I hear Franklin still buzzing in my lap. I hear the cabdriver pop the trunk, then get out to retrieve my suitcase.
When I look again at my front steps, the unfamiliar shape is still there. There’s a man sitting on the top step. He’s leaning back against the wrought iron railing. Across his lap, there’s something long and narrow.
I lean back against the seat of the cab, too perplexed to open my own door. Sitting on my front steps is State Police Detective Christopher Yens. And in his lap, a long white box, the shiny slick kind that only comes from flower shops. It’s tied with a big white ribbon. The detective is bringing me flowers? He’s sitting on my steps, after midnight, in jeans and a brown leather jacket? With—flowers? My brain has finally, formally, crashed.
I put my face in my hands, briefly, and then I hear the back door open. As I look up, the cabdriver, shirttail out and receipt in hand, is staring at me. “This is correct address, yes?” he says.
“Yes. This is correct.” I say. It’s also weird as hell. I sling my purse over my shoulder and push my way out of the backseat. Never a dull moment. And so much for my sleeping plans.
The cab backs up into the curve of the cul-de-sac and pulls out into Mt. Vernon Street. Leaving me with my new suitcase, my befuddled brain and my unexpected guest.
Detective Yens sets the flower box on the steps and slowly gets to his feet. As he comes toward me, his face is unreadable. “Welcome home, Miz McNally,” he says. His voice is pleasant, unchallenging. “I suppose you’re wondering…” As he approaches, I see his expression change. He takes a step back.
I get it. He’s seeing Elsa.
I take off my Red Sox cap, yank off the scrunchie holding my ponytail in place, and push my glasses onto the top of my head.
“Ta dah,” I say, keeping my voice down so neighbors don’t call the police. Even though they’re already here. And I’m wary, playing for time a bit until I understand what’s going on. “This better? You’re right, I am ‘wondering’. If you mean wondering why you’re here. So, why?”
“You undercover?” he says, ignoring my question.
“Nope. Just comfortable.” No reason to tell him more than he needs to know.
“Your producer Franklin Parrish told me everything,” he says.
I look down at my still-open purse, where a glowing light indicates my cell phone is still on. I wonder if Franklin is still there.
“He told you what?” I say to Yens. “And do you always bring flowers when you visit reporters in the middle of the night?”
Yens gestures to my front door. “Shall we chat where it’s a bit less public? I expect you might want to put those in water.”
I dig for my phone. The connection is still open. “Heellloo, Franklin,” I trill. “I’m home. Guess who’s here?”
“Mr. Parrish apparently called your news director first,” Yens says. He’s sitting on one of my taupe-and-navy striped living room wing chairs, elbows on his knees. Leaning toward me. Almost interrogating. “Where were you? He said he couldn’t reach you.”
“That’s what Franklin just told me. But he knew I was out of town,” I reply, gesturing to the cell phone on the glass coffee table. I’m perched on the edge of the leather couch, facing the detective. He looks casual, and I’m not too tired to notice, even attractive, but he’s all business. Total cop.
Botox is curled up on top of my suitcase, still parked in the entryway, making sure I don’t leave again. The white box—I still don’t know whether it’s flowers—is propped against the door where Yens left it. Maybe he’s on his way to a later rendezvous and they’re not for me after all.
On the way upstairs, finishing our phone conversation, Franklin had quickly filled me in. He’d been trying to warn me Yens might be at my doorstep. And in reality, he hadn’t told Yens everything. Not even close. He’d only revealed I’d gotten a text message from Katie Harkins. He’d gotten a similar message on his e-mail. He’d tried to call me, couldn’t get through, and decided to call Kevin.
That, I can handle. “So. Might I ask why you’re here in the middle of the night?” I ask.
“Well, after he talked to Mr. Parrish, Mr. O’Bannon called me. As we agreed in our meeting.” He looks at me, confirming.
I nod. “Go on.”
“So Mr. O’Bannon allowed me…” he drags out the phrase, as if the whole journalism thing was too much trouble to bear “…he allowed me to talk to Franklin. Who told me about his e-mail and your text message. I told him as far as we knew, Miss Harkins was still missing.
