman fusses with her hair, frowning. Another stands, impatiently rubbing her hands under a laboring automatic dryer. I see the towel holder is empty.
Following instructions, I go all the way to the back where a second row of sinks and mirrors lines the rear wall. This part of the bathroom is empty. Perfect.
I rip a section of coarse brown paper toweling from a wide roll someone deposited on the ledge of the sink, twist the faucet, and hold the towel under a stream of tepid water. The only temperature available. I attempt to wipe off my makeup, but the plain water doesn’t make a dent. It doesn’t matter. Streaky make-up is totally Elsa. We’re not going for glamour.
I add her trademark blue eye shadow, her favorite pinky-pink lipstick, then look down at my watch. Keresey should be here. And when I look back into the mirror, there are two of us.
“Here’s your sweatshirt and here’s your hat,” Keresey says. She, too, has blue eyelids and bubblegum-pink lips and a ponytail. She’s wearing a gray Red Sox hoodie with “Ortiz” on the back and a navy blue baseball cap with the Sox “B” emblem on the front. Her purse-still, I assume, fully loaded-is slung across her chest, messenger style.
My hoodie is identical. My bag, although holding only makeup, looks identical. My hat is red.
“No more blue larges,” Keresey explains.
I yank the sweatshirt over my head, redo my ponytail, then add the cap. We eye each other in the mirror. And both of us smile.
Then Keresey frowns.
She looks around the deserted bathroom, then points me to an open stall door. “Come with me,” she says.
With a final check to confirm we don’t have company, she draws me into the handicapped stall and latches the door behind us. She perches on the edge of the toilet seat, propping her running shoes on the wall.
“Only one pair of feet will show,” she says, her voice low. “Stand by the sink. And listen. But don’t answer. If anyone hears voices, they’ll assume someone is on the phone.”
I look at her, trying to gauge her expression. Something’s up. “What?” I mouth the word.
“I know the SAC thinks it’s better for you to pick up the bag,” she says, her voice so soft I struggle to hear. “But I know he’s wrong. I think it’s too dangerous. I don’t want you anywhere around that baggage claim. You’ll go behind the last bank of chairs, right by those three potted palm containers. Lattimer knows that’s my position. He won’t be able to tell it’s you. And I’ll do the pickup.”