The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection

by Frost, E J

  I chuckle and stroke her soft curls. “I like your scatter, sweetie.”

  She shows me how it works. It’s timelining for dummies: you type in the time, date and event, and the program organizes them.

  “It’s a relational database,” she explains, which doesn’t mean anything to me. “Once the information’s entered, you can sort it any way you want. If you assign categories to the entries, you can group and shuffle them that way, too.”

  “Very cool, little girl.”

  Reviewing the CCTV footage is much less cool. We figure out how to load the clips into my laptop’s media player, and how to fast-forward, but we can’t go too fast, or we risk missing something. Fast-forwarding at a speed that lets us see each face means four to five hours of watching in real time.

  To divert from the corridor tedium, Emily takes a pack of thin, pastel-colored paper out of the desk and shows me another of her many hobbies: origami. With quick flicks of her fingers, as easily and dexterously as she wielded chopsticks that night in L.A., she folds a crane.

  My hands, toughened by years of working ropes and smacking bottoms, aren’t up to the delicate task and the misshapen twist of paper I put next to Emily’s makes us both laugh.

  Our laughter trails off at movement on the screen; Emily taps the controls and slows the playback to normal speed. A man in his mid-fifties, casual in a white shirt, khakis, and sandals, with a day’s growth of stubble and the start of a comb-over, emerges from Cabin D-21.

  “That’s Bill Black,” I tell Emily, familiar with his appearance from the passenger ID picture the Pink Pearl people sent me.

  She logs the date and time off the counter at the corner of the video. Friday, nineteen-ten. For someone who supposedly had a debilitating headache, Black looks pretty chipper as he saunters down the hall. “Black leaves cabin?”

  “Sure.”

  That’s as good a description as any. I freeze the frame. Pink Pearl’s CCTV system isn’t bad. It’s in color, which is better than a lot of the systems I’ve worked with. The resolution is decent. I can see the shine of Black’s scalp underneath his comb-over, the taut fabric at his waistline where his shirt and belt are fighting a losing battle against the bulge. I can also see a bulge in his pants pocket. Not his dick or a wallet or a phone. This looks like a squat cylinder.

  “Take a look at his pocket.” I tap the screen.

  Emily peers at it, then starts fiddling with my laptop and, a moment later, the image enlarges, centered on Black’s pants. The resolution deteriorates as the image grows, but the contours of what’s in his pocket are pretty clear.

  “Pager?” Emily asks, tipping her head to the side.

  “Prescription bottle, I think.”

  “Oh, I see it now. Is that what you were talking about with Dr. Lehmann? Do you think they’re smuggling the pills on board that way?”

  “Definite possibility. When I interviewed the room cleaner, he remembered seeing some in Black’s bathroom, and we know Black wasn’t on any medication except painkillers. Easy to hide a recreational drug in a pill bottle, particularly if the color would have made it stand out from the other tablets.”

  “Pink friend.” Emily nods.

  “Uh-huh. Let’s see if we can catch him returning.”

  He does, a little over two hours later, twenty minutes after Jan Millek has come and gone. Black’s shirt is untucked, so we can’t see what’s in his pocket, and he’s carrying his sandals. Emily makes a low noise as we watch him move slowly, and a little unsteadily, up the corridor to his cabin door.

  “Is that how I look when I’m plugged?” she asks, watching the screen. “That’s how I feel like I’m walking.”

  I watch Black for another second before I answer her. Bow-legged. He definitely has, or has had, something up his ass. “You’re much sexier when you’re plugged, baby doll,” I tell her. I couldn’t say she’s much more graceful, because, God knows, that would not be the truth. But it is very cute, and more than a bit of a turn-on, to watch her toddle around as she struggles with a plug. “Log that as ‘Black returns alone, unsteady.’ ”

  She types it in and I begin fast-forwarding again. At 10:10, a man in a cream thong appears, carrying a tray. Black opens the door at his knock, dressed in a bathrobe and holding a tumbler of clear liquid and ice. Black takes the tray with its two covered dishes and disappears back into his cabin.

  “He got the munchies,” I say to Emily. “Log that as, room service delivery, Black drinking. Can you make notes with the entries?”

