I dig for my phone. The connection is still open. “Heellloo, Franklin,” I trill. “I’m home. Guess who’s here?”
“Mr. Parrish apparently called your news director first,” Yens says. He’s sitting on one of my taupe-and-navy striped living room wing chairs, elbows on his knees. Leaning toward me. Almost interrogating. “Where were you? He said he couldn’t reach you.”
“That’s what Franklin just told me. But he knew I was out of town,” I reply, gesturing to the cell phone on the glass coffee table. I’m perched on the edge of the leather couch, facing the detective. He looks casual, and I’m not too tired to notice, even attractive, but he’s all business. Total cop.
Botox is curled up on top of my suitcase, still parked in the entryway, making sure I don’t leave again. The white box-I still don’t know whether it’s flowers-is propped against the door where Yens left it. Maybe he’s on his way to a later rendezvous and they’re not for me after all.
On the way upstairs, finishing our phone conversation, Franklin had quickly filled me in. He’d been trying to warn me Yens might be at my doorstep. And in reality, he hadn’t told Yens everything. Not even close. He’d only revealed I’d gotten a text message from Katie Harkins. He’d gotten a similar message on his e-mail. He’d tried to call me, couldn’t get through, and decided to call Kevin.
That, I can handle. “So. Might I ask why you’re here in the middle of the night?” I ask.
“Well, after he talked to Mr. Parrish, Mr. O’Bannon called me. As we agreed in our meeting.” He looks at me, confirming.
I nod. “Go on.”
“So Mr. O’Bannon allowed me…” he drags out the phrase, as if the whole journalism thing was too much trouble to bear “…he allowed me to talk to Franklin. Who told me about his e-mail and your text message. I told him as far as we knew, Miss Harkins was still missing.
“As a result,” Yens says, pointing to the coffee table, “I’ve come to take your cell phone. We’re getting our IT people to put it on a trace. See where the text came from. See if we can find her. I’ll return your phone. Soon as I can. We need to find her. I’ve e-mailed her. Called her. She’s not responding to me. She is responding to you.” He reaches toward my cell, but I whisk it off the table before he can take it.
Botox leaps up at the sound of my sudden laughter and skitters away down the hall. “I don’t think so, Detective. Take my phone? Do you have a warrant? Or a subpoena? Let me ask you, Detective. Are you ‘taking’ Franklin’s computer?”
“Look. I’m not playing games, Miss McNally.” The detective’s face hardens. “This is serious business. An FBI agent was killed in a raid, just yesterday. In L.A. Our sources say the agency had been tipped off to a warehouse on the south side. By Harkins. The messages you got indicate she was alive, last night at least. If the counterfeiters know where she is, she may be in danger.”
“How did the agent get killed? Did they find purses? Any kind of contraband?” A raid 3,000 miles away wouldn’t involve Lattimer or Keresey, I figure. But I’m still nervous about my pal. “Let me ask you, Detective. Do you know Agent Keresey Stone? FBI Boston? Was she involved in the raid?”
“The agent killed was a man, that’s all I can tell you,” Yens replies. He slides his hands down his jeans, then holds out one palm. “Your phone, please.”
I’m exhausted and confused, but I know what I have to do. I shake my head as I get to my feet. “Not going to happen. I get why you want my phone. Off the record? Part of me even wants to give it to you. I do. But you know I can’t. Not until you get a subpoena.”
Yens stands, too, but makes no move toward the door. His face softens and he seems almost sad. “Is this what they teach you in journalism school? Are there some misguided rules about not helping law enforcement officials when someone’s life may be at stake? Maybe more than one person? If your FBI agent friend was in trouble, would you still be on your little get-a-subpoena soapbox?”
“Keresey Stone,” I reply, looking at the floor. The pattern in my navy-and-burgundy oriental rug swims a bit as my eyes unexpectedly mist over. This is the dilemma that’s haunting me, more and more. The undercover video of the purse party. The fire. The bag of bags. The claim check scheme. Whoever lives at 325 Strathmeyer Road. How do I juggle my responsibility as a reporter, my job, my career, my goals-with my responsibility as a good citizen? Why are they different? And the bigger the story, the bigger the stakes.
I rub my hands over my face, slick back my shampoo-needy hair and struggle to muster some self-confidence. Choosing my words carefully, I try to explain. To this earnest cop, and even to myself.
“I’m a reporter. I can’t make decisions based on my feelings. Yes, in my heart, I’d love to give you that phone. I’m uneasy about Katie Harkins. Like you, I wonder where she is. Wonder if she’s safe. But if I break the rules now, hand over information because I want to, what happens when I don’t want to? You’ll say ‘Well, you gave me your phone that time. So now, give me your notes. Your sources. Your raw video.’ And eventually I’ll have no principles left.”
I shrug, searching his face for understanding. “You won’t tell me about the FBI raid. You won’t tell me about your relationship with Katie Harkins. I understand. It’s your job. You do what you’ve got to do,” I say, turning toward the door. I gesture, pointing him the way out. “I’ll do the same thing.”
Yens arrives at the door first and picks up the white box. He hands it to me with one raised eyebrow. “Apparently someone, at least, thinks you’re doing everything right,” he says. “But you haven’t heard the last from us. I’ll be calling your boss in the morning.”
I take the box in my arms. “These aren’t from you?”
Yens allows himself a fleeting smile, then lifts a hand in farewell. “They were here when I arrived.”
And he’s gone.
I stare at the white card. Reading it yet again. The glorious white roses that were inside the box-a dozen, each kept fresh in an individual plastic-topped test tube of water and now in my favorite dark green vase-seem to fill my bedroom with their fragrance. Botox hops up onto the nightstand, almost knocking the airport beeper onto the floor. She pretends not to notice, batting a sleek blade of the bear grass that surrounds the bouquet, then she curls up on my lap, tucking her head through my arm. She’s does a convincing cuddle, but I know she’s actually trying to block my view of the card. Because it’s getting too much attention.
I move the card back into view. “Tomorrow is the anniversary of the day we met,” it says. “A year ago today I had never met you. A year ago tomorrow, my life changed. I hope it’s changed forever.” And it’s signed: Josh.
“Our anniversary,” I say to Botox, smoothing her calico fur as I test the phrase. Two words, I realize disconcertingly, I’ve never said together before. At age twenty, I walked out of my marriage to Sweet Baby James before our first year together had even passed.
In lust and inseparable, James and I went to City Hall after knowing each other for about three months. We clung to each other in front of an affable clerk, promised to love and cherish, smiled for the resident rent-a-photographer, then went out for pizza and champagne. I carried cellophane-wrapped flowers purchased at a sidewalk kiosk. I left them at the restaurant. We stayed in bed the entire weekend.
Vows of “till death do us part” aside, clearly James and I each had some misgivings. We never discussed it, but we didn’t combine our book collections. Didn’t combine our tape cassettes. Didn’t have a joint bank account. He paid the rent. I bought the groceries. I wanted a cat. He was allergic. He wanted to go camping. I was allergic. He became more interested in how he looked than how I looked.