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  I see Franklin’s eyes widen as he watches me examine the photos. He bites his lower lip. We have no way of communicating. No way to collaborate. No way to plan our response. Do we reveal the state police are asking us the same questions?

  “Charlie?” Keresey prompts. “I’m betting you’ve attended a purse party or two. You don’t have to tell me any more. All I want to know is whether either of you have seen this woman at any of the parties? And if you have, did you get video of her? So, Charlie, you first.”

  Which means I’m the one who has to make the strategy decision. Right now. Three long-legged girls jog by us, wearing crimson Harvard T-shirts and tight black shorts. We have to pull our legs in to let them by.

  In that second, I decide. I’ll tell her the truth.

  But not the whole truth.

  “No, I never saw this woman at a party,” I say, shaking my head as I point to the pictures. Which is true. I didn’t see her at the party. Or on our tape. Or anywhere in real life. Keresey didn’t ask if I’d seen her photograph.

  “Franklin?”

  “Nope.” His dark skin goes a little gray, which only I would notice. Franklin, son of a Mississippi minister, still has a tough time lying.

  “Who is she?” I ask. I do want to know, but I also want to let Franklin recover. I hope Keresey doesn’t push us here, because we’re headed toward some murky journalism waters. As Kevin explained to Detective Yens, sharing our raw information with law enforcement is totally taboo. We do research, we examine documents, we get the scoop. And we keep it to ourselves until we decide how much of it goes on the air. What’s kept off the air stays off-limits.

  Plus, if the FBI doesn’t know what the state cops are doing, maybe there’s a good reason. I’m not going to be the doofus who compromises some complicated investigation.

  Keresey tamps the photos on her knees, lining them up, then slips them back into her bag.

  “It was a long shot. Look,” she says. “I’m not saying you guys are going undercover. But if you do—keep an eye out for her, okay? Just let me know, back channel, if and when you see her. And where. Can you do that for me? I promise, I’ll make it worth your while.”

  A little journalism bargaining is fine with me, but I’m still curious.

  “Keresey, who is she?” I ask, ignoring her proposition. “And forgive me, but does Lattimer know you’re here?”

  Keresey stands, and turns back toward the Boston side of the bridge. She gestures with a hand, let’s walk. “I’ve only talked with her via e-mail. She’s a former agent, Lattimer says. Years ago. Ten. Maybe more. Lives in D.C. now. Knows Lattimer.”

  “And what does she do these days?” Like I don’t already know.

  “Out on her own, Lattimer says. Private investigations. Lots of retired agents go that route. No money in working for Uncle Sam, as we all know. Guess she figured she paid her patriotic dues. Anyway, apparently she’s working with some big purse companies. Tracking down counterfeits. Her name is Katherine Harkins. Katie Harkins. Lattimer calls her the Prada P.I., though he says she works for several companies. Fendi. Delleton-Marachelle. Ever hear of her?”

  I calculate, hesitating before I answer. I’m exceptionally fond of Keresey. But it’s tough to have friends when you’re a reporter. I need to balance our relationship with our responsibilities. The almost-truth will work here. “I think I’ve seen her mentioned in newspaper articles, yes,” I say.

  “Anyway, she’s been feeding us info on some in-house investigations, leads they’ve picked up,” Keresey says. “Many companies now are trying to track counterfeiters on their own. They’re looking for manufacturers. Suppliers. Distribution chains. Even little fish. But they have no police powers. They rely on law enforcement to take them down.”

  “And so?” Franklin asks. “This Katie Harkins? What about her?”

  “And so,” Keresey says, “we haven’t heard from her in a few days. And that’s unusual.”

  We divide up to walk down the final steps off the bridge, arriving in a grassy mini-park at the end of Charles Street.

  “Dammit,” Franklin interrupts. He points a finger ahead of him. “Look.”

  We both follow his instructions. And we a see a bright orange piece of paper on our windshield. We’ve gotten a parking ticket.

  “I’ll be right back,” Franklin says.

  He strides toward the car, holding up his arm, and pointing to his watch. “I’m positive we had five more minutes on the meter,” he announces over his shoulder. “City Hall, here I come.”