  “Sure.” She taps away. “What do you want the note to say?”

  “Action item one: cross-ref room service bill. Action item two: ask M.L. if brick stimulates appetite.”

  “Got it.”

  I hit the fast forward again and we watch as passengers and staff come and go past D-21, but the door doesn’t open again until 8:40 the next morning, when Black emerges in a Hawaiian shirt so bright it makes my eyes bleed, with a towel slung over his shoulder.

  Emily starts typing. “Is he going to the pool?” she asks.

  Possibly. Or maybe to a really colorful beach scene.

  “Put a note with that. ‘Action item three: cross-ref spa bill.’”

  “Okay, Daddy. Should I put anything about his shirt?”

  I chuckle. “No, crazy baby. His fashion sense isn’t relevant to the investigation.”

  She giggles. “It’s a very ugly shirt.”

  That it is. An hour and half later, he returns without it.

  “Where’d the ugly shirt go, Daddy?” Emily asks, peering at the screen.

  He’s wearing the towel wrapped around his waist and a pair of flip-flops but nothing else. His barrel chest and meaty legs are on display. All the skin he’s showing makes the sheen on it easy to spot.

  “He look wet to you?” I ask Emily.

  She freezes the image and enlarges it. His skin’s gleaming, and there are dots of something—water, sweat, or maybe oil—all across it. He’s flushed, the mottling apparent even under his California tan in the close up. And there’s a big, red suck-mark on the back of his neck.

  “That’s a man who just got his rocks off,” I observe.

  “Should I put, Black returns, wet, no rocks?”

  I pinch her bottom until she squeaks. “No, you should not. Black returns alone, sweaty, flushed, thank you. What a little monkey you are.”

  Emily giggles as she types. “Sorry, Daddy.”

  She really sounds it. I love the playfulness she brings to everything. So much more fun than working with Mir, or even my business partner, Manny. “Looks like Olsen knew her bottom. He definitely broke some rules while he was alone.”

  “He had sex with someone else?” she asks in a small voice, and I mentally kick myself. I don’t want Black’s infidelity to trigger her.

  “I don’t know if he had sex with someone else, sweetie,” I say, hoping to take the sting away. “He could just have done a scene and gotten off.”

  “But that was still being unfaithful. To Chrisjean, if not his wife.”

  I stroke my hand down over her hair. “Yeah, it was. The guy lived a complicated double life.”

  “Do lots of people you investigate?”

  “Some,” I admit. “It’s hard to commit crimes without duplicity, and once you have one big secret, it’s not that much of a leap to have others.”

  “Is that why following the rules and being honest are so important to you?”

  The big eyes are out again. They should be weapons-classified; she’s sure killing me with them. They make me want to wrap her in my arms and reassure her that no one is going to hurt, or even disappoint, my baby girl ever again. But the world doesn’t work that way, even if I’m going to do my damnedest to shield her from the world’s worst from now on. I settle for stroking her hair. “That’s a big part of it.”

  She turns in her chair and throws her arms around me. “I’m so sorry I started off things between us with the lie about my name when we met at the e
xpo, Daddy. I was just really scared, but it won’t happen again. I promise. I’ll be super brave. Wonder Woman brave, promise, and I’ll always be truthful with you.”

  “That’s my good girl.” I cuddle her close. “I’ve forgiven you for that lie, Emmy. I understand why you did it, and while I don’t condone lying, I have forgiven you. And I’m proud of you for being such a brave girl.”

  “You are?”

  The big eyes hit me full force, over-bright with emotion. I thought sucking cock was Emily’s super-power, but I was wrong. Her super-power is right there in those eyes. Those eyes that make me want to be her hero.

  “Yes, I am. Now stop distracting me while I’m working, little girl.” I give her a smack on the hip that straightens her in her chair with a gasp and a giggle. “Another half-an-hour and we’ll take a break to pump some iron and climb some hills with Niall.”

  “Okay, Daddy.”

  Whether he’s tired out, or just takes the longest shower known to man, Black doesn’t emerge again while we watch. I turn the video off after twenty-five minutes to give us time to put the laptops in my safe and change before we head to the gym. Emily rises from her chair and stretches, extending her arms over her head.

