The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection

by Frost, E J

  “Says you.”

  “Laurel and her Dom will be here on Friday. You can ask her yourself.”

  “She’s coming up from DC? How’d you swing that?”

  “I asked.” I lean over and kiss my sleeping submissive’s temple. “She wants to meet Emily.”

  Theo chuckles. “Your subbie’s a secret weapon.”

  I give Emily another soft kiss. “That she is.”

  * * *

  Theo doesn’t need to flash his badge to get us through Dovie Donegan’s door. Her roommate lets us in their two-bedroom walk-up on Sixty-third Drive without even asking for ID.

  Dovie’s blonde roommate introduces herself as Bianca, “call me Bee,” and makes googly eyes at Theo from the moment she lets us through the door. I guess the bastard is better looking than I am. Or maybe I already look taken.

  We sit on a mustard yellow three-seater that fits with all the rest of the Ikea-clone furniture in the apartment. Bee offers us red wine while she tells us that Dovie’s on the way from the train station with take-out.

  When Bee returns with a big bottle of Italian red, she sits down across from us, tucks her bare feet under her and asks, “Are you both from Dovie’s club?”

  Theo glances at me, letting me take the lead.

  I slide forward on the couch and let my hands dangle between my knees to show how harmless I am. “What club is that, Bee?”

  She gives me a smile that has to have benefitted from years of orthodontics. “It’s okay. She told me all about it. I know it’s supposed to be secret, but I promise I won’t tell anyone. I mean, it’s not for me, the threesome thing, but if you guys are into it, that’s totally cool.”

  “I’m glad you’re so open-minded,” Theo says. “You didn’t have any interest in going to the club yourself? Checking it out?”

  She giggles and turns a nice shade of pink. “I mean, are you asking?”

  Theo holds out his palm in an inviting gesture.

  Their flirtation is interrupted by a woman bustling through the door with an armful of fragrant parcels. Smells like Chinese.

  Dovie Donegan, I presume.

  Dovie’s raven-haired to Bee’s blonde, but otherwise just as much of a former cheerleader as her roommate: a touch too well-groomed, eye-catching in a fitted, silk pantsuit, a designer watch on her wrist and a designer bag over her shoulder. She’s wearing spike heels despite her commute. She’s all smiles until she sees us sitting on the couch. Then her face closes.

  “Hi, who are you?” she asks.

  “Oh.” Bee stands up from her chair. “I thought they were from your club.”

  Dovie’s face closes further, becoming a frozen mask. “No.”

  I stand and offer her my hand. “James Logan.”

  She sets her bags down on the coffee table with a thunk. “I guess I shouldn’t have blocked you.”

  “Have you had a chance to speak with Laurel in the last day or two?”

  Dovie nods, the tips of her bob brushing her jaw. “She told me she’s coming up on Friday. And staying with you, which I think is kind of odd, but I guess you’re in the City.”

  “East Village,” I confirm.

  “Whatever. We don’t have a guest room, so I guess it makes sense, but it still seems strange. Sorry, I’m being rude.” She holds her hand out to Theo without shaking my hand, which I let drop back to my side. “Dovie Donegan.”

  “Theo D’Andrea. NYPD.”

  Dovie’s blues shoot to me. “You said you were a private investigator.”

  “I am.”

  “This is still Mr. Logan’s investigation,” Theo offers. “I’m just here as an observer.”

  Dovie rubs her fingertips over her lips and turns to pace the room. “If Laurel’s agreed to speak with you, I don’t see what you need from me.”

  “I’d like to talk with you about the party. What you remember. And the pictures you took.”

  She turns sharply and glares at me. Bingo.

  “What about them?”

  I take a stab in the dark, but it’s a niggle that’s been bothering me for a while. “Who you sold them to.”

  All the blood drains out of her face, leaving her a strange orangey-gray. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  That’s lie number one.

  “We can talk more about that, but I don’t think Bee needs to hear,” I say. Dovie may have told her roomie about her underground ménage club, but I’m pretty sure she will not want to admit the details of the Fire Island sexcapade in front of Bee. I need to get Dovie alone if I’m going to get the truth out of her. “Can Detective D’Andrea and I take you out for a coffee?”

