by Frost, E J
“The cruise company?” He sounds curious, but not guilty.
“Yes. I’m investigating the death of a guest named Bill Black. Do you have a few minutes to speak with me?”
“Bill’s dead? Goddamn. When did this happen?”
His surprise seems genuine, and there’s no question he knew Black.
“He died the Sunday night after leaving the cruise. Heart failure. Can you tell me how you knew Bill?”
Rod walks me through meeting Black and Olsen during the first formal dinner, hitting it off with Black, and doing a scene with both of them. He doesn’t omit anything I’ve already heard and echoes Olsen’s comments about Black being a willful bottom.
“He needed a firm hand,” Rod says.
“Did Chrisjean provide that firm hand?” I ask.
“Well, I don’t want to speak out of turn, but she let him get away with small impertinences that I’d never let my bottom get away with. Maybe I’m just old-fashioned, but those little things add up, don’t they?”
“Absolutely.” I agree mostly to keep him talking, but I’m probably old-fashioned in that way, too. “Did you give Bill a firmer hand once Chrisjean left the cruise?”
Rod clears his throat. “Know about that, do you?”
“Yes.” I don’t elaborate how. “How many scenes did you do with Bill after Chrisjean left?”
“Four. Two private scenes. Olympic Games on Saturday; that was public.”
I wait a second, and when he doesn’t say anything more, I prompt, “Two private, one public. That’s three?”
“Yeah, it wasn’t much of a scene but we met up in Bill’s room on Saturday afternoon. We just ended up having sex a couple of times. Bill was too worn out from Friday night for anything more involved.”
I’m glad Emily isn’t listening to this. She might be triggered hearing about Black’s infidelity to both his top and his wife.
“Okay, four total ‘interactions,’ we’ll call them. One was public. Two were private scenes and one was completely private in his cabin.”
“Yeah, but Bill was fine after both private scenes. You can ask the dungeon monitors.”
“Who were the dungeon monitors?”
“William for the first one. Rebecca for the one on Sunday. Sorry, I don’t know their last names.”
Neither do I, but conveniently I already have a lunch date with a Rebecca and I can’t believe there’s more than one Pink Pearl Domme named Rebecca, even on this big ship.
“Thanks. Did Black tell you about any medical problems before you did scenes with him?”
“Yeah. He mentioned sciatica and I was careful with his back. He also said he’d had a heart attack a few years before but he had one of those balloon things done to his arteries so he was okay. He didn’t have a pacemaker or anything. I didn’t do any breath play with him, though, just in case.”
“Probably wise,” I say encouragingly. “Chrisjean told me she did primarily sensory dep and impact play with Bill, plus some CBT. Is that along the lines of what you did with him?”
“No, our private scenes were bondage, humiliation, and rough sex. I wanted to strip Bill right back to his most primal flight-or-fight instincts.”
“How would you say the scenes went?”
“Great, honestly. The Olympics scene was just for fun. Some wrestling and an egg race. Bill didn’t win, but we all had a good time. The two private scenes were more intense. Bill fought initially but eventually submitted. The sex was damn hot. I thought Bill learned some things about himself. During the aftercare, Bill said things had grown stagnant between him and Chrisjean, and our scenes were what he was looking for as a jumpstart.”
“Did you get the impression Chrisjean gave Bill permission to scene without her?”
“No, but it wasn’t clear to me that her permission was required, either. Bill said they weren’t exclusive. They’re both married to other people.”
True, but I’m pretty sure Olsen thought they were exclusive when it came to kink.
“Tell me to back off if I’m getting too personal, but did Bill orgasm?”
Rod barks a laugh. “That’s not personal. Not to me, at least. Yes, he did. Quite a few times.”
“Did he have any trouble getting or maintaining an erection?”
“During the scene with Chrisjean, yes.”
“Not while he was with you?”
He hesitates. It’s just a second, but it’s there. “No.”
He knows.