  “Franklin never gets a ticket,” I explain. “He’s very organized.”

  Keresey smiles. “How well I know. Wish I could fix it for him, but we don’t have any control or connection with the Boston cops. Or the staties, for that matter. We’re federal jurisdiction only.”

  Aha. So the FBI may not know what the state cops are doing. Which means it may have been a good thing I kept quiet about Detective Yens and his set of photographs. But why do they have the same photos? Certainly can’t ask Keresey. Time to change the subject.

  “How are you, anyway?” I ask, touching Keresey on the arm. “I don’t see you enough, and Maysie’s always asking for you. You liking your assignment? You having any fun?”

  “Well, you know, I’m just a middle-aged married lady,” Keresey says.

  I step back, hands on hips. “Keresey Stone, you’re holding out on me. Last time we talked you were bemoaning your 35-year-old fate. ‘No one wants to date a sharp-shooting, drug-hating, law-abiding federal agent,’ was, I think, along the lines of your complaint. And now you’re telling me you’re married?”

  “Yup,” Keresey says. Then she smiles. Twinkling. “I gave up on the whole man thing.”

  This is surprising. “You—?”

  “Oh, not that,” says. “Not that there’s—”

  “Anything wrong with that,” I finish.

  “Right. But I realized I couldn’t find the perfect man because I had already found him.” She opens her jacket and flashes the black-and-silver FBI badge pinned to the sleek satin lining inside. “I realized I was already married. To Uncle Sam.”

  Single. Been there. Married to her job. Done that. Do I tell her how she may feel in ten years? Do I warn her?

  Every time Mom tried to convince me to “forget about that silly local television” and “come home to Chicago” where I could be “truly happy,” I politely went to her dinner parties. And then came home. Did what I thought was right for me. When Maysie urged me to “be flexible” and “open-minded” with a parade of single but impossible judges and CEOs, I politely went on the dates. And then came home. Did what I thought was right for me.

  But now, having settled all these years into single, my heart is having a bit of a struggle adjusting to the possibility of “my life” becoming “our life.” Making room for Josh. And Penny. And it could be I’m meant to be single. Maybe that’s what’s right for me.

  To each her own. Slinging one arm over Keresey’s shoulders, I give my pal a quick hug. “Congrats, Mrs. Sam. At least you won’t have to write thank-you notes.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “S

  peaking of tickets,” Franklin says. He stabs his orange violation notice to his bulletin board with a pushpin. “The good news is, the Delleton-Marachelle visit came through. Done deal. Got the message on my voice mail when we got back from Keresey. I already called the travel agent to check out schedules and plane tickets.” “For when?”

  “Tomorrow, if we can get there. Or the day after. Apparently the D-M marketing director.” He consults a pad on his desk, and holds it up to show me the name. “Someone named Urszula Mazny-Latos? She’s called Zuzu. Is jet-setting back to Paris first thing Monday. So it’s got to be a weekend deal. Saturday or Sunday. Maybe both, if tomorrow works out. I’ll work on getting us a crew from the Atlanta affiliate. If this Zuzu will let us bring a camera.”

  This is great news. We’re getting unprecedented inside access, and the potentia
l for fascinating video. I should be thrilled. Instead, I’m seeing a romantic makeup weekend with Josh slip-sliding away. And at a deal-breakingly terrible time.

  “No way to do it Monday?” I ask. I twist one of my legs around the other. “You sure?”

  Franklin looks at me quizzically, then snorts. “What happened to Miss ‘there are no weekends in TV news’? How many times have I heard you pronounce that j-school credo to your eager little interns? And now, suddenly Saturday exists?”

  He’s right. For the last twenty years, almost nothing has come before my job. Dad’s funeral, of course. I struggle to come up with another example. And fail. Now I’m trying to change the date of an important interview to protect an important dinner date. Am I losing my edge? Or gaining something else?

  “Don’t ‘oh, ho’ me, Franklin B. Parrish. Stephen is out of town anyway, right? On one of his accountant things? So you don’t care. But my future is probably at stake here.”

