Air Time

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “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.”

  I bite my lower lip, thinking. There’s something else. “How did Lattimer get involved, anyway?”

  “Keresey told me that,” Franklin says. “Apparently he confessed that Sylvie seduced him, back when he was assigned to the Atlanta bureau. He was sick of government paychecks and she promised him a gold mine. He’s trying to make it all her idea, of course. But that’s why Zuzu acted so hinky when we mentioned Katie Harkins. She’d never heard of her.”

  The bleat of the intercom on Kevin’s desk interrupts. “Mr. O’Bannon? Mr. Char…” the tentative voice pauses. “The cab is here.”

  Luca gathers his briefcase and shakes hands with Franklin, then me. “I’ll be at the Copley Plaza Hotel. One journey ends, another begins,” he says with an uncertain smile. “I must try to remember that.”

  We watch Luca and Kevin cross the newsroom, heading for the front door.

  “I’ll get a photographer,” Franklin says, turning toward the assignment desk. “See how fast we can get to the Copley. Maybe we can get Keresey on cam today, too.”

  “Franko.” I stand, stopping him.

  “What? I’ve got to—”

  The rest of his question is muffled by my quick hug.

  “Thank you, Franko. You did great. As Mom always says, be careful what you wish for. We wanted a biggie. And we sure got it. And I almost got it in the head.”

  “The world of make-believe fashion is not a pretty place,” Franklin agrees. “The bags were phony, but the danger was certainly real.”

  “Lattimer tried to tell us it was terrorists,” I say, remembering that day in Lattimer’s office. “And I guess he was right. They took the law into their own hands. They stole millions of dollars from legitimate businesses. They killed whoever was in their way. Sounds like terrorists to me.”

  Of course the doorbell rings, right during the good part. Right in the midst of the eleven-o’clock news. Right at the part of our story where Franklin’s undercover video shows me vaulting through the luggage claim, then reveals a furtive Marren Lattimer snaking the black suitcase from the conveyor belt.

  I snuggle in closer to Josh, my legs on top of his, our wool-socked feet entwined on the leather ottoman in front of us.

  “I’m not budging from this couch,” I say, hitting the pause button on my TiVo remote. I punch another button. “And now, I’m rewinding. That’s the glory of digital recording. You can watch our perfectly perfect story again, uninterrupted, from the beginning.”

  The doorbell rings again. Botox leaps from my lap and scampers off to hide in one of her secret cat hangouts.

  Josh takes the remote from me with a laugh, and points to the door. “See who it is,” he says. “It might be, just a wild guess, here. Maybe the pizza we ordered from Late Night Sam’s? Or I suppose it could be the Attorney General with some sort of medal of honor. A reward for your first-night-of-the-November-book scoop. Either way, a good thing.”

  “Oh, yeah, the pizza,” I say, disentangling myself, briefly, from Josh’s arms. “Of course.”

  I pad to the doorway and click the speaker button on the intercom.<
br />
  “Yes?” I say. Pepperoni, mushrooms and extra mozzarella. Just what I need.

  “Velocity Delivery Service,” a voice says. “You lost a suitcase? The airlines found it. We have it here for you. We just need a signature.”

  Epilogue

  “P

  lease make sure your seat backs and tray-tables are in the full upright position, and…” Josh unlaces his fingers from mine and unclasps his seat belt. Flipping up the two armrests between us for takeoff, he shifts from his aisle seat into the middle seat next to me, and clicks on his seat belt again.

  “You okay, sweetheart?” he asks. He threads his arm through mine, taking my hand again. He leans close to my ear. “This will all be worth it, I promise. You’re a good sport, sitting at another gate, keeping your eyes closed when we boarded. I told the agent it was a surprise.”

  “You sure we can’t just drive, wherever it is you’re taking me?” I reply. I’m only half joking. When Josh showed off our plane tickets, I couldn’t decide whether to be thrilled or terrified. “Mystery destination” he’d said. All he’d tell me was I needed a bathing suit, flip-flops and sunscreen. And since it’s almost December, I guess driving is out of the question.

  I cinch my seat belt tighter. And pretend. “I’m dandy, really,” I say. I can feel my smile is forced. “I’m just swell.”

  The flight attendant walks toward us, counting whatever it is they count, and touching each of the overhead compartments. She smiles down at us. “The weather in Miami is beautiful,” she says as she passes.