The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. That’s true of investigations, too. But Ed told me to handle this man with care. Sometimes, you have to take the circular route.
“Anything else you can remember?” I ask.
“Like what?”
“Did you talk with Bill outside the scenes?”
“Yes, quite a bit. Bill was well-travelled. We talked a lot about places in the PacRim we’d both been. A little bit about golf, but Bill is—damn, was—a much more serious golfer than I am. He lost me on the technicalities of the courses pretty quickly.”
“Did Bill tell you anything that concerned you as top? Stresses he was under? Triggers?”
“Not really. Bill mentioned that he and Chris worked together and I got the sense that it was a pretty stressful environment, but I think that was more from Chris than Bill. Bill said he’d come on the cruise to chill out, but it hadn’t really worked out that way. I gathered it had been more of a working vacation than he wanted. I’d like to think I helped him relax. He certainly seemed very relaxed by Sunday morning.” Rod pauses for a moment during which I hear a clink and a swallow. Iced drink or is he having a liquid breakfast? “Bill didn’t have any triggers that he told me about or that I found. He told me he’d been a bottom for a long time. It seemed to me that he’d worked through most things a top could use against him.”
“Uh-huh.” McCall’s given me a golden opening to ask about the brick by referring to Black’s desire to relax, but I want to ease him out of the interview so he thinks he got away with it. “How did things end? Did you make any plans to see each other again?”
“It ended well. Bill seemed very happy with the scenes we’d done. Aftercare was over. He went back to his cabin to take a shower and pack up. We exchanged phone numbers but didn’t make any definite plans to hook-up again. We’re not exactly on each other’s doorsteps.”
About four hours apart, if I’m remembering Californian geography right. It’s not a prohibitive distance for a relationship. I’ve certainly dated women who lived much further away, even before Miranda. But I can see how it would be a deterrent for something casual. Which tells me how both Black and McCall viewed their “interactions.”
“Thanks for taking the time to talk with me, Mr. McCall. You’ve been really helpful.”
He clears his throat. Here it comes. “So, do you have any idea what happened to Bill? He was fine when we parted on Sunday.”
“No, I’m just starting my investigation. Mostly, I’m trying to rule out the possibility that it was food poisoning.”
“Food poisoning? Really? That would be a shame. The food was so good. Bill and I actually talked about that. He’d taken the cruise when it was run by the old company. He said their caterer must have been straight out of Vegas. Big buffets with fifty different kinds of carbs. He was impressed by how good the food was on this trip. No, it really would be a shame if it was the food.”
I notice he doesn’t admit to taking the cruise more than once himself. Does he think the cruise line doesn’t keep track?
“Thanks again for talking to me,” I say. “If you think of anything else, please give me a call on this number any time.”
“Yeah, sure, thanks. I will. Good luck. I mean, I hope you find out what happened to Bill.”
He had to work himself up to the lie. He doesn’t want me to find out what happened to Black. But does he only know about the brick, or did he supply it? That’s a question I’m not asking of the man I’m supposed to be hand
ling with embryonic sheepskin gloves. At least, not yet.
After I say goodbye, I quickly scratch out notes and action items. McCall never mentioned his wife. Not once. What does she know that he doesn’t want me finding out? It might be worth trying to catch her straight after the next interview, while she’s still at work, before they have time to coordinate their stories.
My scribblings are interrupted by a knock on my cabin door. I write one word out of each of the remaining action items to remind myself later and flip over to a fresh page before answering the door and inviting the spa manager, Jason Merullo, to sit on the opposite couch.
I position him deliberately with his back to the open space leading to the bedroom, while I have my back to a wall. I want him to be uncomfortable. That’s probably petty of me, but I’m still annoyed at him for ruining Cocksucking Class for Emily.
He looked surprised when I answered the door and, from his frown, he’s putting two and two together and getting a number he doesn’t like. He decides on arrogance as a response, which is never a good decision when faced with your employer’s private investigator.
