The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection

by Frost, E J

Rick scoffs but pulls off his tee. He’s got some mottling on his throat and chest, which could just be stress, or his tan fading. I don’t see any punctures.

  “Turn around. Let me see your back.”

  He rolls his eyes, but turns and lets me see his back. I don’t see anything different from how he looked yesterday morning at my place when he was running around in his kecks.

  “Okay. How are you feeling?”

  “How am I supposed to be feeling? This is some fucked-up shit.”

  “In yourself. How do you feel? Any fever? Chills? Nausea? Do you hurt anywhere?”

  “No, I’m fine. Stop trying to fucking scare me. I already got the lecture from Manny. I’m sorry I opened the damn box. I thought it was something else. You told me I could shop online. I wasn’t expecting anything this big, so I got curious and opened it. Fucking sue me.”

  “Stop barking at me when I’m just trying to keep you safe, Rick. I want you to call your GP and make an appointment. Ask for a blood test. Tell him you might have been exposed to something toxic.”

  “I’m fine! Nothing came out of the box. Fuck, stop trying to make this worse than it already is.”

  Rick grabs his tee off the floor and pulls it back over his head. I’ve rarely seen him blush, but there are two spots of color high on his cheeks now.

  At least I’ve gotten his mind off Emily’s blow jobs.

  “Rick, remember the anthrax scare? Five people died from anthrax sent through the post. A couple of years ago, a Russian agent died of radiation poisoning from something that was sprayed into his tea. Two people were poisoned and one person died in England from a nerve agent that was put in a perfume bottle. And I’ve got a client who has permanent scars on her face, neck, and hands from opening a package from her stalker that contained the chemicals found in pool cleaner. I’m not fucking around with you. Make the appointment. That’s the last I’m going to say about it.”

  Around those spots of furious color, Rick pales. “Okay,” he spits.

  “Thanks. If you haven’t taken a shower since you opened the box, how about you take one now? I’ll take a look while you’re getting cleaned up.”

  “Okay.” It’s less of a snarl and more of a whine. He starts towards the hallway. “I thought I told you I wanted confidentiality on this one,” he grumps as he passes me, tipping his chin at Emily.

  She still has her head down, good girl that she is, so she doesn’t see his glare. But she feels it, and I feel the way she shifts under my hand. She doesn’t break High Protocol to answer him, though, and I keep stroking her head so she knows I’m pleased with her.

  “She already knew all about it from your social media. Her insight’s valuable and she knows to keep her mouth shut.”

  Rick grumbles but stalks away. I wait until I hear him clomp up the stairs before I speak.

  “Emily, I want you to stay there. I’m going to open the box facing away from you. If I’m okay with you seeing what’s inside it, I’ll turn it around. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Daddy,” she says softly.

  “Good girl.”

  The steps away from her and around the island feel much greater than they are. As I turn the box, I tip it towards me and give it a little shake to see if anything spills out. There’s nothing. No powder, no mist. I peel the loose tape off completely and examine it. I can’t see anything on the tape other than adhesive residue. After sticking the tape to the side of the box for later, I open the flaps.

  The box is like something flowers would be delivered in. Three feet tall but only a foot wide and deep. The flaps open like doors, so I can see all the interior.

  The colors hit me first. The browns and pinks of bare skin. Linen white. Bright splashes of red. Dull green. Then I take in each image. Slightly grainy pictures have been taped all over the inside of the box. Some are familiar: twenty-dollar bills strewn across a white sheet and a woman’s curving back. A man pounding into a woman from behind. A man slapping a thick black belt across a woman’s red-striped haunches. I know these are pictures of Rick and Laurel because I’ve seen them before, but otherwise I wouldn’t be able to tell because Rick’s head has been cut off in each one and his face pasted over Laurel’s. In the one with the belt, a flaming skull’s been pasted over Rick’s head.

