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  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

  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 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 about Katie 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 after that, 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 supersized coffee 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 radar screens, and wound up focused on the assignment desk crew. Three worried twentysomethings wearing leftover-from-college khakis and new-to-TV frowns, each frenetically examining the Boston Globe for all the stories the night crew had missed.

  Not one of those intrepid journalists noticed there was a camera in my purse recording their every move.

  I walked out, oh so casually, getting it all on tape and gave Franklin a triumphant thumbs-up.

  He and I checked the video upstairs, heads touching as we watched it through the tiny playback screen on the camera. I got great shots of a producer searching Face-book, the satellite guy doing a crossword puzzle, and the new morning reporter shopping online for red patent Louboutin pumps. If the camera were set to record audio, I could have also provided slam-dunk proof that our noon anchor was making comments to an intern that Nanette in Human Resources would certainly have frowned upon.

  “She’s totally coming on to that kid.” I pointed to the miniature image flickering by. “Too bad state law says you can’t secretly record audio. So what do you think?”

  “Looks good, Charlotte.” Franklin pursed his lips, nodding. “Watch that the lens doesn’t become dislodged, and move, or tilt. You’ll wind up with a bunch of shots of the ceiling. Or shoes.”

  I tucked the camera back into its metal case and checked the red buttons to confirm the batteries were fully charged.

  “We need purses. Money changing hands. Women with bags. The faces of everyone there. Especially the hostess. And maybe, license plates, you know? I’ll get all the license plates. And cars. Who knows what will matter when our story all comes together. So can’t hurt to get it all.”

  “You’ve got half an hour, max,” Franklin reminded me. “After that, tapes out. Batts out. You’re done.”

  The computer voice from my GPS interrupts my thoughts, announcing exit seven, Ludlow, is next. I have four spare batteries, each the size of a triple pack of gum. If necessary, I can click in a new one in the ladies’ room. That’ll also be a good place to check my video. If the lens gets out of position, or the tape didn’t roll, I’ll be able to go back and pick up what I missed. Better to reshoot than to drive back to Boston with an hour’s worth of shoes.

  I nod my head, planning. Going undercover, carrying a hidden camera. It’s risky. And intimidating. A lot can go wrong. But a lot can go right. I love it.

  I look in the mirror. And a stranger looks back. I smile in approval. Even I don’t recognize myself. My hair is scrunchied in a high slicked-back ponytail. My contacts are in, so I can see, but I found a pair of ultrahigh-fashion square black-rimmed glasses, very Manhattan chic. Also very fake, since the lenses are just glass. Blue eye shadow, so retro some magazines claim it’s hip. And pink lipstick. A long skirt, vaguely Woodstock, and a vaguely peasant blouse. And, of course, my special purse. Not me at all. But now, I’m not me.

  Luckily, I have some time alone in the ladies’ room of the Plucky Chicken Restaurant. Luckily the place is somewhat empty, post-lunch hour, and no one will notice that the blue-jeaned blonde in the big sunglasses who hurried into the room marked “Hens” carrying a bulky tote bag walked out a short while later transformed into someone else.

  Someone else. I instantly decide on the name I’ll use. Elsa.

  I study my counterfeit image in the full-length mirror. My fellow party-goers will either believe my story that I’m Elsa, an artist visiting the Berkshires from “the city,” or write me off as a combination leaf-peeper and disastrous fashion victim. Either way, they’ll figure I need a new purse.

  Time for a little experiment. At this point on the Turnpike, I’m still in Channel 3’s viewing area and I know we’ve got high ratings around here. On a typical day, I probably couldn’t walk into this place without being recognized.

  I open the door and pause, taking my first step into a new identity. Heading to the lunch counter, I perch on an old-fashioned black leather stool, the once-puffy seat cracking with age and years of heavyweight fried chicken eaters.

