David is signaling the person behind me to step to the front. But I can see him retrieve the claim check and slide it into a drawer. He’s not throwing it away. He’s keeping it.
This has been a pretty successful trip. And not only because the plane didn’t crash. Flying east through the darkness, even stuck in the middle seat between two armrest-hogging businessmen, I had a fairly brilliant idea. I could be way off base, of course. But if I’m right, I’ll be able to confirm my theory in the next twenty minutes. If I’m right, our story is an out-of-the-ballpark blockbuster. Still in my Elsa getup, with additional blue eye shadow and pink lipstick applied en route, I wave a thank-you to the flight attendants and head down the jetway. On full speed ahead.
Every bit of fear and worry and exhaustion has disappeared. I’m running on journalism adrenaline, the irresistible combination of lust for a story and the quest for answers. The beeper. Sally. I still have to call Franklin. But now, baggage claim.
I hurry, needing to be one of the first to baggage claim, which I know is all the way across the terminal. As I arrive, the black conveyor belt lurches into motion, and the klaxon alarm signals that suitcases are on the way.
Watching the passengers ignore me, I reassure myself. As Elsa, I’m invisible in Boston. Anonymous. And that works perfectly.
My black wheelie with the silver-gray tag spills over the top of the luggage belt and onto the circular carousel. As it begins its winding journey, I send it a silent promise that I’ll come back. Because that’s not the only bag I’m waiting for.
Stationing myself at the opening where the luggage first appears, I watch the bags intently as they go by, just like any other traveler. Unlike most other travelers, however, I’m looking for a claim check number. My bag is labeled with ten digits, ending in 4406. But I need a suitcase marked with the number I saw on the second check David K. printed out. And I know that one ends with 4407.
If the airlines compared claim checks before allowing passengers to take bags from the airport, what I think may be the counterfeit bag distribution scheme could never work. But in Boston, as in so many airports, they don’t.
The suitcases are appearing more quickly now. One after the other, they fall out the opening and are dumped down the angle of the belt to land on the carousel. My own bag trundles by me, and I know I have to let it continue. If my plan works, I won’t be able to carry two suitcases. I need to keep checking.
A huge black wheelie balances, briefly, at the opening of the chute. The tag is perfectly visible. And it ends with 4407.
It tips over the edge. I can’t take my eyes off it as it travels the short journey to the carousel. It’s right in front of me. With a quick glance confirming no one else has their eye on it and a fleeting prayer to the news gods, I grab the bag by its black handle and wrench it from the carousel.
The second its wheels hit the ground, I whirl away and make a dash for the ladies’ room. I look over my shoulder. Anyone see me? Anyone noticing?
No.
I hoist the black bag across the toilet seat. It’s heavier than it looks, and so big the wheels almost hit one wall of the tiny metal enclosure while the handle touches the other.
I reach for the zipper. And only then do I see the tiny padlock, holding two zipper pulls together. Of course. It’s locked.
Hands on hips, I stare with frustration at the black bag in front of me. I have to open it. Maybe it’s not really locked, the unlikely thought pops into my brain. I yank the little silver square, hoping it’ll just open. No such luck. I lean against the door of the stall, thinking. If this bag is not being picked up by the passenger who sent it from Atlanta, how would they get a key? What’s more perplexing, airline rules now say you can’t lock your suitcase, except with a TSA approved lock. And this isn’t one of them. That means…I feel my brain churning ahead, struggling to make sense of this.
That means. Someone locked this suitcase after it was put through security. And whoever locked it knew someone would need the key to open it. So where would they put it?
I unzip a flat pocket on the outside of the bag, and slide my hand to the bottom. And I feel something. Small. Metal. I scrabble to get it out. It’s the key.
It unclicks the lock instantly. Almost hearing the clock ticking away my safety, I carefully pull open the zipper all the way around the perimeter of the bag. With every inch, I search for something that may be a trap, or a setup to ensure no one has tampered with it, but I can’t see anything. And I don’t have time to look more closely.
Lifting the top of the bag, I prop the edge up against the stall wall. And stare. It’s a bonanza. I’ve uncovered a fashionista’s fantasyland, a jaw-dropping array that looks like the spoils of someone’s obsessive-compulsive shopping spree. Three separate piles, stacked so tightly they expanded when I released the constricting zipper. Each pile is a stack of flattened-out, shrink-wrapped packages. Inside each package, what looks like brown fabric. No markings on the plastic. No tags. I tentatively lift a few packages, one by one. They’re identical. And there must be-I quickly count, just getting an estimate. Two hundred of them. Two hundred fifty.
With barely a hesitation, I grab one, scrutinizing one side, then the other. A tiny piece of tape holds it closed. Easing the tape away from the plastic flap, a millimeter at a time so I don’t tear it, I put my hand inside. I feel suede. I gently, carefully, release the fabric from the plastic, trying to remember how it’s folded so I can replace it. As it emerges, I see fringe, and a braided drawstring with three gold balls at each end. I hold it up, mesmerized. I don’t have time for this. But I can’t believe it.
This looks exactly like the Angelina bag. A purse that’s not even on the market yet. A purse that supposedly no one has seen outside of the Delleton-Marachelle inner circle. Real ones will sell for ten thousand dollars each.
I attempt the math. Which involves too many zeroes. But I can easily calculate that if bags of bags like this are crisscrossing the U.S., bringing big bucks to those who foist them off as authentic, or even as cut-rate copies, this is a bonanza. I stare at the faux Angelina. Should I just sneak it into my bag? Take it as evidence?
I yank my ponytail tighter into the scrunchie. No one to discuss this with but myself.
Yes. I’ll take it. I’ll need it as proof of what appears to be an amazing scheme: that phony claim checks are being used to send extra baggage, carrying counterfeit merchandise, onto airplanes. At the other end of the pipeline, counterfeit passengers just stroll in and pick up the unclaimed suitcases at the baggage carousel. Then they sell the purses inside them for a big profit.
Talk about free shipping.
The FBI-and Katie Harkins-will go crazy. They’ll be able to trace airplane passengers, see who else was issued claim checks. And which ticket agents issued them. David K., for one, is clearly involved. And Edgar in Atlanta. And I realize, if anyone traced the numbers, this bag would be assigned to my ticket.
No. It’s stealing. What if it isn’t what I think it is? Even if it is, I will have taken someone’s bag. Not taken, stolen someone’s bag, albeit briefly. And now I’m contemplating stealing something out of the bag? Taking it with me? I flash a mental replay of that video of the Housatonic River. And then of that burned-out shell of a house on Glendower Street.
Definitely no. I pause, using up even more time that I don’t have. Then I yank my purse open and take out my cell phone. I know it’s never taken longer to power up. “Come on, come on,” I silently mouth the words. “Do it, do it, do it.”
I snap one photo of the bag. Then one of the suitcase full of plastic bags. I allow myself a smile, hoping no one’s hearing me take photos in the bathroom stall. That would be hard to explain.