  “Don’t mind me,” Bee says, bouncing up from her chair again. “I’ll just eat this in my room.”

  Bee gathers up one of the bags and trots off into the back of the apartment. A door closes. Not slamming, but loud enough we all hear it.

  Dovie sinks down on the chair Bee’s vacated and drags the take-out bag towards her. “Do you mind if I eat? It’s been a long day and I missed lunch.”

  “Not at all. Your roommate offered us wine.” I nod to the bottle and glasses sitting untouched on the table. “Can I pour you a glass?”

  It couldn’t hurt to lubricate her memory.

  “Please.” She takes the glass from me and downs half of it before opening the take-out cartons and setting in on the noodles and veggies with a pair of chopsticks. “What do you want to know?”

  Ignoring her attempt to control the interview, I take out my notebook and pen. “Damon Tiger said Laurel was the one who got the invitation to Pedro and Terri Castillo’s Fourth of July party on Fire Island. Did you know the Castillos before the party?”

  Dovie shakes her head. “I don’t know them now. I couldn’t point out either of them if I saw them on the street. Laurel’s firm does something with Mr. Castillo’s firm. That’s all I know.”

  That’s not all she knows. As I take her through the night of the party, she knows a great deal more. Or thinks she knows, because not all of her recollections tally with the three other versions of the night’s events that I’ve heard.

  “Then he put his belt around Laurel’s neck and dragged her into the bedroom,” Dovie says after she’s recited how she, Laurel, and Damon met Rick.

  I tap my pen on my notebook. “You remember Rick putting his belt around Laurel’s neck and dragging her into the bedroom?”

  She nods. “That’s what I remember.”

  That’s not what Damon, Rick, and Laurel remember. Interestingly, however, that is what’s in EvonneBringsTheTruth’s account.

  “Did Rick pick the bedroom?”

  Dovie chews a mouthful of noodles, her bright blue eyes cast up as she tries to remember. I’ve read psychological studies that say a right-handed person moving their eyes up and to the left is a sign they’re accessing their left hemisphere, the creative side of the brain, manufacturing an untruth. But in my experience, it’s more an aid to memory, particularly if the person’s memory is fuzzy.

  “I’m not a hundred percent sure,” she says. “But I think I did. I’d been talking earlier to the bartender and he said the rooms down the right hallway were for VIPs, the film guys, but the rooms off the left hallway were okay for anyone. I just went down to the first open door on the left.”

  I jot that down.

  “Once you got in the bedroom, what happened?”

  She gives me a sour glare. “They had sex. What do you think happened?”

  “I think you took pictures of them having sex.”

  A red flush runs along her cheekbones, visible even through her makeup. She jabs her fork into the take-out container, taking out her embarrassment on the hapless noodles. “Yeah, that, too.”

  “Were you photographing them from the beginning?”

  “Pretty much. I think I turned my phone on as soon as we got in the room.”

  “Were you taking video or just single pictures?”

  “Pictures. Before we went in, Rick s
aid we couldn’t video. I guess it’s illegal.”

  Glad Rick managed to keep his wits about him to that limited extent.

  “Is that true?” Dovie asks suddenly, looking at Theo. “Is it illegal in New York?”

  “If you were planning on making a porno, yes,” Theo responds. “Production of obscene material. That’s a misdemeanor. If you stick it on the internet, that’s possession with intent to distribute. That’s a felony.”

  “Oh.” Dovie swallows hard before she stabs at her noodles again. “I didn’t stick it on the internet.”

  Someone did, but we’ll get back to that later.

  “While you were taking pictures, did you ever hear Laurel say ‘no,’ or ‘stop,’ or ‘red’?” I ask.

  Dovie touches her forehead with her fingertips but doesn’t rub. Mustn’t mess up those careful layers of makeup.

  “I don’t remember her saying ‘no’ or ‘stop.’ I’m not sure about ‘red.’ I mean, she might have. I don’t remember.”

