Air Time by Hank Phillippi Ryan Page A

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?”
    “Yeah, especially since I don’t know any more aboutKatie Harkins than you do,” Franklin says. “Well, except for maybe one thing.”
    “It’s past eleven now,” I check the clock on the microwave as I sip my second glass of Shiraz. “And this detective may be a little delayed. He may have to change clothes first.”
    “Change clothes?”
    “I’ll tell you tomorrow,” I say. “And you can tell me about your tête-à-tête with Detective Yens.” I hold up my glass of wine, examining the kitchen ceiling light through the ruby liquid. It should have been Josh on the phone. I’m suddenly bone-tired. My adrenaline’s crashed and my reserves are gone. And tomorrow, I have to go undercover.
    “Fair warning, Franko. I’m going to be late coming in. I’ve got to be at that party at four. Got to leave Boston by, say, noon. So you know what? I’m going to sleep in. Turn on my computer so it looks like I’m there, okay? Everyone will just assume I’m somewhere else. Then I’ll come in and get the camera.”
    We’re both silent for a moment. Franklin is probably deciding whether it’s morally acceptable for him to dupe our coworkers by turning on my computer. I’m replaying our conversation.
    “Except for what?” I ask.
    “What?”
    “You said a minute ago, you don’t know any more about Katie Harkins than I do, except for—except for what?”
    So the Prada P.I. used to be an FBI agent. Franklin said he’d Googled her name and came across a story about some cops busting a counterfeit purse ring in Georgia. It quoted officials as saying she had resigned from the Bureau and had pointed the police to the bad guys. He also found a couple of quotes from her in newspaper stories about the hunt for fake purses. But afterthat, he said, nothing. No television interviews, so that’s the good news. We’ll be the first. I wonder if she knew Lattimer. Or Keresey. Wonder if she’s in trouble.
     
     
    I punch the buttons on my Jeep’s radio, trying to find a clear station as I head out the Mass Turnpike toward exit one. That’s the beginning of the toll road that stretches pinstripe straight across the state. I’m going as far away from Boston as you can get and still be in Massachusetts.
    Past Framingham, past Worcester. The foliage intensifies as I head west, the lofty roadside maples and white birches giving me a preview of the autumn to come. Fall always arrives in Boston last, then disappears into months of dreary sleet and slush.
    I flex my fingers on the steering wheel, then steal a high-speed glance at the camera on the seat beside me. Confirming, yet again, that my equipment is set for the job ahead of me. Of course I came into the station on time, couldn’t possibly sleep late on the day of an undercover assignment. Couldn’t possibly sleep at all, actually, my brain ping-ponging between missing Josh, the maybe-missing Katie Harkins, and my strategy for the pivotal first purse party.
    This morning in our office, Franklin had the gear ready to go. I loaded it into my specially cut-out purse, then walked through the newsroom, practicing. He watched from the top of the stairs as I sauntered past the ceiling-high bank of flickering television sets, displayed like some electronics store on steroids, and into the warren of identical beige desks, a writer or producer on the computer at each one.
    Acting like I was looking for the news director, I chatted with the arriving reporters, each with supersizedcoffee and briefcases bulging with lunches and extra shoes. I casually walked past the satellite feed room, waved at the weather team intent on their Doppler