  Then there are the pictures I don’t recognize. These are higher quality. Taken with something more professional than a phone. A man holding a woman down over a spanking horse, his hand raised. A man fucking a woman in bondage. A man using a crop on a woman’s large, bare breasts. A man peeing onto a woman’s chest. These are probably all of Rick, but again, it’s impossible to tell. Some have the flaming skull instead of his head while in others, his face has been scratched off with a red ball-point pen, the scratches so deep into the paper that the fibers have lifted into a red pulp. Rick’s dick has received the same treatment in the pictures where it’s visible. Rick’s face is pasted over the woman’s face in all of these pictures, so it’s the flaming skull or the decapitated body fucking a female body with Rick’s face, over and over and over.

  Lotta hate in one small box.

  “Emily, stand and come over to me,” I say. I don’t want her to see this while she’s on her knees.

  When she joins me, I hold the box’s flaps open wide and let her take in the montage. I watch her face for any sign of distress as she views it. Her mouth purses, but other than that, she doesn’t show much reaction. Her breathing stays slow and even. Her pupil dilation doesn’t change. She’s okay.

  “Before Rick comes back down, first impressions? You may elaborate and drop the honorific until I tell you not to.”

  “Someone really, really doesn’t like Rick very much,” she says softly.

  “Uh-huh.” I wait and let her think.

  She tips her head to the side as she considers. “They’re all sexual. All of a man and a woman. I know Rick’s done some guy-on-guy porn, but there aren’t any pictures of that. This is about his relationships with women.”

  “Yes,” I say, to validate her conclusion. “Anything else?”

  “None of the bodies are complete. The heads are cut off, or the arms, or the legs. It reduces the bodies to objects. It’s depersonalizing.”

  Yes, it is, and that’s dangerous. I’ve read enough criminal studies to understand that if you depersonalize someone, it makes it that much easier to commit violence against them. That’s not where I want Rick’s stalker going.

  “Good. Anything else?”

  “In the ones with the skull, the male figure’s doing something kinky. Belting or the crop or watersports. Hurting and humiliating his partner. And it’s a bad skull. Scary. Evil.”

  This what I value so much about another pair of eyes, particularly Emily’s. That’s a pattern I didn’t see.

  “Big picture? What message do you think it’s sending?”

  Emily’s eyes were slightly unfocused, looking off into the middle distance. Now, they sharpen as she looks up at me. “Rick’s kinks are destroying him. That’s what it says to me.”

  “Good girl. That was very helpful, sweetie. Back down to your knees. No more elaborating.” I take my phone out and take pictures of the box, inside and out, from several angles.

  Once I’ve gotten a really clear set of images, I tuck my phone away, seal the box, and wash my hands, just as a precaution. Then I head towards the living room, walking slowly, so Emily can keep up. I drop onto one of Rick’s white leather couches, which look more comfortable than they actually are. Emily shuffles between the couch and glass and chrome table until she’s at my knee, then settles in the Nadu position, facing me. I stroke her head but don’t say anything, letting both of our minds settle.

  Rick appears ten minutes later, wearing a bathrobe open over designer sweatpants. He throws himself down on the couch opposite me. “What’d you think? That’s some fucked-up shit, right?”

  “Uh-huh. I want you to report it to the police.”

  Rick raises his hands and eyes to the
ceiling. “If I’d wanted the police involved, I wouldn’t have called you. What the hell am I paying you for?”

  “You’re paying me for my expertise. And your expert is telling you that it’s time to involve the police. The stalker’s escalating. He or she knows where you live. Whatever else you want to say about that box, whatever message the stalker’s trying to send, it’s a threat. Threats get reported to the police, Rick.”

  “Fuck.” Rick runs his hands through his hair.

  “It won’t be a priority for them. I’ll continue to work with Max to track down Laurel Radford. We’ll get it sorted. But this has to get reported to the police. If this escalates to a physical confrontation, you have to be able to say you acted in self-defense. This is for your protection, Rick. You’ve got to see that.”

  He slumps into the couch dramatically. “Sure.”

  “Good. When Manny gets back, we’ll hand off. He’ll make the report. Depending on how understaffed they are, they’ll either send someone to interview you and collect the box, or they’ll ask you to come in and make the report. Manny’ll walk you through it.”

