Glancing around the claim area, I hope no one is watching me talk to the conveyor belt. I consider taking out my cell phone and pretending to have a conversation. No one would notice me then. But it hardly matters. There’s not a soul nearby. And maybe the black flaps are hiding me from view, too. That’s a comforting thought, disguise or not.
“Put your bag on the conveyor,” the voice commands. “Then wait until it comes back to you. Pick it up and look inside.”
Following directions, I watch my red bag glide through the baffles and ride out into who knows where. And into who knows whose hands. One of the orphan suitcases follows it. I wait, mesmerized by the mechanical sounds of the moving belt, the slapping of the flaps, the muffled airport public address system intermittently croaking unintelligible instructions, the televisions’ constant muted stream of shape-shifting news reports.
Then I see my shopping bag is back on the conveyor. It’s now on the other side of the claim area, all the way at the beginning of the belt. It’s moving toward me, down one side of the elongated black curve, then up the other, getting closer, inch by inch. I can see the red heart logo. Read the slogan. See the Elle magazine still sticking out the top. Every muscle in my body yearns to go grab it. But I’ve been told to wait. A little warning murmur buzzes through my brain, muttering about unattended bags in airports, did someone ask you to carry anything, did you pack your own bag. I reassure myself. That’s not what this is about.
When the bag gets almost to arm’s length, I can’t stand it. I can see it looks no different than when I placed it on the belt not five minutes ago. When it gets close enough, I snatch it, greedy to see what’s inside.
“Ten minutes.” I startle, as I hear the voice from behind me. “You have ten minutes to return the bag.”
“How do I…?” I begin.
“Get going,” the voice commands.
Another scan of the baggage claim area. Sunday evening in Hartford is apparently not the busiest time. For now, it looks like I’m by myself. On this side of the wall, at least.
I head for a bank of chairs, my bag clutched to my chest. Sitting down, I take a deep breath and look inside.
It’s just the magazine. I flip the pages, baffled. And then, there it is. Between the pages, something new has been added.
A triple folded, letter-sized white piece of paper. Nothing that looks even potentially dangerous. It’s obviously an order form. A photocopy. A yellow sticky note is attached to the top. In small blocky letters, the words all crammed together, someone has written instructions in magic marker. Fill out. Place in bag. Bag on belt. Then wait. You have ten minutes.
I check my watch, then skim the form, reading as fast as I can. There’s a list of descriptions, no brand names, but it’s clear what they’re offering. It’s a shopping list of knockoff bags.
Red-and-camel striped clutch bag, the first line says. That’s obviously meant to suggest Burberry. Quilted black patent tote with CC lettering. Chanel, it doesn’t say. Brown-and-cream hobo shoulder strap pouch, stripes. A fake Fendi. Black satchel with one red and green stripe, G logo. Gucci. Brown suede tote with three gold balls on drawstring.
I blink, staring at that description. That sounds like it could be the Angelina. A bag that’s not even the market yet.
A flood of fear washes over me. This is me, in over my head. As the seconds tick by, I battle the urge to get up and run. I could take the list with me as evidence. Of what? I have six minutes left.
I need to talk with someone. At least brainstorm with Franklin. Problem is, I can’t pick up my phone to call him. Whoever is behind the flaps is certainly watching me. I’m on my own. I have to decide on my own. The only person to talk to is myself.
The cons: It’s risky. They could already know who I am. They could find out. They could find Franklin. Josh. Penny. I should leave this to Keresey and Lattimer. If the bad guys are burning down houses, no story is worth that.
The pros: No one knows I’m undercover except Franklin. Those purse parties are everywhere. The bad guys, whoever they are, have no idea I was at that particular house. The fire could be a coincidence. An accident. There aren’t any other fires. And it’s not like I even expect to find Mr. Big. I’m just seeing where the darn bags come from and how they’re distributed. They gave me an order form, for heaven’s sake. How prosaically unscary can anything get?
“Do it?” I ask myself.
“Do it,” I reply.
I check off the boxes for some fake Burberrys, Fendis, three Chanels and four of what I’m theorizing might be copies of Delleton-Marachelle’s still unreleased treasure, the Angelina bag. I’ll send one of those to Zuzu right away. She’ll go bananas.
I enter the number of our undercover credit card. The last entry on the form says, “request delivery date.” I pause, my pencil hovering over the blank line. The sooner the better, I think. Day after tomorrow.
Less than a minute to go. The muscles in my neck and back tense and tighten as I walk with all the nonchalance I can muster back to the conveyor belt. I know the person waiting for this is not going to leap out and grab me, that wouldn’t make sense. And if security spots me, well, I’m not doing anything wrong. And I’m sure not going to point them to the man behind the curtain. Whoever it is.
The conveyor is still in motion, clanking and whirring, endlessly carrying those remaining suitcases on their circuitous journey. I return to my assigned place at the end of the line and watch the black plastic belt move through the flaps and get swallowed up into the darkness beyond. Hesitating only for a second, I put down the Hartford bag; the Elle magazine and completed order form now tucked inside. And I watch them disappear.
A klaxon wail, combination of buzzer and bells and alarms, instantly begins, ringing and echoing across the tile walls of the baggage claim area. A surge of panic races through me, tears well in my eyes. I’m caught. I’m caught. I’m caught. And there’s no way to explain it.
It’s a setup. Of course it’s a setup. A trap. Why didn’t I think of this? My thoughts tumble on top of each other, reality revealed with heart-stopping speed. The feds don’t know it’s me, I realize, they’re just grabbing the next stupidly greedy idiot who’s signing up to cash in on phony fashion and rip off the purse designers.
The escalator is suddenly full of people. My eyes are so blurry, on the verge of crying, it takes me a moment to grasp who they are.
Passengers.
At that moment, a tumble of bags breaks through the flaps of the conveyor belt. Black wheelies, battered backpacks, corrugated boxes tied with twine, a case of wine. The passengers, alerted to their arriving possessions by the blaring signal, swarm to claim their belongings. I’m so relieved I almost miss what’s also on the conveyor. Upright and solitary. Moving along as if it belongs with all the rest.
My red Hartford bag. I race over to grab it, now just one of dozens of weary and anonymous people yanking their property back into safety. I look inside. The magazine is gone. At the bottom of the bag is a beeper.
Chapter Seventeen
I’m still punching buttons on the beeper as I race to Baggage Claim A, hoping my suitcase is still there and not already swiped by some treasure-hunting traveler. The black plastic device was already switched on, but there were no messages and no instructions. I clip it, still turned on, to the waistband of my jeans. I guess I’m supposed to wait. And I cannot wait to tell Franklin. But first I’m going to retrieve my suitcase. If it’s still there.
Thankful for my flats, I run down the escalator steps. There’s a lighted sign indicating my Flight 242 from Boston. Underneath, the luggage carousel is still carrying a collection of suitcases. A few others are disgorging down a chute onto the conveyer below. I spot my black wheelie, with my new silver-gray tag still attached, tumbling end over end as it hits bottom and begins to circle.