Page 299 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
She blushes as brightly as Emily, which is charming on my cynical, sassy sammie. “That’s what we called that slight-of-hand game in Jamaica. I don’t know what else to call it.”
I shrug and slide an arm across her shoulders. “Hide the coconut it is.” I lean in and whisper into her ear. “It’s also what I’m calling anal from now on. Get ready for some hiding of the coconut after we box.”
“Sir.” She elbows me and I chuckle into my coffee.
We demolish the pancakes, eggs, and links. Logan makes a second pot of coffee, real coffee for Brenna this time, although I notice she did drink the tea, despite her complaints, which attests to her fondness for Emily. When he returns with the coffee, he sends Emily and Cynnie off to watch cartoons. “Thought we might brainstorm about Bren’s skinhead problem while we’re all together.”
I nod since we need to digest our pancakes before we box, naked or otherwise.
“I’ve narrowed down where the skinhead lives based on his IP provider,” Max says. “Three block radius, if you want to put up posters again. It’s quite a way from Bren’s shop, which makes it surprising he’d try to get a tattoo there.”
Logan rubs his hand over his unshaven jaw. “Set-up.”
“Here’s the more interesting thing. There are repeated hits to Bren’s Google page from two other IP addresses. One’s definitely Mad Bob, but this one—” Max pulls a folded piece of paper out of the back pocket of his black jeans, pushes his dishes to one side, and smooths the paper out on the table. I lean over to see it and Bren presses into my side to get a view. It’s a printout of a Brooklyn street map with several blocks circled in red. “This oneserves Brownsville. The headquarters of the Fairskin Knights are right here.” He taps within the red circle.
“I’ve never had anything to do with the Fairskin Knights,” Bren says. “And I’ve been out of Brooklyn for nearly ten years.”
Max rubs his fingertips over the map. “Bren, I don’t want to scare you, but I don’t like the sound of these guys. They’re not Aryan Brotherhood, but they’re not far off. They’re white supremacists. They’re violent. If you’ve insulted a brother, or Mad Bob’s one of them and he’s trying to run off the competition, they’re going to escalate.”
I snug Bren tighter into my side.
Logan clears his throat. “Bren, would you be willing to wear a panic button?”
She turns wide eyes up to me. I nod reassuringly.
“I guess. Where, uh, do I wear it?”
“I’ll get one ordered for you. Should be here in a few days. I can have it made into a bracelet or an earring, whatever you prefer.”
“Earring, sir. I’d need to take it off while I’m working if it’s a bracelet.”
“Okay, I’ll get that ordered. In the meanwhile, I’d feel better if you and Mac would move in here.”
“Let’s play that by ear,” I interject before Bren responds, looking to balance her desire for independence with our need to keep her safe. The glance she shoots me is grateful.
“I’m not stupid,” Bren says quietly. “I know the security here is much better than mine. I just don’t like these guys pushing me into a corner. Maybe we could change it up? A night or two at my place, with Sir, of course, then a night here and then a night at Blunts? That might keep them guessing.”
Logan nods. “As long as you’ll let me put some cameras in your flat.”
Bren sighs. “Can they not be in the bathroom at least?”
Max chuckles. “Even if he put those in, I’d turn off the feed. Things I don’t need to see.”
“You’ll be monitoring, too?” she asks warily.
“Sorry, girlie. The more eyes on you, the safer you are.”
Bren nods but I can feel her shoulders slump where she’s leaning against me. Since she’s wholly uninhibited in scenes, this isn’t about modesty, it’s about the invasion of her privacy.
I press my lips to her temple and whisper, “I’m sorry, bold girl. I promise this won’t last forever and you can take all your frustration out on me downstairs in an hour.”
Bren nods. “Thank you, Sir.”
After our pow-wow, Bren joins the girls to watch their movie while she digests, and Logan takes me upstairs to see the renovation that’s underway. I know from the plans that the third floor’s being converted not just into my suite but also a guest room so that the current guest room can become the baby’s nursery. I wouldn’t object to having the nursery on my floor, but I’ll admit I’m happier sharing my bathroom with the occasional guest than with the baby. Naomi’s potty-training days are not my fondest memories.
The builders have made big strides in just a few days and have framed out all the rooms, put up plasterboard and insulated. The bathroom’s the least finished, with wires sticking out of holes in the plasterboard and exposed plumbing, but even it has a sense of how the final room will look.
“I had a thought for the screens,” I say, waving to where two shoji screens will close off the bath once it’s installed. “I thought I might get Bren to paint them. Sort of like graffiti. Might add a modern edge.”
