“That’s a good idea.”
“Remember, it could just be problems with Michael’s communication system.”
“Both his radio and his sat phone went dead. You really believe that?”
“No. But I’ve learned not to jump to conclusions. We’ll find out more tomorrow.” A light knock sounded at the door. “In the meantime, let’s eat.”
Harper took a bite or two of the food she had ordered from room service—coconut shrimp and conch soup—but after the phone call from Tabitha Love, her worry about Michael had resurfaced and she had lost most of her appetite.
Something had happened to her brother, and it wasn’t a boating accident.
Tired but unable to sleep, she phoned Shana, just to check in. Shana assured her that so far everything was running smoothly. Calling from the Caribbean was expensive so Harper didn’t talk long, just brought her partner up-to-date on the search, then ended the call. She was still sitting at the desk when the hotel phone rang.
Harper walked over to answer, and a woman’s voice floated over the line. “Hello. I’m looking for Chase Garrett. I’m calling from a house phone. The front desk put me through.”
It wasn’t Marty. The female voice on the other end of the line was American. “I’ll get him for you.”
“No, wait. Are you Michael Winston’s sister?”
“I’m Harper, yes.”
“My name is Christy Riggs. I was wondering if I could come up and talk to you and Mr. Garrett. I talked to the bartender at Papagayo’s. I have information about your brother.”
Her heart jerked. She glanced at Chase, who had finished his sandwich and was back at work on the computer. When he saw the look on Harper’s face, he was out of his chair and walking toward her.
“We’re in suite 815,” Harper said. “I’ll see you soon.”
“What’s going on?”
“That was a woman named Christy Riggs. She talked to Kosmo down in the bar. She says she has information about Michael.”
“That’s great, angel, but next time we don’t give out our room number—we meet people downstairs. We don’t know what’s going on here, and until we do, we take precautions.”
She wasn’t sure which bothered her the most, being called out for revealing too much information or Chase calling her angel again.
A knock sounded at the door, ending the thought, and she hurried over to open it. Chase cut her off, stepping in front of her with a quick shake of his head. He checked the hallway through the peephole, then, apparently satisfied they weren’t about to be attacked, pulled open the door.
A petite redhead walked into the room, and Chase closed the door. Dressed in cutoffs and a pink flowered T-shirt, she was in her late twenties, fair-skinned and cute, with a small nose and a freckled forehead.
“I’m Christy. The bartender gave me your names when I asked about Michael Winston.”
“Why don’t we sit down?” Chase suggested, and they took seats on the turquoise patterned sofa and chairs around the rattan coffee table.
“So you went to the bar looking for Michael?” Chase asked, picking up the line of conversation.
“Actually, I was looking for my friend Pia Santana. We were supposed to meet here for a weeklong vacation. Pia had ten days off, so she came early for a little me-time. When I got here and checked into our room, she wasn’t there. She didn’t show up last night, and I haven’t been able to find her all day. I’ve been calling her cell, but it goes straight to voice mail. I’ve been emailing, but she hasn’t replied.”
Harper exchanged a glance with Chase, and worry tightened her chest. If Pia was with Michael, maybe both of them were in trouble.
“How do you know she was with Michael Winston?” he asked.
“The last time we talked before I left Florida, she told me she had met this really terrific guy in the bar at the hotel. She said his name was Michael Winston, and he was sailing the Caribbean on his yacht.”
“When did you hear from her last?” Harper asked.
“Four days ago. I was just about to call the police, but...”
“But...?” Chase pressed.