“As a result,” Yens says, pointing to the coffee table, “I’ve come to take your cell phone. We’re getting our IT people to put it on a trace. See where the text came from. See if we can find her. I’ll return your phone. Soon as I can. We need to find her. I’ve e-mailed her. Called her. She’s not responding to me. She is responding to you.” He reaches toward my cell, but I whisk it off the table before he can take it.
Botox leaps up at the sound of my sudden laughter and skitters away down the hall. “I don’t think so, Detective. Take my phone? Do you have a warrant? Or a subpoena? Let me ask you, Detective. Are you ‘taking’ Franklin’s computer?”
“Look. I’m not playing games, Miss McNally.” The detective’s face hardens. “This is serious business. An FBI agent was killed in a raid, just yesterday. In L.A. Our sources say the agency had been tipped off to a warehouse on the south side. By Harkins. The messages you got indicate she was alive, last night at least. If the counterfeiters know where she is, she may be in danger.”
“How did the agent get killed? Did they find purses? Any kind of contraband?” A raid 3,000 miles away wouldn’t involve Lattimer or Keresey, I figure. But I’m still nervous about my pal. “Let me ask you, Detective. Do you know Agent Keresey Stone? FBI Boston? Was she involved in the raid?”
“The agent killed was a man, that’s all I can tell you,” Yens replies. He slides his hands down his jeans, then holds out one palm. “Your phone, please.”
I’m exhausted and confused, but I know what I have to do. I shake my head as I get to my feet. “Not going to happen. I get why you want my phone. Off the record? Part of me even wants to give it to you. I do. But you know I can’t. Not until you get a subpoena.”
Yens stands, too, but makes no move toward the door. His face softens and he seems almost sad. “Is this what they teach you in journalism school? Are there some misguided rules about not helping law enforcement officials when someone’s life may be at stake? Maybe more than one person? If your FBI agent friend was in trouble, would you still be on your little get-a-subpoena soapbox?”
“Keresey Stone,” I reply, looking at the floor. The pattern in my navy-and-burgundy oriental rug swims a bit as my eyes unexpectedly mist over. This is the dilemma that’s haunting me, more and more. The undercover video of the purse party. The fire. The bag of bags. The claim check scheme. Whoever lives at 325 Strathmeyer Road. How do I juggle my responsibility as a reporter, my job, my career, my goals—with my responsibility as a good citizen? Why are they different? And the bigger the story, the bigger the stakes.
I rub my hands over my face, slick back my shampoo-needy hair and struggle to muster some self-confidence. Choosing my words carefully, I try to explain. To this earnest cop, and even to myself.
“I’m a reporter. I can’t make decisions based on my feelings. Yes, in my heart, I’d love to give you that phone. I’m uneasy about Katie Harkins. Like you, I wonder where she is. Wonder if she’s safe. But if I break the rules now, hand over information because I want to, what happens when I don’t want to? You’ll say ‘Well, you gave me your phone that time. So now, give me your notes. Your sources. Your raw video.’ And eventually I’ll have no principles left.”
I shrug, searching his face for understanding. “You won’t tell me about the FBI raid. You won’t tell me about your relationship with Katie Harkins. I understand. It’s your job. You do what you’ve got to do,” I say, turning toward the door. I gesture, poin
ting him the way out. “I’ll do the same thing.”
Yens arrives at the door first and picks up the white box. He hands it to me with one raised eyebrow. “Apparently someone, at least, thinks you’re doing everything right,” he says. “But you haven’t heard the last from us. I’ll be calling your boss in the morning.”
I take the box in my arms. “These aren’t from you?”
Yens allows himself a fleeting smile, then lifts a hand in farewell. “They were here when I arrived.”
And he’s gone.
I stare at the white card. Reading it yet again. The glorious white roses that were inside the box—a dozen, each kept fresh in an individual plastic-topped test tube of water and now in my favorite dark green vase—seem to fill my bedroom with their fragrance. Botox hops up onto the nightstand, almost knocking the airport beeper onto the floor. She pretends not to notice, batting a sleek blade of the bear grass that surrounds the bouquet, then she curls up on my lap, tucking her head through my arm. She’s does a convincing cuddle, but I know she’s actually trying to block my view of the card. Because it’s getting too much attention.