  I don’t look at Theo. I’ll have other opportunities to press the point home.

  “Did it seem like Laurel didn’t want what was happening?”

  “Sure.” Dovie takes another deep drink of wine. “Who wants to be hit with a goddamn belt?”

  Well, I know a few people.

  “What was Laurel’s reaction when Rick hit her with the belt?”

  “She moved around a lot. She had a dick down her throat so she couldn’t really scream.”

  I’ve had women, and men, scream around my dick plenty of times. And it sounds like I have more to scream around than Damon Tiger.

  “At some point when they were having sex, you threw a bunch of money on Laurel’s back. Care to explain that?”

  Dovie flushes again and stabs at her noodles. “It was stupid.”

  “Were you trying to encourage Rick to have anal sex with Laurel?”

  She rolls her eyes to the ceiling, but nods.

  “Did he?” I ask.

  “No. Dirty bastard pulled out and shot his wad all over my money. Disgusting.”

  That is fairly disgusting, I have to admit.

  “After Rick came, what happened?”

  “It went really bad. Laurel started screaming and Rick slapped her. He shot out of there like his ass was on fire. Damon and I calmed Laurel down and went back to the party.”

  “Then what?”

  Dovie takes a bite of noodles, chews and shrugs. “I think we stayed for another hour or two and then headed out. Damon and Laurel took the train. He went back into the City. She went home. She was just up for the weekend.”

  “Did she get home safely?”

  Dovie gives me a puzzled glance. “Yes, why?”

  I shrug as if it’s inconsequential. If Laurel didn’t tell Dovie what happened to her, I’m certainly not going to. Particularly since Theo doesn’t know yet.

  “How long after the party was it that someone knocked on your door wanting to buy the pictures?” I ask.

  Dovie goes back to stabbing her noodles. “Can I have some more wine, please?”

  “Sure.” I refill her glass and watch her toss half of it down. “So how long was it?”

  “Almost a year.” Dovie sighs. “She contacted me maybe a month ago.”

  Gotcha.

  “How did she get in touch with you?”

  “Email.”

  “How did she find you?”

  “I posted some comments in a forum. It was a discussion about porn and feminism. There were threads on each of the big male porn stars. I commented on Rick’s thread and said he wasn’t any kind of feminist. That I’d met him, and he was an asshole who didn’t respect women at all.”

  Beside me, Theo snorts. I restrain myself from elbowing him.

  “And she contacted you as a result of those comments?” I ask.

  “Yes.” She takes another long drink of wine, killing her second glass.

  I refill it.

  “Did she offer to buy the pictures right away?” I ask.

  “No, we exchanged some messages first. She asked how I’d met Rick and I explained about the party.”

  “You told her what you remembered?”

  Dovie nods. That explains why EvonneBringsTheTruth posted the bullshit about Rick dragging Laurel into the bedroom with a belt around her neck. She got it from Dovie.

  “Do you still have those messages?”

  She swills more wine before she nods. There’s not much left in the bottle, which is probably fortunate. Theo’s not going to think much of my investigative technique if I get the witness soused during the interview.

  I write down my email address on a clean page, rip it out of my notebook, and put it on the table between us. “Would you forward them to me, please?”

  Dovie glances at the piece of paper like it’s venomous.

  Theo reaches out, snags the piece of paper, takes a pen out of his pocket, and writes his official email address below mine. “I’d like them, too.”

  He doesn’t say please. Dovie blanches.

  “Yes, okay.”

  “How did the buy work? Did she meet you?”

  Dovie shakes her head. “PayPal. She paid the money into my account and I put the pictures in a Dropbox folder that I shared with her.”

  “By email?” I’m out of my depth here, technically. But I’m not sure it matters. The mechanism by which EvonneBringsTheTruth got the pictures doesn’t matter as much as who she is.

  “Yes.”

  “You never met her?”

  “Face-to-face? No, of course not.”

  What ever happened to good old face-to-face meetings that produce a description of the suspect? Damn this digital age.

  “What was her name, the woman who bought the pictures?”