  “Had enough exciting detective work?” I ask her as I pack up the laptops.

  She grins and shakes her head. “I’m not used to sitting for so long.”

  “No? I’d have thought you did a lot of sitting while you write.”

  “I used to. Then I got a standing desk and some dictation software. I move around a lot as I write now. Motion creates emotion.”

  I peg that quote immediately. One of my subs had a Vin Diesel fixation and I think I’ve seen each of his movies at least a dozen times. “Boiler Room. Lotta bad words in that movie, little girl.”

  She gulps. “But I think it was still PG. Maybe PG-thirteen?”

  “You sure?”

  “No.” She bites her lip. “There wasn’t, like, any gore or anything, but there were some sexytimes, but the sexytimes weren’t with Vin Diesel, so that doesn’t count, right? Sexytimes with Giovanni Ribisi should be, like, rated G for gross.”

  Her logic makes me chuckle, and it looks like my former sub wasn’t the only one with a Vin Diesel crush. Maybe it’s a subbie thing?

  “I think you might be busted again. When we get back from the gym, you can look it up, and if it’s rated R, that’s another bare-bottomed spanking for you, wearing Stanley.”

  Her lower lip trembles. “I thought—I thought we were having a day off?”

  She must be really sore. “I did say that. Should I keep a tally of deferred spankings?”

  “No, Daddy. Please? I’ll be super-good.”

  I flick her nose. “Baby, you’re already super-good. Workout clothes, chop-chop, and when you’ve changed, bring me your shoes and I’ll tie them for you. That’s too big a job for a little girl with a sore bottom.”

  Her grin is brighter than the morning sunshine. “Yes, Daddy.”

  I leave the door between our cabins open while we change so I can see and hear her. She moves around her room, hanging up the little dress she wore to brunch, pulling on her workout gear. She’s humming a song I don’t recognize, possibly because she’s a little off-key, but she sounds happy.

  When she returns, dark curls caught back in a bouncy ponytail, eyes bright, wearing an oversized black tee with an outline of Kylo Ren captioned, “Don’t be afraid, I feel it, too,” I ask her about the song.

  “What were you humming?”

  She bites her lip. “It’s Nickleback. ‘Figured You Out.’ I know it’s a naughty song. That’s why I wasn’t singing the words out loud. But it’s my jam, Daddy. Please don’t say I can’t listen to it.”

  I kiss her forehead. “That’s a kinky song, isn’t it?” She nods, looking sweetly uncertain. She really doesn’t want me to ban Nickleback. “Yeah, I like it, too. You can listen to naughty songs as long as you don’t repeat the bad words. And your shirt? Why Kylo Ren? I figured you for a Han Solo-girl.”

  As I’m speaking, I take her shoes from her and go down on one knee.

  “Ta very much.” She watches me fit her shoes over her ankle socks, twisting her hands in front of her. “Kylo’s a really complicated character. Way more complicated than Han. I’d like to be able to create characters that complex.”

  “Huh.” I didn’t think of it that way, but I can see why my little author would be interested in him.

  “And he’s sort of a daddy,” she says in a rush. “Like a very angry emo daddy. With gigantic anger-management issues. Who tries to kill his baby when she rejects him. He’s not a role-model, I mean. I’m not saying that. But he’s kinda hot. In an angry, pouty way. Not as hot as you, Daddy, but a little hot. Tiny bit hot.”

  I straighten and cup her chin in my hand. “Do you have a crush on Kylo Ren?”

  “Kinda,” she admits. “Not like a crush-crush. Not a big crush.”

  “A little crush?”

  “I might have dreamed about him forcing me,” she whispers. “Once or twice.”

  Or a million times. My little girl and her rape fantasies.

  “I’ll get a black cape, and a red lightsaber, and we’ll act that out. First, I’ll freeze you with my Jedi mind powers, and then I’ll carry you back to my Sith lair, and then I’ll force you to your knees and freeze you again while I fuck your face. How’s that for a scene, little Rey-of-sunshine?”

  My little Rey-of-sunshine looks like she might faint. “Yes, please, Daddy,” she squeaks. “But he’s not a Sith.”

