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

There are good scenes, and there are great scenes, and then there was that.

Fuck, my head’s still orbiting somewhere around Jupiter. I’ve topped plenty of times without fucking my bottom. I did it routinely while I was in charge of training the house subs at my club. But I’ve never connected to my bottom so deeply without sex. Never felt each wave of sensation pass through her body just from looking into her eyes. I’ve never applied the word “exquisite” to a scene before, but that was fucking exquisite. I cannot get enough of my little girl.

And what I have planned for our last edging scene, flogging her pussy and ass with a rubber flogger coated with peppermint oil, should be even better.

I stagger through my cabin to the bar, take some water out of the fridge, and chug it down. The cold steadies me. I hate to lose this high, this phenomenal buzz, but I have to focus. On something other than my baby girl and her exquisite submission.

I wash up, scrubbing every trace of ginger off my hands, before I change and take out my laptop and notebook. I don’t anticipate showing the chief purser any pictures. I doubt he had any contact with the victims, but it’s better to be prepared.

As I wait for a knock on the door, I think back on my interview with Jason Merullo. I’m certain he’s hiding something, but is it the brick? I told Ed Isaak I was sure, and instinctively, I am, but if I can’t find the brick, how else can I prove it? And what about Rod McCall? Again, it’s only a gut feeling, but I’m sure he knows about the brick, whether or not he supplied it. What’s the link between McCall and Merulla? Is it just coincidence? It doesn’t feel like it. I’ve learned as both a Dom and as an investigator to trust my instincts, but the insurance company isn’t going to be satisfied with what my gut is telling me. They’re going to want proof.

I need to find the brick.

The chief purser, Kofi Palmer, knocks as I’m wondering what I’ve missed, what other avenues I could go down. I open the door to a smooth-faced, black man. I hear a hint of a Jamaican accent when we exchange greetings. His smile is brighter than the lightning crashing outside my window.

He gives me the master key Ed Isaak promised, differentiated by the other key cards I’ve been given by its dull orange color. I tuck it away in my breast pocket while I ask about the delivery and storage of medicines. Palmer echoes what the security guard told me.

“Officer Ashton mentioned you have some system for keeping track of how many non-prescription medicines each passenger has been given.”

“It’s actually by cabin number, not passenger,” Palmer explains. “Staff log the meds into the system and it flags me if any room has had more than a certain number in a twelve-hour period. If I get an alert, I check in with the cabin and see if a guest needs medical attention.”

I nod. Sounds like a good system and I like the personal touch. It’ll be a shame if it goes the way of the room-service robots.

“Other than Dramamine and Advil, what can be dispensed by non-medical staff?”

“Heartburn medication, topical creams without steroids, lubricants, condoms,” Palmer ticks them off on his fingers. “I think that’s about it. Oh, sorry, sunblock. No one’s going to need that today, though.”

“No,” I agree. “What about the spa staff?”

“Nothing more than what the pursers can dispense.”

“The spa manager mentioned that he uses some herbs during some of his classes. Do those go through the pursers?”

“Spa supplies are kept with the main stores and dispensed by the C-deck purser. I know there aren’t any fresh herbs in there because we keep all perishables separate. Spoilage is a huge problem for us. Dried herbs? There might be. Gabe Matapang is the C-deck purser. He’d know.”

I nod. I have an interview with him next.

“Are you aware of a guest on the last cruise named Bill Black?”

“The guy who died?” Palmer asks. “I heard about that. Heart failure. Then I heard something about food poisoning. Is that right?”

The fucking rumor mill on this boat.

“Possibly. Do you remember him at all?”

Palmer shakes his head. “I don’t think I ever met him. I’ve tried to think back. All of us have. I’ve talked with Gabe about it. None of us remember anything out of the ordinary.”

“Who told you about his death?”

Palmer frowns. “Look, we’re a family on this boat. I don’t want to drop anyone in the shit.”

“Understood.” And I do understand, but their security is leakier than the bastard child of Wikileaks and a sieve, and I want to know where the bloody torrent of rumors is coming from. “But there’s a man dead, and his widow doesn’t believe it was heart failure or the food. I need to know who is talking about him, because it could affect what people remember. So, again, who told you?”

“Dan. He questioned me and Gabe when we signed on, the day before the ship left L.A.”

Reyes. That man is a liability.

“Okay,” I say neutrally. “And you told Dan you didn’t remember?”

“I did. After Dan spoke to us, I looked the guy’s cabin number up. The computer never flagged it. We had good weather that trip, so no one needed anything for sea sickness. The guy didn’t even ask for condoms.”

That’s consistent with what the Pink Pearl people told me in our briefings. None of the victims needed medical attention during their trips.

Since I’ve got my laptop out, I pull up the pictures of the other four victims and show them to Palmer. “Remember any of these four?”

Palmer shakes his head.

“Okay. I really appreciate you taking the time to speak to me. I know you’re a busy man.”

“I feel like I haven’t been very helpful. The possibility that a guest died because of something we did or didn’t do?”