Page 129 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
She hands me the receipt and says, “I heard what you said to him. I’m really sorry. You’ve been a great group and I hope you come back.”
“We’d like to,” I say. “Maybe on a day he’s not working.”
“Call ahead when you want to come again and I’ll make sure of it.”
I thank her and follow my family out into the street. Cynnie’s waiting for me at the door, all smiles and snuggles. That small unpleasantness hasn’t ruined her day, but it’s a good reminder that the world’s not a safe place for littles. I looked over Logan and Emily’s incredibly detailed contract, and Googled a couple of others, while I was in England. Time to hammer out a contract, or at least a list of rules, for my little to keep her safe.
A barbeque with the daddies and littles who went to Clay Makers, a long, playful chase of my bumble around Logan’s basement, another good night’s sleep with Cynnie in my arms, and a greasy breakfast after I walk her to the subway, leaves me ready to face what’s waiting for me back at my apartment.
I unpack first, then go through my snail mail, expecting nothing more than advertisements, since I get all my bills online.
The pictures that slide out of a plain brown envelope that doesn’t have a stamp or a return address are, therefore, a big fucking shock.
A couple are clearly drone footage. Me in my apartment. Me walking down a city street, probably to Logan’s. Me and Mac out running. But no drone took the picture of me getting off De Leon’s plane. Or Mac hugging me. Or Mac climbing onto his death trap on two wheels.
I don’t even look at the other phone where I expect there to be a slew of angry messages from Ness. I grab my main phone and dial Mac.
It goes straight to voice mail. I flip over to our message string and type out an only slightly panicked message.
Where are you?
It shows as delivered but not read. The dots don’t bounce.
I scramble into my rig. I haven’t put a tracker on Mac’s phone. I haven’t wired his fucking bike. We haven’t chipped him. Because, until a few months ago, Mac was in the Navy and it would have been against the interests of national security. Why didn’t I wire him for sight and sound as soon as the ink on his discharge was dry?
While my tracking program’s running, I call Logan.
“I think they might have Mac.”
“What?” Logan doesn’t sound panicked, just incredulous.
“There was a package waiting at my apartment. Pictures of me, of me and Mac running, of Mac meeting me at De Leon’s plane. The last picture is of Mac getting on his bike. I can’t reach him?—”
“He doesn’t answer his phone when he’s riding,” Logan says. I hear him murmur, probably to Emmy, and then begin moving. “Hold on. I’m conferencing Manny in.”
I’m more than a little surprised he knows how to do that.
Manny picks up with his customary, “Yo.”
“The guys after Max might have snatched Mac,” Logan explains. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“He took a flight to Florida last night.”
My tracking program flashes. “I’ve got his phone. It’s just pinged off a tower in Georgia.”
“Not sure that means anything,” Logan says. “He could just be out for a ride.”
“Probably in more danger from that damn bike than he is from your friends, Maxie,” Manny jokes. “Send him a text letting him know he might have eyes on him so he sees it as soon as he gets where he’s going.”
I do. And watch as its delivered but not read. I scrub my hand through my hair in frustration.
A screen pops up, blaring red.
“Fuck,” Manny says at the same moment. “Max?”
“I see it.”
Cynnie’s pressed her panic button.
