Daddy PI: Book 1 of the Daddy PI Casefiles

the morning, with Jay MacDonald, establishes two things: one, he’s not in the lifestyle, and two, if this were a murder investigation, he’d be the prime suspect. The receptionist, who patches me through to him when I tell her who I am, answers his phone: “Vice President Jay MacDonald’s office.”
That’s not the title Reggie Black gave me; looks like MacDonald got a promotion out of Black’s death.
But I don’t mention it. This isn’t a murder investigation. Black died from complications from taking an illegal drug, and my focus is on how he got the drugs that killed him, not why anyone would want him dead. Although I suppose it’s remotely possible his assistant gave him the drugs to off him, it seems a big stretch, given the four other victims.
“So, you weren’t ever on the ship,” I say, after MacDonald tells me he flew to Puerto Vallarta to meet Black, stayed overnight to help pitch one of the Mexican telecom prospects, and then flew back.
“No,” MacDonald confirms. “After the pitch, Bill and I had a late lunch to go over some things that had come up while he was on vacation. He was going to do a little shopping before he went back to the ship, so I took a taxi to Guadalajara.”
“What time did you return to Los Angeles?”
“My flight got in at ten. Lousy flight. I went straight to bed and was back at the office the next morning. I was working on a big presentation for a client in Texas and taking two days off to fill in for Chris really fucked things up. But we got it done. Our group secretary, Beck, was here with me over the weekend. She can corroborate all of this. And plenty of my coworkers were in over the weekend, too.”
There it is again: the need of the innocent to justify themselves. I don’t actually believe MacDonald had anything to do with Black’s death, but if this were a murder investigation and I was a homicide cop, my Spidey-sense would be tingling.
I note down the times while Emily watches, seemingly fascinated. She’s been such a good girl this morning, bubbly and chatty at breakfast as she wheedled her way into listening to my interviews, sweetly submissive since we’ve returned to the room, even getting permission before coming up on the couch to sit with me, although I haven’t put her in High Protocol.
“Recruitment sounds like a high-pressure job,” I observe, to give MacDonald an opening.
“It is. Long hours and a lot of travel. But it’s addictive. I got into it through a summer internship. I was in the mailroom, if you can believe it, but before the summer was out, I knew I wanted to be an executive recruiter. I changed my major, got a business degree and got damn lucky when Bill hired me out of a call center. That was a sweat shop, let me tell you.”
I’m not interested in him telling me, not about that. Time to get him focused. “Mm-hmm. I understand that Mr. Black had a minor heart attack a few years ago. Were you aware of that?”
“Yes. He was off work for several weeks. Not that he stopped working. He wanted me to send him candidate profiles to look at while he was still in the hospital. Reggie put a stop to that, but she couldn’t get him to retire. None of us could.”
“Were you concerned about his health?”
“Not concerned, no. Bill seemed pretty healthy. But our travel schedule is no joke. Bill got bronchitis while we were in Hong Kong last year and it took him weeks to shake it. I think he had to go on three different courses of antibiotics. I remember lying in a hotel room in New York listening to him cough through the wall. He coughed all night. The kind of travel we do, it takes its toll. Great frequent flyer miles, though.”
“Yup, I appreciate those, too.” I chuckle, to play along and build rapport, before I throw in one of the hard questions. “Other than antibiotics, did you ever see Bill take any medications?”
“Sure. Bill took painkillers pretty frequently. Sitting in front of a computer, in airplane seats and conference rooms, running for taxis, it does a number on your back. I always drove when we traveled because Bill didn’t like driving when he was on Oxy.”
“What about non-prescription pills?”
“What, like drugs? Sure, Bill toked. It’s not illegal now, you know.”
I know. “Did Bill mention taking anything while you were in Mexico? Oxy or anything he got on the boat?”
“Yes, actually. He said the cruise hadn’t been as relaxing as he’d hoped, which didn’t surprise me since he’d done four pitches in eight days. Not really a vacation, is it?”
“No, not much of one,” I agree. “What did he say he’d taken?”
“I don’t think he said. Just that the cruise hadn’t been relaxing and he planned to spend his last two nights on the cruise really chilling out with a little pink friend. That’s what he called it, a pink friend.”
I note that. “Did you know what the pink friend was?”
“I assumed it was Opana, you know, oxymorphone? He said he wanted to relax.”
I write down both names. I’m going to need to brush up on my opiates to keep up with these Left Coasters. “Where would he have gotten the pink friend? Did he have a prescription?”
“I doubt it. I mean, he was in Mexico. He could have gotten it on a street corner.”
Maybe, but could he have gotten it back on the boat? “Uh-huh. So, he said he wanted to spend the last two nights relaxing. Did he mention anything else he was going to do? Any other activities on the boat?”
“No, not really. I know there weren’t any other stops. The ship was sailing straight from Puerto Vallarta to L.A. There was a big dinner on board the last night. Bill said he was looking forward to that, and the food had been really good