Free Air Time by Hank Phillippi Ryan Page B

over here before I say anything.
    But it’s late. And I’m too curious to be that time-consumingly careful. Yens told me over the intercom it was about an investigation. Is someone dead? Or hurt? I’d blurted the question through the speaker, fearing a calamity of the worst kind. Josh killed. And our last words had been a battle. The whole bleak soap opera played out in my mind before the cop could even answer. But then he’d said no. So, it’s nothing terrible. Plus, I can always end the interview if I get uncomfortable. Or I can lawyer up.
    “What can I do for you, Officer…” Damn. Theregoes 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 canhelp 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