The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection Frost, J (good beach reads .TXT) 📖

carpeted hallway, louder on the wood floor of the living room. She makes several trips back and forth. I print off Glory’s email with the names and addresses of the partygoers and start making phone calls. The first two go to voice mail and I leave purposefully vague messages asking for a call back from the party hosts: Terri and Pedro Castillo. I’m just about to place a third call when there’s another knock on my office door.

“Daddy?”

“Come in, baby doll.”

The door opens and she flies in, a whirlwind of bright eyes, dark curls, and pinstripes. I hold out my arms and she throws herself into my lap. “There’s a bed and a litter box and a bowl that says ‘kitty’ and a water fountain—”

I chuckle and kiss her on the tip of the nose. “I know.”

“You ordered all of it for me?”

“I did.” Good thing they have next day delivery. “You can’t bring a kitty home if it doesn’t have a place to eat and sleep.”

“And go potty,” she says solemnly but her eyes are shining. “Thank you, Daddy. Ta so, so much! Do you think we’ll be able to bring the kitty home today?”

“I think so.” Surely there won’t be a waiting period? We’re getting a cat, not a gun. “It might need shots and things, but I thought it would be best to be prepared.”

She slides her arms around my neck and hugs me hard. “Ta. This is the best reward I’ve ever had.”

“You’re welcome, little love. You’re the best reward I’ve ever had.” I smack the soft, round bottom perched on my thighs. “Finish unpacking the things for the kitty while I make a few more calls. Then I think you have a date with your computer.”

She kisses me before she jumps off my lap and trots off towards the kitchen.

I fold my lips in to taste her sweetness. Mmm, peppermint. Savoring her taste, I pick up my phone to call the next person on Rick’s list.

No one is answering their phones on this sunny Friday morning. Six phone calls. Six voice-mail messages. It’s enough to make a man feel unwanted. I’m dialing the seventh, when my own voice booms over the house intercom, “Little girl, you should be writing.”

I chuckle to myself.

Emily races back into the office a moment later. “Daddy?”

“Check your laptop.”

Twisting her hands together, she tiptoes over to it, taps it on, and enters her password. As her screen comes on, a picture appears of the four male leads from the Avengers movies, which I know she loves. They’re pointing at her. The picture’s captioned, “You should be writing.”

I rub my knuckles under my nose to keep from laughing.

She spins around and gives me that adorable angry-koala face. “What is this?”

“You said you wanted help meeting your word-count targets. Daddy’s helping.”

I saw the meme on one of her social media accounts and ran with it.

“Daddy nearly scared me out of my skin,” she mutters.

“Finish what you’re doing and get writing, little girl. It’ll go off every half-hour otherwise.”

Emily splutters. “You-you set my laptop to do that? Wait, how do you even know what my word-count is?”

“There’s a tracker on the writing program you use. Stop stalling. Chop-chop.”

She gives me the angry-owl-eye, which nearly breaks my stone face, before she stomps out. She returns in less than five minutes later and puts on her headset. She grumbles more than dictates for a few minutes, but within thirty minutes, she has enough word-count that the alarm doesn’t go off again.

Since she’s on top of her word-count and no one wants to talk with me, I’m about to call it a morning and head to the shelter, when my phone rings.

Private number.

“James Logan,” I answer.

“Mr. Logan.” A woman’s voice, slightly breathy. “Do I know you?”

Until I know who’s calling me, I can’t really say. “Are you returning my call?”

“Yes. You said something about our party on Fire Island last summer.”

Terri Overton Castillo, aka Jilly Bean, during her days in front of the camera. Interesting that she’s so wary she called back from a blocked number. “I did. I’m trying to track down one of your guests. A lady named Laura.”

“I don’t remember anyone named Laura at that party. Why are you trying to find her?”

That seems a little contradictory, but I play along. “I’m acting on behalf of Rick Errol. He met Laura at the party and wants to connect again. You know Rick, right?”

“Mmm.” A non-committal and not very happy sound. “It’s been over a year. Why’s Rick trying to look up someone he met a year ago?”

Rick doesn’t want Emily knowing about EvonneBringsTheTruth’s allegations, but he didn’t say anything about anyone else, and it’s all on the internet anyway. Or it is unless Max got EvonneBringsTheTruth’s site down; I haven’t checked this morning.

Emily’s got her headset on and is talking quietly into the mouthpiece, so I don’t think she can hear my conversation. I decide to come clean with Terri. “There have been some allegations about what happened at the party. I’m trying to track down the woman Rick was with to see if we can put the rumors to rest.”

Terri makes a grunting noise. “I saw,” she says after a long pause.

“Rick’s version is very different,” I say.

She gives me a laugh that’s not a laugh at all. “I bet.”

“Terri, I understand you were in Rick’s business. You know how this kind of thing can ruin a career. I need to track down this girl and find out what really happened.”

“Well,” she says briskly. “I doubt that you’ll find out what really happened even if you do find her. The people who came to that party were animals. They trashed our place. Five thousand in repairs to the pool alone, and this is the third goddamn claim. I wish we’d never had that party.”

I have to work hard not to grunt myself. The third claim of what? Rape? To come out of one party? Rick didn’t mention that. I wonder if he knows.

“Terri,