  I wait for someone to ask if they can help me. As Charlie McNally, well-known reporter, maître d’s hoping to woo a “famous” guest have offered me free appetizers, celebrated chefs have served complimentary amuse-bouches, attentive waitstaff have proffered arrays of desserts, all on the house. I enjoy the flattery, but have to explain I can’t accept anything free. A good reporter can’t be objective when beholden. But now, I note with some satisfaction, I’m not going to have to fight that battle.

  The three counter women, one an unhealthy-looking should-be-in-college girl with random tattoos, and two plump-but-pleasant-looking mom types ignore me. I consider robbing the cash register, that’s the extent of my invisibility. They may be Channel 10 fans and not know Charlie McNally from Charlie McCarthy. But I’m convinced my disguise will work. I’m no longer Charlie McNally. I’m someone—Elsa.

  Chapter Eight

  I

  ’ve been worried most about this very moment. The crossroads between planning and reality. I’ll walk through the already open door and face a roomful of strangers. What if someone stretches an accusing arm across the open doorway, blocking me, and says, “Excuse me, this is invitation only. And you don’t have an invitation.” Then I’m done. No story. Video of a door slamming in my face. The only thing that would be worse is being recognized. Then I get busted, my news director and old Susannah find out what we’re really doing, and Franklin and I are toast. Sitting in my Jeep, parked a block from my destination, I check the camera in my purse one final time. It’s rolling. I check my watch. Ten after three. Which means I’ve got batteries until 3:40 p.m. I check the address once again. I’m in the right place. The message we got said just to arrive between three and four in the afternoon, knock, then open the door and come in. If that’s how these things work, fine.

  With one final adjustment to my “purse,” I walk up the bluestone path toward the front door, head high and pointing the lens in front of me. I pause, briefly, to shoot a steady pan of the unassuming house at 57 Glendower Street. It’s yellow vinyl siding with white trim around the door, black-and-white vinyl awnings over each window. Wrought iron window boxes filled with last-of-the-season geraniums telegraph someone struggling to make the best of a too-small home in a deteriorating neighborhood. It looks as if the houses on either side may be empty. One has a For Sale sign stuck into the browning grass of the careworn front lawn. I get the signs. I get the house. I get the license plates of the cars in the driveway.

  I aim the camera lens to take a shot of my fist knocking on the door, then shifting the camera back beside me, open the door. There’s hard
ly room for me to fit inside. The place is wall-to-wall women.

  A zoo. Filled with the din of shopping animals seeking their prey. Maybe thirty? forty? women, from lanky-haired teenagers to gray-bouffanted grandmothers, in Levis and designer T-shirts, madras skirts and ladylike flats, tunic tops over cropped pants with chunky-heeled mules, all converging around tables set up in two rooms. Two rooms I can see, at least. It smells like leather and plastic. It smells like makeup. It smells like hair spray. And way, way, too much perfume.

  I step inside and almost get knocked over.

  Two women, each carrying an armload of leather and plastic loot, power across my path. I step back into the entryway, getting my bearings. On my left, through an archway of once-dark wood, what’s probably a dining room table is covered with a jumble of more purses, umbrellas, tote bags, wallets and scarves than I’ve ever seen outside of a department store. I aim my camera in that direction, but I know I’ll have to get closer. Right now all the lens will capture is a not-terribly-flattering shot of a row of women’s rear ends, as shoppers scramble through the faux treasures piled in front of them.

  Holding my camera steady as I can, I slowly turn to my right. The two shoppers who almost put me on the floor are now part of another pack of purse hunters surrounding two card tables set up in the center of the living room. Furniture is sparse. There are no photos, no knickknacks. Maybe it’s all been hidden for today’s extravaganza.

  Wide shot of the dining room. Got it. Wide shot of the living room. Got it. Ready to go in for close-ups.

  I hear a knock on the door behind me. I flatten myself against the wall as three more purse-stalking fashionistas flutter and yoo-hoo their way to the tables.

  No one has acknowledged my existence. Happily, I don’t see anyone who could be Keresey in disguise. And my time is ticking by.