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

his room. I don’t have to tell anyone I’m interviewing anything.” I pause to let that sink in. “But if they ask, I’m a private health inspector investigating reports of food poisoning.”

Reyes snorts. “Oh, that’s great publicity.”

Better than selling your passengers a sex-enhancement drug that kills them. But I keep that thought to myself since this interview has gone badly enough.

“If you were going to bring the brick aboard, how would you do it?” I ask, taking another shot at getting him onside.

“I wouldn’t,” he snaps.

“Granted. But if you were, how would you?”

He rubs his lightly bearded jaw with his fingers. “It has to stay in solid form, right?”

“That’s my understanding. Why?”

He shrugs. “There are more liquids brought aboard than anything else. Water. Booze. Oil. Heck, even the diesel for the engines. If it were me, I’d bring the drugs aboard in liquid form. Liquids are bottled, so the dogs might not sniff it out.”

I make a note in my pad to ask Michael about the possibility of liquid brick. “I’ll follow that up. That’s really interesting.”

“Better than the drone theory, huh?” At my nod, he leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “If it has to be in solid form, then, if it were me, and I’m just speaking hypothetically here, I’d bring it aboard in the fresh food. Fruit and vegetables don’t keep for two weeks. We take on fresh food in Zihuatanejo. The food’s heavily screened, though. You’d have to do something like insert a pill in every head of lettuce. Something crazy like that.”

We have no idea how much Black paid for his little pink friend, and none of the others have admitted to taking the drug yet, much less how much they paid for it. Even if the dealer only manged to get ten pills aboard, if he sold each of them for a grand, that would be more than worthwhile.

“Let’s assume they only brought limited quantities aboard. Say ten pills. Could ten pills get through the screening if they were hidden in heads of lettuce?”

Reyes spreads his hands. “It’s possible. We’re looking for a kilo of Mexican brown, not individual pills tucked into lettuce.”

“Then, I’ll also need the kitchen staff rotas, if you can get them for me.”

He nods. “Some of the kitchen staff speak less English than the cleaners.”

It might not matter. What I’m looking for are patterns. “If it were you, how would you get the drugs out of the kitchen and into the hands of the passengers?”

“See?” He points a finger at me. If he does it again, I’m going to snap his fucking finger off. “That’s where your theory falls down.”

“How?”

“Because the kitchen staff never interface with guests. Hell, they never interface with the guest facing staff. They’re on shifts. On four hours, off four hours. They’re up when we’re asleep, and asleep when we’re awake. Their bunks are right in the middle of the lower decks. Do you know why? It’s not just because those are the worst rooms on the ship. It’s because they’re the darkest. They get used to it, somehow, but it’s crazy.”

“They have contact with the wait staff, who are guest facing,” I point out, unconvinced.

“You think so? Ask any of the wait staff if they’ve spoken to a trog. That’s what they call the kitchen staff. Short for troglodytes. Because they never come to the surface.”

I feel a hard clutch of sympathy for the trogs, who work in such dismal conditions with the luxury of this posh boat all around them. “Okay, so you’re saying the kitchen staff who would have access to the drug-laced food don’t have any way of getting it out of the kitchens to the passengers?”

As I say it, it sounds ridiculous. There must be a hundred different ways. Reyes grimaces.

“They’re not prisoners down there.”

He’s made it sound like they are. “What I think you’re saying, is I’m looking for one route into the kitchens and another route out. Right?”

He shrugs. “I’m saying it’s unlikely. This whole thing’s absurdly fucking unlikely.”

I don’t care if he thinks my theories are absurd, or the smartest thing since the quantum physics mumbo-jumbo Michael’s wife was explaining to Emily. What matters is he doesn’t actively obstruct my investigation. “Understood. I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me this morning.”

Give him points, he knows when he’s dismissed, and he doesn’t prolong the agony. He stands, brushing off his pants, and walks out, ignoring the hand I offer him.

Asshole.

I make a couple of notes while I wait for Jan Millek and doodle a sketch of what I’d like to do to Dan Reyes, which involves dark droplets spraying from his nose. Maybe Emily would like to color-in my sketch; I’ve read that littles like to color.

With a chuckle, I flip to a blank page in my notebook.

* * *

Jan Millek’s English is halting, but perfectly understandable, and he’s a lot more helpful than Reyes. In ten minutes, we establish a timeline for the days Black was alone.

“And he definitely was not in his cabin on Friday night?” I ask, going back to a point we’ve gone over already, but I want to nail down.

Millek nods. “Seven twenty, I put out fresh towels. Eight forty, I turn down bed. Two chocolate, like he ask. He not there.”

Millek remembers Black, in part, because he was a difficult guest. He made a number of special requests, including that not one but two chocolates be left on his pillow every night. Black tipped Millek well, though, or so Millek’s quick to tell me. None of this sounds like sour grapes.

“Same thing on Saturday night?” I ask.

Millek nods. “He there one night. Wednesday. Working, with papers.” Millek waves his arms, which I take to mean there were papers everywhere. “He told me no vacuum. Just bed. Two chocolates.” He holds up two fingers. “I say, yes, two chocolates.”

Millek’s recollection is too nuanced, and tallies too neatly with what I already know about Black’s trip from Olsen