I move the card back into view. “Tomorrow is the anniversary of the day we met,” it says. “A year ago today I had never met you. A year ago tomorrow, my life changed. I hope it’s changed forever.” And it’s signed: Josh.
“Our anniversary,” I say to Botox, smoothing her calico fur as I test the phrase. Two words, I realize disconcertingly, I’ve never said together before. At age twenty, I walked out of my marriage to Sweet Baby James before our first year together had even passed.
In lust and inseparable, James and I went to City Hall after knowing each other for about three months. We clung to each other in front of an affable clerk, promised to love and cherish, smiled for the resident rent-a-photographer, then went out for pizza and champagne. I carried cellophane-wrapped flowers purchased at a sidewalk kiosk. I left them at the restaurant. We stayed in bed the entire weekend.
Vows of “till death do us part” aside, clearly James and I each had some misgivings. We never discussed it, but we didn’t combine our book collections. Didn’t combine our tape cassettes. Didn’t have a joint bank account. He paid the rent. I bought the groceries. I wanted a cat. He was allergic. He wanted to go camping. I was allergic. He became more interested in how he looked than how I looked.
After yet another argument about why his six-o’clock dinner was more important than my six-o’clock news, I packed up Gramma’s heirloom china, my cassette collection, plus a whole new understanding about sharing life with someone else, and walked out. I’ve been married to my job ever since. It’s demanding, but doesn’t demand laundry or dinner.
At age twenty, it’s easy to think you know love is the real thing. And it’s easy to change when you decide it isn’t. Twenty-some years later, I’ve learned it’s difficult to know anything.
“I hope it’s changed forever.” I read the last line of Josh’s card out loud. Do I hope my life has changed?
I do.
But so far, I’m not doing a very good job. While Josh was planning a surprise evening at the theater, I was planning a trip out of town. He sent flowers. I sent a text.
My bedside clock taunts me. It’s now past three in the morning. I can’t call Josh, no matter how much I want to. He’s got classes to teach tomorrow. Today. If Penny’s there, she might wake up.
Curling up under the covers, burrowing into my pillow, I’m thinking about “our anniversary.” Savoring the words.
Then I think of Luca. He was right. My heart’s desire was indeed at the end of the journey.
Chapter Nineteen
H
iding in the hatchback of Franklin’s Passat is not the most comfortable place to spend a Monday morning. But someone has to carry a hidden camera up to the door of 325 Strathmeyer Road and try to get video of who we now suspect lives there. It should have been me with the camera, but Franklin and I decided she might recognize me from last night at the airport and in the cab. And we can’t take that chance. So today I, too, have to stay hidden. Luckily for my backseat situation, I’m wearing my black turtleneck sweater, comfortable jeans and flat boots. I have a stash of sugar-free Swedish fish and a latte. My third. I e-mailed Josh to call me at his lunch break. So I’m set. I could camp here for a while without caffeine withdrawal or hunger pangs or missing a call from my sweetheart, but I’m thinking Franklin won’t be too long.
“Test, test.” I check my connection with Franklin. I have my phone on, and so does he. I should be able to hear everything he says. And everything she says.
“Gotcha, Roger, ten-four,” Franklin answers. He’s about halfway to the house. “You okay?”
“Not taking my eyes off you,” I answer.
I rearrange myself on the floor, peering out the side window. We parked about half a block away, across the street, and snagged a spot with a perfect view. Our first thought was to have me just sit in the front, pretending to read the paper, pretending to wait for someone. But some nosy neighborhood-watch fanatic would certainly call the cops about an unfamiliar car with a stranger at the wheel lurking in their posh neighborhood. So we practiced my backseat maneuver in a parking spot outside Channel 3. Because of the tinted windows, I can see out of my hidey-hole, but no one can see in. I can almost, but not quite, sit up. My neck is not happy. But it’s necessary.