Leaning back into the couch, he puts his right ankle over his left knee and says, “How’s your mouthy sub?”
“As sweet and compliant as she was when I left her in your care,” I respond. “Is disruption the fault of the student who speaks out of turn, or the teacher who fails to engage and control the class? I’ve always thought it was the latter. But that’s not why we’re here.” I tap up the picture of Black that I have on my laptop and turn it around so Merullo can see it. “This is Bill Black. He was on the last sunset cruise. Do you remember him?”
His eyes flicker before he shakes his head.
“From the bills, he had a massage every sea day. Doesn’t ring any bells?”
“I see six to ten guests a day and teach two classes of between ten and thirty people on sea days. Sorry, I don’t remember every face.”
Liar. I’ve done the math. The Swedish massages are ninety minutes long. Black had seven in total, all done by Merullo. Does he really want me to believe he spent ten and half hours in Black’s company less than three weeks ago and doesn’t remember the man at all? Black spent almost the same amount of time with Merullo that he did with Rod McCall and McCall certainly remembered Black in great detail.
I call bullshit.
“From his bills, it looks like he had Swedish massages. Can you tell me what a Swedish massage entails?”
“It’s what most people think of as a ‘classic’ massage. It’s primarily for relaxation. If the guy had one every sea day, he must have been under a lot of stress.”
That’s consistent at least.
“I’ve had a few massages. Thai, mostly,” I tell him. I’ve had a lot of massages, actually. Hard not to when you live in a massage parlor for six months. “Sometimes there’s a lot of talking. Sometimes there’s none. What’s your style?”
Merullo shifts on the couch. He can see the trap coming. “It’s like topping. I’m whatever the guest needs me to be. If they want to talk, we talk. If they want meditative silence, I’m silent.”
Interesting that he’s just described service topping.
“No memory of whether Black wanted to talk or remain silent?”
Another eye flicker. “Sorry, I don’t remember the guy.”
“Any kinky element to your massages?”
I already know there is and that from the amount Black paid, he got “extras” at least twice. Or he tipped really fucking well.
“There can be. Do you want a copy of the spa services menu?”
“Nope, just tell me about them.”
“I offer bondage, cupping, and electrical play. Most guests like bondage with Swedish.”
I make a couple of notes, more for the show of it than anything, since he’s not telling me anything I don’t know. “So, you’re topping the guests as well as rubbing them. And you do it six to ten times a day. Isn’t that a little tiring?”
He sneers. “I love it. Best energy in the universe.”
Topping is a great high but I’m not sure I could do it six to ten times a day. I’ll give the bastard points for stamina.
“From the billing records, you topped Black twice. You spent over ten hours in total with the guy. No memory at all?”
“You got any other pictures of him? Maybe that’ll spark something.”
Sure, I can play that game. I turn the laptop around, open the file I have on Black, and pull up his guest ID picture. It’s slightly less flattering than the picture on his company website but there’s not a lot of difference. I enlarge the picture and turn my computer back around so Merullo can see it.
“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t remember anything specific.”
Another eye flicker; another lie.
“How about some others?” I turn the laptop back around, open another file, and pull up the guest ID pictures for the other four victims before showing them to Merullo. “Recognize any of these guests?”
The eye flickering would make a porn star proud.
“Can’t really say I do. That guy looks kind of familiar.” He points to the picture of Kam-Magruder.
I tap up Kam-Magruder’s spa bill, the one I was looking at earlier. “He had four massages. Swedish with extras.”
“Sounds right. I think he came to a couple of classes, too. That’s why I remember him.”
Sure, being part of a class of thirty people would make Kam-Magruder memorable. Who does Merullo think he’s kidding?
“What do you remember about him?” I ask.
“I think we talked about tennis.” A muscle knots in his jaw. That’s not all they talked about. “What’s he got to do with Bill Black?”