  “Well, it certainly is if you don’t get on the plane to Atlanta G-A.” Franklin gives me an evil smile. “Unless you can explain to Kevin and Susannah why Brenda Starr has suddenly turned slacker.”

  I sigh, and check the wall clock. Josh and I have dinner plans for tonight. Penny’s favorite Chinese carry-out at his house. Over egg rolls and dim sum, I’ll soon be forced to explain how our weekend just crashed and burned.

  Crashed and burned. Not the best words to use before getting on an airplane.

  A thought skitters through my head. A good one.

  “Charlotte?” Franklin asks. “Yoo hoo, reporter girl. I’ve been talking for the past two minutes about the plane schedules the travel agent just e-mailed. Did you hear anything at all?”

  “You know what I was thinking?” I ignore his sarcasm. “Let’s look at the undercover video again. You have the tape handy?”

  Franklin pulls out a green plastic bin marked “Purse” from under his desk. Inside is a series of yellow tape cassettes, each carefully labeled in Franklin’s precise handwriting. He selects the one marked “UC-1. G Barrington. Exteriors and ints. Sally,” and hands it to me.

  “Here. Pop it into the viewer,” he says. “But why?”

  “Go with me here,” I say, sliding the cassette into the opening. I push Play and the black screen dissolves into those shaky pictures.

  “Let’s look again, in another way,” I say, peering closely at the screen. “I’m wondering. What if just-call-me-Sally is actually the Prada P.I.? Let’s say, she’s infiltrated the Designer Doubles organization. Talk about counterfeit. You plop a wig of coppery curls on someone, you know? Change the makeup? We know my disguise worked for me. Those waitresses at the restaurant didn’t recognize me. And if Sally is actually Katie, she might not have recognized me, either. Katie’s not even from around here, remember? And I did wonder, in that mall, whether we were both pretending to be someone else.”

  “Only you saw Sally in person,” Franklin says. “I probably won’t be much help. But, hey, it could happen. Brilliant idea, anyway.”

  I scroll the video into fast forward, searching for the first time I got Sally on camera.

  “Wish we had those photos,” I murmur. “It would make this easier.”

  “Want to call the cops and ask for copies? Or call Keresey? I’m sure they’d be more than thrilled to help us.” Franklin wheels his chair up to the monitor, then takes off his glasses, cleaning them with his special wipe. “You know, that was quite the morning we had, wasn’t it? You, me, Yens, Keresey. And every one of us, at some point, was lying.”

  Nothing like the smell of fried food. The pungent mix of salt, oil and forbidden carbs draws me, irresistibly, through the back screen door and into Josh’s kitchen. A brown paper bag, the top rolled down and stapled closed, waits tantalizingly on the island in the middle of the room. Grease stains already darken the bottom. Another brown bag, smaller, has already been ripped open. Beside it someone dumped a pile of chopsticks covered in paper sleeves, shiny plastic packets of duck sauce and hot yellow mustard, and a plastic-wrapped selection of multicolored rice puffs. Next to that, a crinkled pile of cellophane suggests a certain nine-year-old has no willpower. And proves her father has been out of the room.

  “What does ‘Confucius say’ mean?” Penny is studying a strip of white paper, crumbles of fortune cookie still clinging to her mouth.

  “It means your father is going to flip when he sees you’ve already eaten all the fortune cookies, my little unfortunate cookie,” I say, giving the top of her head a quick kiss.

  “Not all of them.” Penny, the picture of innocence, pulls out one cookie from the flapped pocket of her cargo pants, then another. They’re crumpled and battered in their plastic pouches. Used cookies.

  “I saved one for you, Charlie Mac. And one for Daddy.” She examines the brown bag, now literally oozing kung pao sauce. “Mom never lets us have Chinese food. She says it has monster glutamate.”

  She starts unwrapping chopsticks, breaking each set apart with a twist and a crack. “I’ll help,” she says, putting the two “saved” cookies on the counter.

  Maybe mine will say “you are going on a long journey.” That would at least provide a much-needed segue to the unfortunate conversation I’m soon going to have. I’d already gone home to pack my suitcase for Atlanta and it’s waiting now in my trunk. My plan is to leave my Jeep in Josh’s garage until I get home. Turns out, our plane leaves first thing in the morning. Josh doesn’t know any of this. Yet. And I want to savor tonight as long as I can.

