“Yes,” I say out loud. Score. I trot over toward my quarry, then stop in my tracks. I’ve spotted something more interesting than my suitcase. There’s someone I recognize at the far end of the baggage claim.
Regine.
Tucking myself out of sight behind an information booth, I keep half an eye on my bag as I watch Regine surveying the arriving cargo. She’s wearing perfectly tailored jeans again and pointy-toed boots. This time she’s in a leather jacket. Her tawny blond hair, just as I remember, falls sleekly around her shoulders. She’s already chosen one large black suitcase from the carousel. Not the designer bag that had brought us together in Baltimore. And she’s clearly scouting for more.
What the hell is Regine doing picking up suitcases from Flight 242? I’m certain as I can be that she was not on my plane. I didn’t see her when I checked my bag at the ticket counter in Boston. I didn’t see her in the waiting area. Reluctant-to-fly me was, as always, the last to board. My seat was in the back. I walked past all the other passengers. She wasn’t there. But maybe she’s meeting someone.
I’m an idiot. Was it me? It certainly was not her voice giving me instructions.
Is she the girl in Luca’s photograph? I strain to get a better look at her, comparing her face with my fading memory of the somewhat younger girl in the photo. Possibly, but I can’t be sure.
Regine is watching the selection of suitcases move steadily by her, tapping one booted toe. A garishly patterned tapestry satchel with a red ribbon tied on the handle. A little girl’s pink plastic Little Mermaid bag. A battered brown leather case, so old-fashioned it doesn’t have wheels. My black bag with its iconic and expensive designer tag edges into her line of vision. I see her body language shift, and she leans over, as if to check the tag.
Or take my suitcase.
The puzzle falls into place. Maybe that’s why she “practically lives at airports,” as I remember she told me in Baltimore. She steals suitcases.
Not this time, honey.
Before she can make a move, I’m beside her. I reach across in front of her, blocking her view and her access. “Excuse me, that’s mine,” I say, keeping my voice pleasant. No need for a confrontation. I hoist my bag from the belt, and place it protectively behind me, realizing I’m probably overreacting. After all, lots of suitcases look alike.
“Sorry?” she says. She looks me up and down, as if I’d interrupted her very important train of thought.
Now we’ll see if she recognizes me. Not as Charlie McNally, but as the woman she gave the Designer Doubles card to in Baltimore. Today, as Elsa, I look a lot different. But if she says something, so what. I have as much right to be here as she does.
There’s no reaction. Nothing. She whirls away, looking annoyed at my intrusion. She’s focused on the luggage, not on a middle-aged traveler.
Is she the girl in the photo? Impossible to tell. I open my mouth to ask, then stop. That’s a can of worms. What good would it do? And I have to make sure I get a flight back to Boston.
I loop the strap of the I Heart Hartford bag over the extended handle of my suitcase, annoyed. This baggage claim system does not work. That girl could have taken my suitcase. Airports are all about security when the bags go onto the plane, but coming off? You’re on your own.
Heading back up the escalator and into the terminal, I’m hyper-aware of the unfamiliar beeper clipped to my waistband. I check it again, flipping up the screen so I can see it as I walk. Still no messages. Still no buzzes or beeps or vibrations. I’m connected to someone now, that’s for sure. And I wish I knew who.
My eyes are glued to the screen above me. I’ve already confirmed there’s one last flight to Boston tonight, leaving at ten. Just enough time for me to check my bag again and get to the gate with a few minutes to spare. This is a good thing, because right now I have to watch TV. The local all-news cable channel, all graphics and swirling images, is flashing “Developing Story.”
My neck begins to hurt, tilted at a muscle-wrenching angle to see the screen. The sound is muted, too low to hear. But the usually bothersome graphics crawl at the bottom of the screen, coupled with the all-too-understandable video, making it clear what happened. And where it happened. Maddeningly, there’s no Who. Or Why. The crawl of words starts again.
“Rescue workers have pulled the body of an unknown woman from the Housatonic River. Police say early evidence shows signs of robbery and foul play. Police are asking the public for help in identifying her. She is in her forties, about five feet two inches tall. Very curly dark red hair, blue jeans and designer T-shirt. If you have information, please call…”
As I watch the words go by a third time, my mind is racing. Calculating. Facing reality. No question, this murder victim is just-call-me-Sally. I know it is. Yanking out my cell phone, I hit Franklin’s speed dial while trotting toward my last ticket agent of the day. I have so much to tell him. Now this. Wonder if he knows about it? He would have called me. Maybe.
It takes forever for the call to connect and of course there’s only one person in front of me. Just as Franklin’s voice mail clicks in, it’s my turn to cross the yellow line and head to the desk.
The bored-looking agent, possibly a failed bodybuilder from the looks of the biceps under his airline-issue blue polyester shirt, acknowledges me, then glares at my phone. I flap my cell shut, smiling apologetically. I dig for the proper credit card, hoping Kevin doesn’t go berserk over having to pay for all these plane tickets. They weren’t exactly authorized. I look again at the still-silent beeper. I’m hoping it’ll be worth it.
“The 10:00 p.m. flight to Boston?” I say, handing over my card. “One seat? One way? One bag to check.”
“There are seats available.” The agent taps his computer, talking to me without looking at me. Reciting. “Did anyone pack your bags for you? Anything hazardous or flammable?”
“Nope.”
I see him hit the enter button, then watch as my baggage claim check spits out from the printer. And then another one. I purse my lips, remembering. Two baggage claim checks for one bag. This is exactly what happened in Atlanta. But Franklin’s not with me this time. I’m clearly alone and I clearly said one suitcase. Maybe it’s nothing, but every reporter instinct tells me this is not a coincidence. It’s not a mistake. I’m just not sure what it actually is.
“Oh, golly, I only have one bag, David K,” I say, reading his name tag as I point to the second claim check. I try to lift my suitcase onto the scale, pretending it’s heavy, bestowing the agent-hulk a flirty smile. “Just this one.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” David says. He reaches down to help little me, then hands me one of the checks. I watch as he peels the slick backing from its matching bar-coded label and bends down to stick the identification tag around the handle of my bag.
It’s now or never. I heft my purse onto the edge of the counter, and with a squeak of damsel-in-distress dismay, tip the entire thing onto his workspace.
“I am so sorry, it just fell over,” I say, acting flustered and dismayed. I turn to the person waiting in line behind me, apologizing again, then I lean over the counter, scooping up my belongings. And along with them, the second claim check.
David is chasing after some of my pencils and a package of mints that rolled off the desk and are heading toward parts unknown. And that gives me just enough time to compare the numbers on the two checks. The one I’m giving back is just one number higher than the one I’m keeping.
“Oh, thank you,” I say. Prettily as can be. I’ve already replaced the purloined paper right where it was when we started, in plain view, on the agent’s desk.