The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection by Frost, J (great novels .txt) 📕

is there any chance we could talk face-to-face? I’d like to get your recollections in depth. Rick mentioned you have a place here in the City. Could I interview you?”

She sighs. “Is that necessary?”

“It could really help him out.”

“Fine. Not today and not this weekend with Ro’s kids around. Monday at ten?”

“Great.” I open the calendar on my phone and put the appointment in. “Thanks for making the time. I appreciate it and Rick will, too.”

“I suppose you want Pedro here, too?”

“If he could make the time, that would be great.”

“Yes, okay, I’ll tell him.”

I give her my landline number and email just in case she remembers a guest named Laura between now and Monday. There’s always a tension in investigations between following every trail of breadcrumbs and focusing on what looks important. The other claims, whatever they may be, coming out of the same party are a damn tantalizing trail. Was it some kind of rape party? Appallingly, I’ve heard of those. Or maybe someone laced the booze?

But my focus has to be finding Laura. I’m not convinced Terri doesn’t know her, which is why I’m pursuing the interview. She’ll have a harder time lying to me face-to-face.

I pop an email to Rick with an update and copy Max. Then I lock up my laptop, cross the room, and wave my hand in front of Emily, who is scowling at her own screen.

She takes off her headset and looks up at me.

“Everything okay, baby doll?”

“My character’s not behaving, Daddy.”

I wasn’t aware characters could misbehave. “Tell me about it while we walk to the shelter, little girl.”

She saves what she’s working on and tucks away her headset. I check on her nipple clamps and give her a kiss before we head out into the August heat.

The sun beating down like a hammer overhead and the hot stink of melted asphalt remind me of what an oasis the house is. It must be ten degrees cooler inside, fifteen at the breakfast table with the breeze. I take Emily’s hand and lead her through the baking streets while she explains to me that her Dom character is topping her and doing what he wants instead of what she needs him to do to further the plot. That has me laughing all the way down First Avenue.

* * *

We nearly turn back at the entrance of the shelter. Fuck, what a smell. Noses wrinkling, we make our way to the counter, where a very apologetic volunteer named Britney explains that their staff toilet has backed up and they’re waiting for a plumber, but if we want to come back tomorrow, it will smell much better.

Emily and I glance at each other. She shakes her head.

“We’ll cope,” I tell Britney. “We’re here because of a tabby cat we saw on the website.”

“Oh, great! Follow me!” Britney bounces off, deeper into the stink.

Emily shrinks against my side as we pass through the Dog Room. She’s really not a dog person, my poor little girl, and there are a few big dogs in the room. But they’re safely caged and there’s no rational reason for Emily to be afraid of them. We’re going to have to work on her fears.

But not today. Today is only about her reward.

In the Cat Room, Britney leads us towards the far corner. The tabby we saw on the website is climbing a cat tree in the tall cage, looking active and playful. Perfect for Emily.

But before we get to the tabby, Emily stops and tugs slightly on my hand. I pause to see what’s caught her attention.

It’s a cat by itself in a smaller cage: a black and cream ball curled on a green pillow. The cat’s fur is long and rough-looking, like the cat hasn’t groomed itself. One ear is missing its tip, and as the cat blinks at us, I realize it only has one golden eye.

Emily slides gracefully to her knees and extends her fingertips through the wire of the cage. The cat blinks again at her.

“Uh.” Britney clears her throat. “Sable can be a little unfriendly. You might not want to put your fingers in there.”

I glance back at Emily and the cat, who has risen from its bed and is sniffing Emily’s fingers.

“Emily?”

She looks over her shoulder at me. Those eyes could melt Antarctica and I know immediately that this cat is coming home with us. Unless it bites Emily’s fingers off. Or more likely, especially if it bites Emily’s fingers off. She’s such a soft touch.

“Is this the one?” I ask gently, lowering myself to one knee so I can meet the cat.

“Yes.” She swallows hard and I know she’s just bitten back calling me “Daddy.”

“Uh,” Britney says. “Sable is a little challenging. His eye was infected when he came to us and the vet had to remove it. He hasn’t recovered as well as we would have liked and is still pretty grumpy. You said you hadn’t taken care of a cat before?”

“I haven’t,” Emily admits, glancing at Britney.

When she looks back at the cat, it begins to purr.

That seals it, whether Britney likes it or not.

“We’ll be fine,” I reassure Britney.

“Okay. You understand that we can’t give you any refunds after you pay for the cat’s shots and chip, but we can refund the adoption fee if you bring him back.”

“We won’t,” I say. Having had direct experience, I have confidence in Emily’s nursing skills. If anyone can tame One-Eye here, it’s my little girl.

* * *

An hour later, we walk out of the shelter with Sable growling in a carrier under my arm. He’s been growling pretty constantly since Britney and another volunteer took him out of his cage, wearing the kind of thick leather gloves I associate with driving cattle rather than handling one small cat, and began poking and prodding him. Since I’ve been poked and prodded quite a bit myself in the last seven weeks, I have some sympathy for the furry alley-warrior. Still,