  “Where’s your dad?” I ask.

  “Right here, of course.” A voice comes down the hall, followed by my darling Josh. He looks just out of the shower, hair still damply tousled. And he’s particularly fetching in his oldest Levi’s, ripped at the knees, and a stretched-out V-neck sweater, gray T-shirt underneath. It’s all I can do to keep from running my hands up under that sweater. I’ve always thought he looks just like my teen pin-up heartthrob from To Kill a Mockingbird, Atticus Finch. At least how Gregory Peck looked as Atticus in the movie.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” I say. I fiddle with some paper napkins to give my hands something more socially acceptable to do.

  “Hey, Daddo.” Penny looks up from her chopsticks project. A pile of shredded chopstick sleeves now litters the counter. “I’m helping.”

  “I see that, Pen. Great job. Hey, sweetheart.” Josh smells of citrus and toothpaste as he winds an arm around my waist. He gently kisses my ear. “Weekend plans,” he whispers. “Listen to this.”

  Josh keeps his arm around me, but focuses on Penny. His voice changes to the parental tone designed to convey information to me without letting Penny know his true meaning. “So tell me again—what time is Emma’s mom coming to pick you up for the slumber party?”

  “Oh, Daddo, you know it’s seven, right?” Penny says. She’s using her long-suffering-child tone. “And then I get to stay all night at Emma and Kristin’s. Then Mom will pick me up tomorrow. Don’t you remember anything?”

  “Nope,” Josh says. He reaches over and taps her on the head with a duck sauce packet. “That’s why I have you.”

  I see what’s going on. And any other night, I would be doing a quick personal inventory—slinky-enough underwear, sleek-enough legs, toothbrush available—in preparation for the deliciously private and child-free romance-novel evening Josh clearly has in mind. This night, though, I fear his plot is going to be thwarted.

  My stomach twists with what’s ahead. And I don’t mean the monster glutamate.

  I have to tell him soon. I’ve stalled through the spring rolls and dim sum. I’ve stalled through the reheated General Gau’s chicken. Penny’s upstairs doing the last of her slumber party packing and Josh and I are trying to figure out what’s in a dish the Shing Yee Palace carry-out menu calls “Two Delights in the Nest.”

  “I couldn’t resist,” Josh says, picking through the exotic concoction with one chopstick. “I could only think of you as a ‘delight in the nest.’ And onc
e I had that mental picture, well, it just seemed too perfect.”

  “You’re in a goofy mood, Professor Gelston,” I say. “I remind you of Chinese food?”

  “Well, it’s delicious. And unpredictable. And always wonderful.” Josh points to me with his chopstick. “And I love it. So why not?”

  The three white pillar candles on the dining room table flicker and drip into their chunky glass holders. I had snipped some bronze and crimson leaves from the backyard maple, and arranged them as a centerpiece among the candles. It’s just the two of us, Josh at the end of the table, me beside him, both with a view of the first fire of the season—unnecessary but hypnotic—crackling softly in the living room. We’ve uncorked a special sauvignon blanc. Our favorite Ella CD plays in the background. We’re a glossy ad for middle-aged lust. Exploring the second time around. And as soon as Penny leaves, I’ve got to stop the music.

  “So listen,” Josh interrupts my doomsday thoughts. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

  I hold my chopsticks in midair. A noodle dangles, then slithers back to my plate. “Tomorrow…?”

  “Yup. If you’re not busy—” He pauses, smiling mysteriously, letting this preposterous idea hang briefly between us. “If you’re not otherwise occupied, I have a little treat in store.”

  My chopsticks haven’t moved. Tomorrow night at this time I’ll be in Atlanta. There’s no way out of that. Even under normal circumstances, that was going to be complicated enough to explain. Now some unknown “treat,” which my frazzled brain is unable to fathom, is about to be dropped like a grenade into my life. Our lives.

  “Treat?”

  “The Royal Shakespeare Company. One performance only. And you know it was instantly sold out.” Josh is looking so pleased with himself, it brings tears to my eyes.