“What can I do for you, Officer…” Damn. There goes the short-term memory. I place two clear plastic bottles of water on the table, mine on the back of an old New Yorker, his on this week’s J. Crew catalog.
“Yens,” he says. “Detective Christopher Yens. I need to talk to you about Katherine Hockins. When was the last time you spoke to her?”
I cross my arms, pursing my lips, thinking. Botox hops onto the table, and I brush her back to the floor so Detective Yens won’t think I allow my cat on the table. As if “allow” is in her vocabulary.
“Who?” I begin. “Hockins?” Then I get it. Boston accent. “Oh, Harkins. Katherine Harkins. Katie Harkins. The Prada P-I mean, does she work for Prada?”
Yens doesn’t respond. “When was the last time you spoke to her? When was the last time you saw her?”
“Well, never,” I reply. “I’ve never spoken to her and I’ve never seen her. She’s only-”
Yens is flipping through his notebook as I respond, glancing between me and his notes.
I stop talking. He stops flipping.
“Why?” I ask. “Why are you asking me about Katie Harkins?”
Yens, who I’m noticing is completely attractive in a good boy/bad boy kind of way, is suddenly completely bad boy. “I’ll ask the questions if you don’t mind, Miz McNally. Like I said, when was the last time you saw her?”
I do mind.
“Detective…Yens,” I say. I can go bad boy, too. I put on my two-can-play-this-game face. Almost a smile. I lean back in my chair. My brain is unfogging nicely.
“I don’t have to answer any questions, as you well know. And I’m kind of curious about your attitude. But if you’d like to start over, I’d be delighted to see if I can help you. I’m sure you understand, however, I have no problem bringing the station lawyer in on this meeting.” I shrug. “Your call.”
Yens scratches the back of his neck, then turns on a lazy smile. He flips his notebook closed.
“Look, Miz McNally…”
“Charlie. Is fine.” Olive branch.
“Charlie,” he nods, acquiescing to our impending teamwork. “Here’s the situation. We got a call from…” He checks his notebook. “Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s not a missing persons yet, so I won’t say she’s disappeared. But we’re tracking her activities, and according to our investigation, she kept to her schedule to the letter. She was supposed to be in Atlanta. And she was supposed to meet you in Boston.”
“I never-” I begin.
He holds up a hand. “Which is why I am asking. When you saw her, did she seem worried? Nervous?”
“Detective-”
“Was she on time? Did she say where she was going?” His questions fire, machine-gun fast. “What was she wearing? How long was your meeting? Did she get any phone calls?”
I slap a palm onto the dining room table, a bit more loudly than needed. “Detective,” I say, also a little more loudly than necessary. “I. Never. Saw. Her.”
“But you’re in her calendar.”
“That may be,” I say. “But just listen for a moment.” I relate almost the whole story, editing out the parts about the undercover purse party and our discussion with Lattimer and Keresey. Leaving in the parts about our feature story. Mentioning the non-plane crash, and my unexpected overnight in Baltimore.
“The next day, Franklin, my producer, said he’d gotten a call from her office, saying she’d had to cancel and she’d call to reschedule.”
“And did she?”
Huh. “No. No, she didn’t. And Franklin hasn’t been able to reach her.”
My ringing phone interrupts the conversation. “Let the machine get it,” I say. And then I realize what I’m saying. The phone is ringing. And it can only, only be Josh. I bite my bottom lip. Got to, got to, answer the phone.
“On the other hand,” I say, getting up, “excuse me. It might be…”
The detective clamps a tanned hand on my arm, stopping me. “Katherine Harkins is missing. You were the last person who was supposed to see her. Is there anything else you can tell me? Someone’s life could be at stake here.”
Mine. The unworthy thought springs to mind before I can stop it. The phone is now on ring three. One more and the machine starts. But the detective is right.
I put my elbows on the table, chin in hands, mulling this over. “She had e-mailed Franklin she wanted to meet us at the airport because she was between planes. Had a flight to-to somewhere. Did she make that flight?”
The phone stops. And the silence is devastating. Leave a message, I mentally chant an imprecation to the goddesses of romance. Leave. A. Message. I’ve done the right thing here. You owe me.
“We can’t find her name on any flight manifest,” Yens says. “It’s possible she may have taken a private plane. We have an APB out in her hometown, Washington, D.C., as well as Atlanta. But ‘private plane.’ Does that ring a bell?”
Which reminds me of the call I just missed. Which reminds me of the crank call I got last night. Now that Katie Harkins seems to be missing, I’m tentatively wondering whether my creepily anonymous caller may have been someone like-what did Lattimer call him? Billy the Animal?
With one determined leap, Botox jumps on the table again, crashing into my water bottle, sloshing the whole thing across the table and right into the detective’s lap. She skitters away, embarrassed.
“Jeee…zus.” Yens leaps from his chair, brushing water from his jeans, his hands dripping and his little notebook soaked.
I race to the kitchen, yank a handful of paper towels from the stainless steel holder and lean over him, attempting to help him dry off. Suddenly, that’s awkward. Touching him. I hold out the towels, apologizing.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. The table is one big puddle, mail soaked, and my handful of towels is not terribly successful at drying it all. “The silly cat. Your notebook. I hope it’s okay.”
“No harm done, Charlie,” he says, and seems to mean it. He blots his legs, then peels back each page of the notebook, dabbing off the water. “But I was asking you. You’ve never seen her, is that correct? Not even a photo? Did Ms. Harkins ever say where she was headed? Because…”
“I see where you’re going with this. You think she may still be in Boston somewhere.”
“Let me know if you hear from her,” Yens says. He gives me back his soggy wad of towels. “And tell your cat she’s on my list.”
“You’re sure you don’t need any more towels?” I’m trying to be polite and solicitous as I guide the detective toward my front door. But there’s only one thought in my mind. Leave, leave, leave, I silently chant. I have to check my phone messages. Leave, leave, leave.
Chapter Seven
There was no lovestruck message on the machine. But there’s also no mystery. And, sadly, no good news in romance world.
It was Franklin.
“So the cop arrived at your house? Already? And he’s gone? I called you as soon as we got home and I picked up his message on our machine. I figured that’s why you didn’t answer your phone.”
“Yes, well, he wouldn’t let-”
“So that means he’s on the way here.” Franklin ignores me. “He said he was going to you first, then me. Stephen thinks it’s so Law and Order, having the police arrive. He’s literally considering getting doughnuts.”
“Bad plan,” I say. “This guy’s more about Red Bull, from what I see.”
“So what did he say?”
I tell Franklin about the maybe-missing Katie Harkins. Her schedule, the police backtracking.
“And seems like we were the first appointment she missed. Like I told him though, obviously I’ve never talked to her. They seem somewhat concerned, you know? I mean, why not just wait until tomorrow?”