Air Time by Hank Phillippi Ryan

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 detectivetoward 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
     
     
    T

here 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