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“Now what?” He sat beside me and read over my shoulder.
“Three more people who were questioned in Eva Quaid’s disappearance,” I said.
“Barron White, Raphael Jones, Andrew Chay,” he read, “Owners of The Sapphire Club.”
"They were there the day Eva vanished,” I said, skimming the reports in search of their alibis, their statements, anything.
“Who was there the day Eva vanished?” Jeremy and Myrtle had come in through the front door just as I’d spoken. Myrt lifted her head, sensing my location and heading toward me with as much confidence as if she knew the place by heart, though she couldn’t possibly have learned it already. She reached me and butted her head hard into my shins. “Ow,” I said, then bent to boost her up onto the sofa beside me. She turned around twice, then laid down and settled her head onto my thigh.
“The bad boy billionaires,” I said. “That’s what the merfolk call ‘em.”
“The owners? They were suspects?”
I turned the laptop screen his way and he took it with him to a nearby overstuffed chair, sat down, and began scrolling.
“They were questioned and cleared,” I summarized for him, “but I haven’t found their statements yet, so I don’t know details of their alibis.”
“Rich guys can buy alibis,” Jeremy replied, and there was a hint of alarm in his voice. “And these three particular rich guys were at the club a few minutes ago.”
“What?” Mason and I blurted in unison.
“Christy texted while I was walking with Myrt— who has a new spring in her step, have you noticed?— to say the owners were there, two weeks ahead of schedule. They’d left the club for now but will be back to watch the last show of the night.”
“Like a surprise inspection?” I asked.
Jeremy picked up his phone and read Christy’s text aloud. “‘I hope to God one of them is guilty because,’ green vomit emoji.”
“We’d better get the hell back over there,” I said. “Christy said to wait until later, but I don’t like this.”
Jeremy nodded. “I want to hang back, check on some of the other suspects listed in Detective Scott’s files. Especially the husband.”
“But Jere, Christy could be in danger.”
“So could Misty,” he said. “And going to check out the original suspects is the only thing I can think of that she and her podcaster pal might be up to.”
“We need to cover both girls at the same time,” Mason said, his eyes on mine. I saw what was in them; the knowledge that I’d dreamed about both girls, not just one.
“There are several other suspects who were on Detective Whatshername’s radar,” I said.
“Jen Scott,” Jeremy filled in.
“You guys better tag team them. I want Misty found and I don’t want to wait for tomorrow. I can’t keep this from my sister that long. It wouldn’t be right. And if anything happens, and I haven’t told her— she’d never forgive me.”
“You’re right,” Mason said. “If we don’t locate Misty tonight, we probably need to talk to Sandra and Jim.”
I squeezed his hand, acknowledging our two-people-one-mind connection. “So, I’ll keep an eye on Christy and the bad boys at the club. You guys go track Misty down. Which of you is taking Myrt?”
Chapter 9
CHRISTY
Mr. Mackey was in his office. Muffled tones with pauses in between came through the closed door. He was on the phone with someone. Christy soft-stepped almost all the way to his door, then ducked into the private dining room across from it, closing the door behind her. Then she stood still while her eyes adjusted. The place was dim, but the pool that formed one entire end, cast rippling blue waves onto the other three walls. The curtains in the outside windows were all drawn. Had they been drawn before?
She scanned the photos on the walls, spotted the one of Eva, hanging at such a sharp angle it would not have gone unnoticed. She went to straighten it.
“For the life of me, Misty?—”
She stiffened at the female voice, then consciously relaxed her spine as Coach Hannah went on. “—I can’t figure out why you’re always in here looking at these old photos.”