  “What do I say about the rape shit?”

  “Max has EvonneBringsTheTruth’s website down.” I take my phone out and waggle it at him, referring to the confirmation email Max sent us all this morning. “Mention what’s happening on your social media accounts. If they ask about the images, make sure you differentiate between the pictures with Laurel, which were published without your consent, and the porn stills. The porn was all shot in California, right?”

  Rick nods. “I’m not that stupid.”

  “Then they’ve got nothing on you. Let’s get them on your side.”

  “All right.” Rick tips his head back against the couch. “You know, I’ve never even gotten a speeding ticket.”

  As I’m about to respond, there’s a click of a lock and a bustle of noise from the hallway.

  “Roo-boo, I’ve brought your mail,” a woman calls.

  I lift an eyebrow at Rick. “Roo-boo?”

  “Shut the fuck up.” Rick rises from the couch, disappears into the hallway for a moment and returns trailing his manager, Glory.

  I stand and rest my hand on the top of Emily’s head, so she knows to stay in position. “Hey, Glory, nice to see you.”

  “Logan.” She bustles over to me, her semi-sheer orange and midnight-blue caftan flowing over her generous curves. She leans in to give me an air-kiss on each cheek, then steps back. “Who is this?”

  That’s right. Glory hasn’t met Emily.

  “This is my girlfriend, Emily. She’s in High Protocol, so please don’t try to speak to her or touch her.”

  Glory’s face puckers for second before she plasters on a smile. “Absolutely. So, what are we going to do about Rick’s little problem, hmm?”

  I watch her for a second, unsure of what that look meant. Glory’s managed Rick for over a year; surely, she knows enough about kink to recognize High Protocol. When her smile doesn’t waver, I gesture to the couch, keeping Emily on my far side.

  After we all sit down, I recap my advice to Rick.

  Glory folds her hands over her knees and shrugs in a flutter of silk. “Do you really think bringing this to the police’s attention is a good idea?”

  “I do,” I tell her firmly. “With EvonneBringsTheTruth’s site down—"

  “EvonneBringsTheTruth’s site is down?” Glory asks, her brown eyes going wide with surprise. “That was fast work.”

  “My IT guy is damn good,” I say.

  “Well, okay then.” She waves her hand, bracelets jangling, rings flashing. “Whatever you think is best.”

  “Way to have my six,” Rick groans. “You were supposed to shoot him down. Tell him all the reasons I can’t spend my day in a police station.”

  Glory gives Rick a crimson-edged grin. “No such luck, cariño. But let’s talk about what you’re going to say.”

  Manny returns while we’re strategizing. He gives me a quick head shake that tells me everything I need to know about the interview with the Castillos. He’ll send around a full report later and I’ll see if there’s anything I can tease out of it. I bring him up to speed on the decision to involve the police. As we’re falling back into strategizing, the alarm on my phone goes off, telling me I have to leave for the airport.

  After ordering two Ubers, we say goodbye to Rick, Glory, and Manny. We aren’t alone in the elevator, so I have to settle for hugging my baby doll and whispering in her ear, rather than pinning her against the elevator wall the way I want. I release her from High Protocol, praise her, and savor the last few moments of peace.

  On the street, I put our bags in Emily’s Uber, help her into her seat, and fasten her seat-belt for her. I linger, cupping her face in my hand, looking into those bright eyes, until the driver gets restless. Then I let her go and climb into my own car. After giving the driver the terminal number, I lean back in my seat and close my eyes. The first images on the back of my eyelids are the horror-show from that box, but I push those images aside, and call up the memory of Emily’s eyes, glittering with beautiful tears, as she looked up at me last night while she held my cock down her throat for a count of thirty. I hold that image close as the car heads towards the Midtown Tunnel.

