Air Time Read Online Free PDF Page B

I say, throwing my tote bag onto the extra chair in our office. I glare at my desk. “And you know how I feel about mail piled on my desk.” I gather up the pile of letters, press releases and junk our current intern has unceremoniously delivered and deposit it on the floor. Swiveling into my chair, I put down my coffee and hold out my hand.“Let’s see those bags again. What’s the scoop? Is one a fake? Who do they belong to? Did you get them from the Prada P.I.? Today? I can’t believe she canceled the meeting.”
    “Me, either. And no note about why she cancelled. Annoying. Someone in her office left a message on my voice mail, just saying ‘Katie Harkins will have to reschedule.’ I e-mailed her to set us up again, but I haven’t heard back. I also talked to the special agent in charge of the FBI’s counterfeit squad. Marren Lattimer? You know of him, right? He’s new?”
    I nod. My FBI pals told me he’d just been transferred to the Boston office from down south someplace. The new special agent in charge. “SAC” they call it. Like “sack.” “So the new SAC’s interested? He’ll help us?” I ask.
    “Yup. I explained what we’re looking for,” Franklin continues. “Lattimer says the bureau has started a whole operation targeting fakes—they’ve even named it. Operation Knockoff. Says he ‘blew the lid off’ a phony purse ring in Atlanta, so the ‘brass’ sent him here. We’ve got an appointment at headquarters tomorrow.”
    Franklin picks up the bags again, offering them to me. “Anyway. Speaking of knockoffs. Which is real? Can you tell? And if so, how? Oh.”
    He stops, looking toward our office doorway, and puts the bags back down. “Hello, Susannah.”
    I can’t believe I didn’t smell the warning fragrance. A waft of her trademark Poison usually heralds the arrival of Susannah Smith-Bagley, the “news doctor” consultant Channel 3 management hired to “young up” the news. She actually says “young up.” I think she’s more about “the buzz” than “the news,” all platinum hair and collagened face, a package of pretense straight from the coast. Even her shoes. The platforms of her patentleather pumps rival that girl in the airport. Regine. The belt artfully twisted over Susannah’s bouclé jacket alternates chunky pearls and gold links. She might as well be wearing a T-shirt that says “I heart Chanel.” No one I know of hearts Susannah.
    “Thanks for the teamwork in Baltimore, Charlie. Too bad there wasn’t a plane crash,” she says, eyeing me. A pause. A curl of her plump lip. “You haven’t been home yet, I see.”
    Franklin risks giving me a surreptitious eye-roll as Susannah attempts to raise one waxed brow at my tote that’s occupying our extra chair. I grab the bag and stash it under my desk, balancing it atop my collection of backup shoes.
    She descends into the throne, one silky leg swishing over the other. Queen bee and the drones.
    “Anyway, you two. Just checking on your ‘It’s in the Bag’ story for November,” she says. “Do you love it?” She looks at us, back and forth, as if she’s expecting we’ll applaud yet another cliché of a title ripped from the news-consultant handbook. We don’t.
    I smile noncommittally. Change direction. “Well, we were just looking at some purses, matter of fact. From the Prada P.I.? She’s the private investigator who scouts for the fakes. Franklin found her mentioned in some newspaper article and tracked her down. She’s been giving us the scoop via e-mail on the secret signs manufacturers use to designate the genuine article. And she’s arranging for us to visit the actual Delleton-Marachelle design studio in Georgia.”
    “Well, in fact, I found her through a reporter pal who had used her as a source in Atlanta. Gave me her e-mail. And she didn’t—” Franklin begins.
    I’m realizing it might actually be a good thing oldSusannah showed up. This creates the perfect opportunity for us to make