Merullo’s remembered Black’s first name, which I’ve only given him once. For someone who can’t remember faces, he’s not having any trouble with names.
I make a few bogus notes, stretching out the moment to let the tension build before I hit him with it. “All five of these guests complained of symptoms similar to food poisoning. Black died. I’m investigating the circumstances of his death.”
Merullo shrugs, but it’s forced.
“Sorry, I really don’t remember the guy. If you say he had a bunch of massages while he was on board, I’m not going to argue with you, but I didn’t have any contact with him outside the spa.”
Lie. Lie. Lie.
“Actually, three of the massages were in Black’s cabin. Any particular reason you’d go to a guest’s cabin instead of doing the massage in the spa?”
Merullo’s nostrils flare and dusky color stains his cheekbones. Doesn’t like being caught out, does he?
“It’s just the guest’s preference. I don’t remember coming to the guy’s cabin.”
“Black was submissive. Any reason you’d give a submissive a massage in his cabin rather than in the spa?”
Merullo’s nostrils flare; his jaw knots.
“If you’re trying to say that I’m offering sexual services you can back up your fucking bus. I know the law. I haven’t done anything wrong. No one’s ever complained about me. Not one complaint in six months. Check with head office. Can you say that, Mister, what was your name?”
Not so good at remembering my name, is he? Even though I introduced myself before talking to him about Emily yesterday and again at the start of the interview.
“Logan,” I say evenly. “No one’s saying you’ve done anything wrong, unless you are?” I don’t give him the opportunity to answer. Just let his face darken. “I’m asking whether there’s a reason you’d give a submissive man a massage in his cabin rather than in the spa?”
“No, I told you. It’s just the guest’s preference.” He crosses his arms over his chest.
Nice body language, and it’s interesting that he’s only been with the cruise line for six months. I had the impression that most of the staff had been with Pink Pearl for several years.
“Do you top guests outside of the spa?” I ask.
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“Occasionally.” He shrugs. “I’m pretty busy. The spa was failing when they brought me in. Losing money every month. I’ve turned it around and we’ve had two profitable months in a row. That’s entirely due to me.”
Arrogant bastard.
“Congratulations. Did you top any of these men outside of the spa?”
I tap my laptop screen, still showing the pictures of the other four.
Merullo works his jaw for a second. “I think so.” He tips his chin at the picture of Kam-Magruder. “I think we did a wrestling scene at the Games.”
Merullo’s not in Niall’s class, but he’s easily over two hundred pounds. Kam-Magruder doesn’t weigh a hundred and thirty pounds wet. No question who the winner of that wrestling match was. “Any complications with the scene?”
Merullo shrugs. “Not that I remember. So, he got food poisoning while he was on the cruise? I don’t remember him being sick. He seemed fine.”
Is he talking about Kam-Magruder or Black? Kam-Magruder’s last massage was during the first week of his cruise, seven weeks ago. I understand the kinky Olympics are held on the first weekend, so unless Merullo saw more of Kam-Magruder than he’s admitting, he wouldn’t have any reason to know whether Kam-Magruder got sick during the second week of the cruise. Unless Merullo’s actually talking about Black, which I suspect he is, at least subconsciously.
“He developed symptoms after departure,” I say, keeping it vague. I make a few more meaningless notes, then tap my pen against the paper to distract him before I ask, “When you’re doing the massages, do you use oils and incense, that kind of thing?”
“Oils, yes. Incense, no. Some guests have allergies. Even the ones who don’t might not like the smell. I don’t use incense or scented candles or anything like that during massages. Neutral carrier oils only. I usually use almond oil, but I have coconut and jojoba, too, in case the guest is allergic to almonds.”
“You’re careful not to use anything they might have a reaction to?”
“Absolutely. There’s no way anyone got sick from a spa treatment, if that’s what you’re saying.”
Such a defensive bastard.
“I’m trying to identify things they were all exposed to. Where do you get your oils?”