  I look at Josh. Miami? Maybe the flight attendant just let the cat out of the bag. Curiosity trumps fear, if only briefly.

  He raises a palm, twinkling at me. “Not a chance. Connecting flight. And I told the crew about my little surprise.”

  “I tried to get Penny to spill it,” I admit, checking my seat belt again. Maybe if we talk about something else, I’ll be distracted. “You know how secrets drive me crazy. But she insisted she didn’t know.”

  “She doesn’t,” Josh says. “She’s expecting a postcard from us.”

  So much for that idea. I’m not distracted. I’m freaking. Even my darling Josh can’t make my fear disappear. Even a secret romantic trip to a sunny destination won’t work.

  I still hate flying. I lean my forehead against the plastic window, looking out as the last of the bags are loaded onto the 757. At least there’s my suitcase, the new one, still recognizable by the D-M baggage tag Luca gave me. What did he write on that note? May every journey end with your heart’s desire? My heart’s desire is to get off this plane.

  The baggage handlers back away from the plane, then chug off in their empty cart. The cart, at least, brings a brief smile to my face. My secret weapon. And the clear victor in the cart versus Cessna battle. Guess they had to replace the cart that got mangled. And the plane. Which reminds me of plane crashes. Which reminds me of the lump in my stomach.

  “It always feels like I may never come back,” I say, still facing outside. I can feel Josh looking at me, but I’m so apprehensive I can’t face him. “Like I’m taking off into somewhere unknown. Alone. Leaving my…security, you know?”

  Josh’s roar of laughter surprises me. “This is the woman who faced down two thugs and a psychopath FBI agent armed with a .44 Magnum? The woman who risked her life for a friend? Yes, darling, I can see how much you crave security.”

  He leans close and kisses my cheek, then turns my face toward his with one finger. “And you think flying is dangerous?”

  The engines begin that whine, the wheels begin to move. I can feel my chest clench and I have to remember to breathe. For a moment, I can pretend it’s the plane parked next to us that’s actually underway. But it’s us.

  Focus on Josh. Focus on Josh. Focus on Josh. And from the look on his face, he’s focusing on me, too.

  “We’re together,” he says. “You’re not alone. Not in flying, not in your life.”

  I look at him, so earnest and genuine. Devoted. Hilarious. Patient. Maybe, just maybe. A wisp of a thought dances through my mind, so ephemeral it almost escapes. My contract with Channel 3 expires next June. Maybe I should…consider…

  “You’re not leaving. You’re arriving,” Josh continues. “And you need to know your journey is toward a new destination. Not away from an old one. You see? When you take off, that’s a beginning. Not an ending.”

  “Well, folks, we are next in line for takeoff on runway L115.” A voice crackles over the loudspeaker, almost understandable. “ETA in Miami is two and a half hours, with connecting flights to—” the announcement pauses, and I can hear some unintelligible voices in the background. “More on that later,” the voice turns exaggeratedly jovial. “But we’re told the weather is clear and sunny at all final destinations.”

  The plane slowly taxies down the tarmac, gradually picking up speed. And for an instant, I have a glimmer of what Josh means. I’ve done the same job for more than twenty years. Had the same life for more than twenty years. I love it, of course. And I’m happy. But if I don’t allow myself to take off, how will I ever get anywhere new? And maybe that’s how you know the real thing. If you’re willing to leave the ground. Let go. Fly.

  “As I was trying to tell you, before our captain so rudely interrupted,” Josh says. “I think I know your problem, Miss McNally. I think it’s time for you to stop flying solo.”

  “Well, yes, it is better with you here,” I say, and this time my smile is genuine. I curl both my arms around his, getting as close to him as I can despite the padded armrest between us for takeoff. “And you know, maybe I should think about—”

  Josh reaches into the pouch on the seat back in front of him. And pulls out a little blue box.

  A small, square, robin’s-egg-blue box tied with a white satin ribbon.

  “No more flying solo,” he says again. And he hands me the package.

  The roar of the engines fills the cabin, the gravity and velocity and speed pressing my head into the back of my seat. I feel the massive airplane, with me and Josh strapped inside, leave the ground and soar into the gray November sky, heading for a destination I still don’t know.

  What do I know? I know what’s in this little box. And I know what I’ll say after I open it.

  And where Josh and I will go after that? Well, we’ll have to take off first. And find out the rest when we arrive.

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-3875-0

  AIR TIME

  Copyright © 2009 by Hank Phillippi Ryan.

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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