All we need is a name, maybe two. And a photograph. Maybe two.
Franklin’s almost to the front walk.
We’d looked up the real estate ownership records on the Registry of Deeds Web site as soon as we arrived at Channel 3 this morning. And what we’d found stopped us both in our tracks.
“Simone—Marshal?” Franklin had said. He held his fingers poised over this keyboard as he read me the results of his search. “Is the owner of 325 Strathmeyer. Does that sound familiar? Bought the place in 2005, a few years ago. For 850 thou.”
I swiveled my desk chair, almost knocking over my second latte of the morning, then used my heels to wheel myself closer to his computer. “Marshal? Are you completely kidding me? Do you think someone would be that obvious?”
“Obvio—?” Franklin frowned as he looked back at his monitor. Then back at me. He tilted his head, wondering. “You think?”
“Ab-so-totally-lutely,” I said. “As Penny says, no bout adoubt it.”
Franklin waved me off. “Oh, come on. You think everything is a conspiracy.”
“That’s because lots of things are a conspiracy,” I replied. “You think we just got home from talking to purse magnate Sylvie Marachelle and now there’s a Simone Marshal involved with this whole thing? Who I followed home from Logan Airport with a stash of phony bags? And the two things aren’t connected? I beg you.”
I pursed my lips, mentally replaying our visit to Delleton-Marachelle, then pointed to Franklin with a one-finger jab. “Of course. They said there was a sister. Remember? Luca said, ‘Sylvie and her sister, something something.’ Before the conglomerate bought D-M. When was that, anyway? I bet the sister was the one in that photo on Luca’s desk. There’s a pretty darn easy way to find out.” I waggled a hand, very French. “Très facile.”
Franklin pulled up a new screen on his computer. “Brookline town list,” he said. “Getting it.”
“Perfect. If ‘Simone Marshal’ filled out a town census report, it should also list all the occupants. Let’s see if anyone else lives there. Rats,” I said, rummaging in my purse. “I can’t ever find anything in here.”
“No comment,” Franklin said over his shoulder. “Your purse is the black hole of Boston. Probably Amelia Earhart is in there.”
“You said ‘no comment.’ So don’t comment.” I scrounged through the multiple zip pockets of my purse once again, in order, down one side and up the other. Muttering.
I finally find what I’m looking for. Luca’s business card, the one from my luggage tag. And just as I remembered, Luca’s private number added in marker.
�
��You know, Franko? How somehow, sometimes, your instinct just kicks in? It’s as if the whole picture suddenly appears. It’s probably my extensive experience.” I stretch, pantomiming nonchalance. “Ah, yes. And this is why I get the big reporter bucks.”
“Why again?” he asked.
“Because I’m going to call Luca,” I explained as I punched in the numbers. “See what he says about—oh, here it comes. Damn. The machine.”
Franklin turned to me. “Charlotte, wait.”
I held up a hand, stopping him.
“Hi, Luca, it’s Charlie McNally. In Boston.” Like there’s another Charlie McNally. Why am I so tongue-tied by this guy? “Sorry to bother you, but I’m wondering if you could tell me…” I hesitated. Suddenly alarm bells were beginning to ring in my head. How much should I say? Who knows who might be listening to his messages? The bells got louder. What if he’s—
Franklin moved in front of me, waving both hands as if he wanted to have a turn on the phone. I gave him a look, exasperated, and a quick shake of the head. Made me lose my train of thought. I turned my focus back to my call, hoping it hadn’t disconnected. “I’m wondering if you could tell me,” I continued, “whether Sylvie’s sister? The one you told us about?”
Franklin stood, hands on hips, almost glaring at me.
“I wonder if she lives near Boston,” I continued, ignoring him. “And could you tell me her name? I’ll be on my cell. And thank you again.”
I gestured to our wall clock as I hung up the phone. “It’s just after nine, maybe they’re just not in yet,” I said, dismissing my earlier misgivings. “He’ll call me back, I guess. He has my number.”
“If he’s not the mastermind behind the whole thing, Charlotte,” Franklin answered. His entire face was a frown. “That’s why I was trying to stop you.”
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