  Dovie takes the last drink out of her wine glass and works the liquid in her mouth before she swallows and says, “Her screen-name was Delta Hyhhyd. Obviously, that’s not her real name.”

  It’s not at all obvious to me.

  “Why’s it obviously not her real name?” Theo asks.

  Glad it’s not obvious to him, either.

  “Um, it’s an acronym of Julia de Burgos’s saying, ‘don’t let the hand you hold, hold you down’?”

  Clever. I bet Emily would have known that.

  “PayPal accounts are hard to set up in a pseudonym,” Theo says. “Bank details can’t be verified. What was the name on the account?”

  Dovie chews her lower lip. “I’d need to look it up.”

  Theo nods at her handbag, which she’s dropped next to her chair. “You got your phone in there? Take your time.”

  Brilliant. That alone makes bringing Theo along worthwhile.

  Scowling, Dovie retrieves the latest model iPhone from her bag and starts working at it. She scrolls for a while, then finally holds her phone out to us. “There. Evonne Wilson.”

  Bingo.

  “Screenshot that and email it to me,” Theo says. Again, there’s no “please.” There is, however, the full authority of the NYPD behind his command.

  “Okay.” Dovie messes a bit more with her phone before she shoves it back in her handbag.

  “Thanks,” Theo says. “Did you have any contact with Evonne Wilson after you sent her the pictures?”

  Dovie shakes her head.

  “How much did she pay you for them?” Theo asks.

  Damn, he doesn’t shy away from the hard questions. I was going to save that one for last.

  “Three thousand,” Dovie mutters.

  Theo taps his index fingers against his chin. “Lotta money for some sexy snaps.”

  Dovie picks up her empty wine glass, pours the dregs of the bottle into it and knocks it back. “She offered. I didn’t ask for any specific amount.”

  “Then I won’t look to charge you for solicitation,” Theo says. His voice is pure cop and Dovie shudders. I can’t blame her.

  “Are you going to arrest me?”

  “Not right now, but I’m not ruling it out. I know y
ou didn’t get Mr. Errol’s consent to sell the pictures. Did you get Laurel’s?”

  Dovie’s shoulders round and she folds in on herself, holding the empty wine glass between her breasts. “No.”

  Theo nods heavily and sits back in his chair. I take that as my signal to wrap up the interview.

  “Were you aware of the pictures being used in an online attack against Rick Errol?” I ask.

  Dovie nods. “I saw his Twitter.”

  “Did you post anything? Participate in the Twitter?”

  “The Twitter?” Dovie arches an eyebrow but at twin glowers from me and Theo, she shrugs. “Yes, I posted a few times. My user-name’s ThreeQueensMoreFun. I didn’t use any of the pictures. You can check.”

  “I will,” Theo says. “I want you to email me all of your email and social media accounts. And I will check.”

  Dovie looks appropriately cowed.

  “Anything else you want to tell us?” I ask.

  She shakes her head.

  “Okay, thanks for your time—”

  “He’s not the victim, you know,” Dovie says, her mouth twisting bitterly. “You’re investigating on his behalf.” She tips her chin at me. “You’re acting like I’m some kind of criminal.” Theo gets a derisive chin-tip. “But you weren’t in that room and you didn’t see what I saw. How he acted. He’s not a victim.”

  “Rick deserves everything that’s happened to him,” I say, making it a statement rather than a question.

  “Yes, he does.”

  Sadly, if I hadn’t seen the Little Box of Horrors, I’d probably agree with her.

  * * *

  Theo’s a recapper. He goes over every detail of the interview as we drive back into the City. It’s interesting to hear his perspective, but he didn’t get anything out of its that I didn’t get.

  “Evonne Wilson’s not all that common a name. The surname is, sure, but the combination? We should be able to find her.”

  “Assuming that’s her real name,” I say.

  “Yeah. But it really isn’t that easy to set up a fake PayPal account. PayPal links to either a credit card or a bank account and you can’t transfer money in or out unless you verify the credit card or bank account.”

  “She could have gotten a credit card in the fake name.”