  Of course, she’d argue that, geek that she is. “You are too much fun. C’mon, let’s go find Niall before your rape fantasies give me such a stiffy they bar me from the gym.”

  I drag her off to the gym, thinking about where I can get a lightsaber, and which of my club-brothers will have Stormtrooper uniforms, and never once about Miranda and the baby that might be mine.

  * * *

  A full work-out with Niall, rather than the abbreviated one I had yesterday while saving my energy for our scene, loosens all the knots watching hours of video footage put in my muscles. While I’m spotting Niall on the bench, I tell him about our CCTV-fest.

  “Glamorous life of a detective,” he snorts.

  “Screw you, Bob-the-Builder.”

  Niall’s told me he runs a contracting firm in Orange County, and that although he has several crews working for him, he can’t keep off the tools himself. “Too much brickie in me blood,” he claimed. Since my own father was only one generation off the hammer and nails that makes me like Niall even more.

  He chuckles, not taking offense. Something else I like about Niall. He has the same sense of humor I grew up with. It’s not something all Americans understand, British humor. Emily, who packs her own wallop of snark when she wants to, gets it, thank God for her.

  “Need me to watch yer girl today?” he asks, as we move toward the treadmills, where Emily’s already dutifully climbing digital hills.

  “No, I’ve got her covered. But thanks for the offer.”

  “Any time. I mean that, yeh gobshite.”

  “Wanker.”

  With my endorphins surging from the workout, my body loose from the Jacuzzi afterwards, and my mood lifted by the craic with Niall, returning to watching CCTV footage seems unbearably depressing. Widows might be the worst part of my job but watching an empty corridor minute by minute is a close second.

  Emily seems undeterred. She takes the laptops from me when I remove them from my room safe, and when I tell her I’m going to take a quick shower, she skips off to her own cabin, singing Rusted Root’s “Send Me on My Way.”

  She moves on to the Proclaimers’ “I’m Gonna Be” while I’m shaving. Hearing her soft accent trying to wrap around words like “haver” has me laughing so hard I nick my chin. She encores with the Scissor Sisters’ “I Don’t Feel Like Dancing” as I pull on a black muscle shirt and relaxed jeans. Hearing her singing makes the prospect of corridor-watch
ing less bleak, and I grab a reward for her that might make the time pass faster for both of us.

  When I lock the connecting door behind me and survey her cabin, I realize I underestimated my little girl.

  There’s no sign of her, or the laptops, but there’s no question where they are: inside a huge fort of cushions and bedding she’s built between the couches and desk.

  As I walk over to the blanket fort, I hear her giggle.

  “Hmm, where did Emily go?”

  A peal of giggles answers me.

  I move back to the bed and pretend to check under it. “No, not here.”

  When I turn around, I catch a pair of bright eyes peeping at me before she ducks back inside the fort. “Where’s Emily?”

  More wild giggles.

  I lift the edge of the blankets but don’t look inside. “Is she in here?”

  “Yes, Daddy!” She crawls forward on her hands and knees so she can peer up at me, with a cheek-splitting grin. “I built a fort.”

  “I see that. Is it big enough for Daddy?”

  She nods earnestly. “I made it Daddy-sized. It’s even big enough for a wolfy-daddy. But you have to come in on your hands and knees.”

  She shuffles back and I squeeze in, careful not to bring the whole thing down on our heads. There’s plenty of space inside, and she’s set up my laptop on the coffee table, easily seen from the pile of pillows she’s lying on, while her laptop is on the floor in front of her so she can type. I stretch out behind her, keeping my surprise hidden behind my back. She wriggles so she’s resting against my length and sighs happily when I nuzzle her neck, before she taps my laptop to start the playback.

  “I have an idea for how we can make this pass a little faster, baby doll,” I whisper into her hair, as the empty corridor begins rolling.

  “Yes, Daddy?”

  “Take off your shorts and I’ll show you.”

  I help her wiggle out of her shorts, then draw her leg back over mine so she’s open to me. I tickle her labia gently with my fingertips, until I’m sure her clit isn’t too tender, while she wriggles and giggles. Just as I’m turning on the clit-licker and applying it to her slick hood, she jolts.