Daddy PI: Book 1 of the Daddy PI Casefiles by Frost, J (reading eggs books TXT) 📗

of thirty people would make Kam-Magruder memorable. Who does Merullo think he’s kidding?

“What do you remember about him?” I ask.

“I think we talked about tennis.” A muscle knots in his jaw. That’s not all they talked about. “What’s he got to do with Bill Black?”

Merullo’s remembered Black’s first name, which I’ve only given him once. For someone who can’t remember faces, he’s not having any trouble with names.

I make a few bogus notes, stretching out the moment to let the tension build before I hit him with it. “All five of these guests complained of symptoms similar to food poisoning. Black died. I’m investigating the circumstances of his death.”

Merullo shrugs, but it’s forced.

“Sorry, I really don’t remember the guy. If you say he had a bunch of massages while he was on board, I’m not going to argue with you, but I didn’t have any contact with him outside the spa.”

Lie. Lie. Lie.

“Actually, three of the massages were in Black’s cabin. Any particular reason you’d go to a guest’s cabin instead of doing the massage in the spa?”

Merullo’s nostrils flare and dusky color stains his cheekbones. Doesn’t like being caught out, does he?

“It’s just the guest’s preference. I don’t remember coming to the guy’s cabin.”

“Black was submissive. Any reason you’d give a submissive a massage in his cabin rather than in the spa?”

Merullo’s nostrils flare; his jaw knots.

“If you’re trying to say that I’m offering sexual services you can back up your fucking bus. I know the law. I haven’t done anything wrong. No one’s ever complained about me. Not one complaint in six months. Check with head office. Can you say that, Mister, what was your name?”

Not so good at remembering my name, is he? Even though I introduced myself before talking to him about Emily yesterday and again at the start of the interview.

“Logan,” I say evenly. “No one’s saying you’ve done anything wrong, unless you are?” I don’t give him the opportunity to answer. Just let his face darken. “I’m asking whether there’s a reason you’d give a submissive man a massage in his cabin rather than in the spa?”

“No, I told you. It’s just the guest’s preference.” He crosses his arms over his chest.

Nice body language, and it’s interesting that he’s only been with the cruise line for six months. I had the impression that most of the staff had been with Pink Pearl for several years.

“Do you top guests outside of the spa?” I ask.

“Occasionally.” He shrugs. “I’m pretty busy. The spa was failing when they brought me in. Losing money every month. I’ve turned it around and we’ve had two profitable months in a row. That’s entirely due to me.”

Arrogant bastard.

“Congratulations. Did you top any of these men outside of the spa?”

I tap my laptop screen, still showing the pictures of the other four.

Merullo works his jaw for a second. “I think so.” He tips his chin at the picture of Kam-Magruder. “I think we did a wrestling scene at the Games.”

Merullo’s not in Niall’s class, but he’s easily over two hundred pounds. Kam-Magruder doesn’t weigh a hundred and thirty pounds wet. No question who the winner of that wrestling match was. “Any complications with the scene?”

Merullo shrugs. “Not that I remember. So, he got food poisoning while he was on the cruise? I don’t remember him being sick. He seemed fine.”

Is he talking about Kam-Magruder or Black? Kam-Magruder’s last massage was during the first week of his cruise, seven weeks ago. I understand the kinky Olympics are held on the first weekend, so unless Merullo saw more of Kam-Magruder than he’s admitting, he wouldn’t have any reason to know whether Kam-Magruder got sick during the second week of the cruise. Unless Merullo’s actually talking about Black, which I suspect he is, at least subconsciously.

“He developed symptoms after departure,” I say, keeping it vague. I make a few more meaningless notes, then tap my pen against the paper to distract him before I ask, “When you’re doing the massages, do you use oils and incense, that kind of thing?”

“Oils, yes. Incense, no. Some guests have allergies. Even the ones who don’t might not like the smell. I don’t use incense or scented candles or anything like that during massages. Neutral carrier oils only. I usually use almond oil, but I have coconut and jojoba, too, in case the guest is allergic to almonds.”

“You’re careful not to use anything they might have a reaction to?”

“Absolutely. There’s no way anyone got sick from a spa treatment, if that’s what you’re saying.”

Such a defensive bastard.

“I’m trying to identify things they were all exposed to. Where do you get your oils?”

“The company’s called Serenity, but I don’t order anything myself. It’s all done through our head office. They place the orders in bulk and the pursers stock each boat. It’s a cost savings. My suggestion.”

This guy really is all about the money. I feel like I’m the middle of Jerry Maguire.

“Is there anything you order yourself?”

He shifts on the couch. It’s a small movement, but it’s there. “Some herbs.” He leans forward and clasps his hands between his knees, trying to look earnest. “I use them in a class I teach on relieving sub-drop.”

“Yeah? I’ve had issues with that.” I might even be having an issue with it right now. “What do you use?”

“St. John’s Wort, ginseng, cod liver oil. Basically, herbs that boost mood. Athletes use them after intensive training or a big game to help them even out. Same theory.”

“Mm-hmm.” I make notes, this time meaningful ones. “Where do you order from?”

“It’s called Hidden Emerald Ranch. High quality but very competitive prices.”

I bet this guy dreams in dollar bills. I note the supplier’s name before I say, “You said Kam-Magruder attended a class you gave. Was it the one on sub-drop?”

He shakes his head. No hesitation. “Cocksucking Class. Same as your sub. Only he took instruction and learned something.”

I ignore the dig. “Any of these others take the sub-drop class?”

I point at the pictures of the