“In developments that are sending shock waves through government agencies, as well as the world of high fashion:
“Now in custody for murder and international counterfeiting and potentially a host of other charges is airline union boss James Webber.
“The identity of his co-conspirator creates another scandal in FBI history-we have learned it is Boston’s FBI Special Agent in Charge Marren Lattimer. He is also now in federal custody, and sources say each suspect is in negotiations to turn state’s evidence against the other.
“Law enforcement officials are still keeping details confidential. But I can tell you the evidence against Lattimer includes an answering machine recording of the now-disgraced special agent making a sinister and threatening phone call.
“What’s more, we have learned federal agents have descended on Logan Airport, as well as several other airports across the country. Baggage claim areas are in lockdown, and several baggage agents, members of the airline union, are being taken into custody.
“Bottom line, what some call the ‘victimless crime’ of counterfeit designer purses has turned deadly. Channel 3 news and government officials have cracked an ugly conspiracy of murder, money and make-believe couture.
“We’ll have much more on this megabucks international counterfeiting conspiracy in my exclusive report…” I pause, just a fraction of a second. And the perfect title comes to mind. “‘The Real Thing,’ next week at 11:00 p.m. on Channel 3 news. I’m Charlie McNally reporting.”
I hear the news theme in the background. I’m done.
So much for Susannah’s hypercute “It’s in the Bag” brand. She’s out of town and word is she’s on a job interview. We’ve got a big story, a new title, and one week to get it on the air. Cake. I unclick my microphone, and think about a nap.
Jessica’s voice buzzes through my earpiece.
“Great job, C. You rock,” Jessica says. “Who’s the guy in Kevin’s office, by the way? He’s hot.”
I twist in my chair, looking past the reporters’ desks, then the producers’ desks, and past the expanse of the assignment desk. I can only see a corner of Kevin’s office, but the door is open. And in the visitor’s chair is a lanky figure. All attitude. Elegance. I don’t even need to see his face.
“He’s French,” I say into my microphone.
Close up, Luca Chartiers looks more sleep-deprived than I do. He must have taken the first plane out of Atlanta, and his pale gray pinstriped suit and starched white shirt seem to be all that’s holding him up. He stands and takes my hand briefly, solemnly, seeming to tread cautiously through unfamiliar territory.
“I’m not sure the company will survive this,” he says. “But had it continued, we would certainly have perished. Zuzu and I will do our best. But I wanted to come thank you in person. Without you, we…” He shakes his head slowly and drops back into his chair.
“Survive?” This is the rest of the puzzle, that’s for sure. And I’m betting it’s centered on Strathmeyer Road. Why else could he be here?
“Was Simone Marshal really Simone Marachelle? And Reggie Webber her daughter? And why were they-?”
Kevin interrupts, holding up a video cassette. “FBI just sent us this statement,” he says. “Mr. Chartiers here has seen it. Sylvie Marachelle is in custody in Atlanta. Simone Marachelle and Regine are in lockup here in Boston.”
Kevin pauses, then slides the cassette into his playback machine and pushes the green button. “Well, it’s best if you hear it for yourself. Listen.”
I hear the tape click into place and the whir as the video begins to roll. Luca Chartiers studies the floor, his hands, the ceiling, his eyes anywhere but on the flickering television monitor.
At the sound of Simone Marshal-Marachelle’s-voice, we turn to the screen.
“You bastards have no right,” she says, her voice rising. “I have done nothing wrong. The designs are mine. Mine! My sister and I are the victims. The victims!”
It’s the woman from the cab, no doubt about that. She’s all points, narrowed eyes, hollow cheeks, hair gelled and slick to her head. She’s wearing some sort of close-fitting black sweater, and still manages to look chic, even in custody. Her tone is bitter, menacing, and she’s spitting each word at the camera, and at whoever is doing the questioning.
Keresey’s voice is next. “Simone Marachelle Marshal Webber,” she pronounces. She’s all business, sounding formal and detached. “You are under arrest for the theft of proprietary designs from the firm Delleton-Marachelle. You are additionally charged with organizing the illegal manufacture of-”
“It is not ‘theft,’” Simone tosses her head, defiant. Her voice goes shrill and insistent. “They are our designs, Sylvie’s and mine. How can we steal our own designs? Why should we allow that…that…”
She leans forward into the camera, so close her face goes suddenly out of focus. The camera adjusts, clicking her into a clear close-up.
“That company is the criminal, not I. Not my sister. Not my daughter. We were only taking what is rightfully ours. We are not-indentured servants to that, that, manufacturer of potato chips. The Marachelles-”
“Sylvie. Stop. That’s enough.” A cuff-link-sleeved hand appears from offscreen, and goes to Sylvie’s shoulder. A male voice continues from offscreen. “That’s all my client has to say, Agent Stone. We’re done here.”
The screen frizzes into buzzing black-and-white snow. Kevin pushes eject. The truth is recorded and inescapable.
Luca’s face is spiritless, flat. He’s still staring at the now-blank monitor. I remember his across-the-dinner-table cosmopolitan twinkle at La Caleche, the pride flashing in his eyes as he discussed his designs. Now he’s drained and disillusioned as a soldier in defeat. Sabotaged by his own colleagues. And his ex-wife.
“So they were just pretending to be estranged?” I ask. I think I understand the rest of the story. “Sylvie and Simone were actually conspiring to-”
“They believed their legacy had been stolen,” Luca says, interrupting my theory. “That it was their duty to take it back. And take the profits for themselves. The sisters knew where to get the bags manufactured, of course. So they invented a quarrel. Sylvie left and changed her name. It was all part of the ruse. The groundwork for the scheme. When Simone married Webber, they had a ready-made pipeline.”
Luca sighs.
“And Regine.” His voice is quiet. “She is Simone’s daughter. The father-I do not know. Quite the family affair.”
“Quite the setup,” Kevin puts in. “Access, production, and distribution.”
“And profits,” Franklin says. He’s standing in the open doorway, holding a legal-sized sheet of paper. “I just talked to Christopher Yens. Here’s the return on the search warrant, fully executed last night in Brookline. His guys found thousands of fake bags hidden in the house on Strathmeyer Road. Ready for parties. Ready for the street. Ready to rake in the big bucks.”
“The counterfeits came from insiders at the authentic purse company itself,” I say slowly. “Some of the very people who pretended to be victims. Wow. That’s major league.”
“Sylvie and Simone were getting the profits from both ends,” Luca confirms. “From all of us at D-M, and then from their own scheme.”
I look at Luca, then Kevin. Remembering why we started this in the first place. Our story. “You’ll agree to be interviewed for our story, won’t you?” I ask. “On camera? Before you leave today?”
Luca nods. “I am here until this evening.”
I plop onto Kevin’s couch, scouting his desk for a notebook or something to write on. I grab a pad of yellow stickies and take the sleek fountain pen from the marble holder, looking at the news director for permission. “Let’s make a list of what we still need. First, this only solves the origin of the Delleton-Marachelle copies. So there’s much more out there. But “The Real Thing”-can just be the D-M story.”