  * * *

  I’m early. I always give myself an extra half-hour when I’m going to the airport. You never know what the traffic’s going to be like. I’ve got forty-five minutes to kill when I get to the International Arrivals lounge. I text Emily, email Max, fuck around on my phone, and go back to that wonderful image of Emily, all while a count-down ticks in my ears. It’s like tinnitus. Only this is a definite ticking. Tick-tick-tick. It’s not in time to my heartbeat or my breathing or anything else. It reminds me of that old Christmas Band Aid song where Bono sings about the clanging chimes of doom. The chimes of doom are ticking away in the back of my head, counting down the minutes until Miranda walks through the security doors.

  It’s anti-climactic when she actually does. She’s moving slowly, weighed down by her belly and the suitcase rolling in her wake. Despite the belly, a lot of eyes in the crowd linger on her. Even off a long flight, and very, very pregnant, she looks like a movie star. Not one of Rick’s heavily augmented friends, but a blonde bombshell from the Golden Age of Hollywood: Bridget Bardot or Lana Turner.

  Too bad her beauty was only ever skin deep.

  I hold my hand out for her luggage, but when she leans in to try to kiss me, I step back.

  Her face freezes, blue eyes chill.

  “I haven’t seen you in seven months and I don’t even get a kiss?” she asks. She’s got her let’s-spend-the-day-in-bed voice going already.

  “No, you don’t.” I want to make my boundaries very clear, even if I have to do it in the airport.

  She reaches up and runs her fingers through the short shag of my hair. My skin should crawl at her touch, but it doesn’t. Only my conscience recoils.

  “At least this has grown back,” she says. “I hated seeing you shorn.” Her fingertips slip down and linger on the long scar on my forehead. “My poor darling.”

  Miranda always could make me self-conscious. I move away from her touch and the reminder of my injury.

  “I’m fine. Come on, we’ll take a cab to your hotel.”

  “My hotel?” She laughs, high and false. “Darling, surely you don’t expect me to stay in a hotel?”

  “Yes, I do.” I take the handle of her luggage and turn towards the exit. She slips her arm through mine. I stop.

  “Miranda, stop touching me. I mean it.”

  She sidles a step away. “Are you going to be this unreasonable the whole time I’m here?”

  I’m tempted to simply snap “yes” at her and walk away, but I’m afraid that would just encourage her to chase me harder.

  “You want to do this here? Okay. Let me lay it out. I am not your lover anymore. I am not your Master. I’m not even your friend. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a liar and a
thief and a rapist, and I don’t want a liar, thief, and rapist touching me. Is that clear enough?”

  Her chin trembles, but her eye stay dry. She doesn’t even flush. Reaching Miranda’s true emotions always was like digging for gold. Nothing’s changed.

  “I can’t believe you just said that,” she stage-whispers.

  There is so fucking much more I could say.

  “Ready for that taxi now, or is there other dirty laundry you’d like to air?” I sweep my free arm around at the crowd, most of whom are ignoring us, but there are a couple of curious stares.

  “Taxi,” she says, her mouth a tight, white line that she has to force the word through.

  “Good.” I move towards the exit, taking shorter strides than I’d like because my leg has seized from the tension and I didn’t bring my damn cane. Miranda keeps pace beside me, smoothing her hands over the prominent baby bump under her floral maxi-dress. Trust Miranda to look chic even in her third trimester.

  The taxi rank is mercifully full and we’re in the back seat of a cab with the air-conditioning blasting at us before I have a chance to sweat through my shirt. Miranda has already wilted. She dabs at her temples before misting herself with a little spray bottle from her ridiculously expensive-looking, leather handbag.

  “I always forget how hot it is here,” she says.

  “Uh-huh. How’s the summer been in England?” I ask, not because I really care, but because there’s nothing I want to talk about with her, so we might as well discuss the weather.

  “Lovely,” she says. “Sunny and warm but nothing like this. I went for a stroll along the river last night and needed a cardi.”

  Miranda’s probably talking about the Thames. She always talks about London as though it’s the only city in the world and the Thames is the only river. She lives in Brentford, a suburb that isn’t quite as posh as neighboring Chiswick, but is seriously up and coming.

  Just like Miranda.

  “I finished work on Friday,” she continues. “I don’t know if I mentioned it, but I got that promotion. Team administrator.”

  Very up and coming, and she never hesitates to let me know it.