The Missing Daughter Caper 1

Note to reader: This story is pure fiction, with certain portions taken from the author's life experience. All characters are over 18, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Copyright © 2023 All Rights Reserved. No portion of this material may be reproduced without the author's prior written permission. Everyone is over 18.

A reader accused me of plagiarism. NOT TRUE! I am the author of these stories. I abandoned my Literotica account for a few years and rejoined under this pseudonym.

I write for my edification. We aren't in an English composition class, so please excuse any grammatical errors or style misadventures. I try to improve with each submission. Enjoy, I hope.

The Missing Daughter Caper

A trophy wife's stepdaughter goes missing in San Diego.

Chapter 1: Briggs takes the case

It was Friday, October 7th. The weather was hot in Los Angeles. The noontime news channel on the television said you could fry an egg on the sidewalk. My name is Briggs. Just call me Briggs, a single name like Cher or Madonna. I work for the Robert T. Simmons Detective Agency. I get a C-note a day plus expenses. She was a beautiful woman. The kind that drives some men mad and others to murder.

"Connie, find Briggs and get him here!" Robert Simmons thundered over the barely working intercom. "We have a client who needs our help."

"Right away, Mr. Simmons," Connie said.

I was sitting at a hole-in-the-wall bar called The Blue Room, down on South Hill Street near Pershing Square, nursing an after-lunch beer. It's the kind of place where they serve only beer and whiskey. Men go there to get drunk as they sit on their barstools arguing about politics or sports until the alcohol makes the world go away in their drunken stupors. The dank bar is the kind of shit hole that even the sewer rats stay away from for fear of catching a disease on the filthy, sawdust-sprinkled floor. The only thing that would even remotely be considered a decoration is a solitary 1940s-era Hamm's Blue Ribbon beer company electric sign hanging on the wall behind the bar. It's a picture of a fly fisherman standing in knee-deep water, bent at the waist with his sharply bent fly fishing pole held high in the air in his left hand and a net in the water in his right hand, trying to land a trout. In the background, there's an animated waterfall with the words below that read, "Born in the land of sky blue waters -- Hamm's Beer."

I had little sleep the night before as I sat in the bar nursing my beer. Simmons had me at an all-night stakeout watching the apartment of a lothario who was doing the horizontal bop with the client's wife. Next door to the marriage wrecker was a two-bit drug dealer. The shit-stain next door, I later learned, was using more product than he was selling and was hiding out from his supplier. Around 11:30 PM, a black Ford Expedition rolled to a stop in front of the apartment building I was watching. From my vantage point, I saw two huge dark figures approach the drug dealer's apartment. They kicked the door in, and I heard a guy screaming. My fingers dialed 911, and I reported the crime in progress. The cops were there in less than five minutes. They approached the apartment with their guns drawn. When the shooting stopped, the two thugs and the dealer were dead. Since it was my phone that called 911, I had to give my statement to the police.

I saw my target leave her lover's apartment around 12:45 AM. My dashcam recorded the target kissing the dickhead as she left. The detectives on the scene had interviewed the cheating couple in front of my dashcam. It was all I needed for the wayward wife's husband's file, so I uploaded the video to the cloud and surrendered the dashcam's SD chip to the detectives. By the time the detectives finished interviewing me, it was 3:00 AM.

I had been staring at the beer sign, trying to figure out how the sign made the waterfall look real, when the darkness was interrupted by someone coming inside the bar. I must have seen that sign a zillion times ever since my late father first brought me to The Blue Room when I was about 15 years old. He needed me to drag his drunken ass home when he was too shitfaced to walk by himself. I played bar-top shuffleboard and bowling for hours while waiting for my father to get piss drunk. I would walk him home to our meager apartment three blocks away, near the Angel's flight funicular narrow gauge railway, and help Mom put him to bed.

When I asked why Dad got drunk, Mom told me it had to do with the terrible things he saw during the war. My father never disclosed to anyone what happened or what he saw during the war. All I know is that he fought the Japanese, island-hopping across the Pacific Ocean, and cursed everything that came from Japan.

I heard the bar's telephone ring. Pete, the bartender, answered the phone.

"Blue Room," Pete said.

"Yo, Briggs, Simmons wants you in his office," Pete told me.

I didn't want to go back outside into the scorching heat.

The Simmons Detective Agency is located in a turn-of-the-century (19th to 20th century), unreinforced four-story brick building in the garment district of downtown Los Angeles. It's only a matter of time before everyone in the building is killed in the next big earthquake that scientists have predicted to be long overdue. Every time a minor tremblor hits, more cracks appear between the bricks and mortar. The Sloan Building is living on borrowed time.

I walked into the foyer of the Sloan building and noted the missing tiles in the floor's mosaic. Several missing one-inch ceramic squares dotted the swirling pattern in the floor. The hot summer air followed me inside, and I was glad the air conditioning still worked in the foyer. Unfortunately, my skinflint employer's office didn't have such a luxury as cool air. My footsteps echoed down the high-lofted ceiling and narrow hallway. It was 2:35 PM when I entered room 107, the Simmons Detective Agency.

Connie Morgan, the receptionist and girl Friday, didn't look up from her fingernail filing when I opened the door. I swear, Connie's jaw muscles must have the same pressure force as a Doberman from all the gum chewing she does. The ceiling fan overhead hummed with a rom, rom, rom sound as I bent over and kissed Connie's cheek. She's my married little sister, so I can get away with kissing her cheek.

"What kind of mood is he in?" I asked Connie.

"Right now, hopeful," Connie answered. "He's drooling over an over-inflated bottle-blond siren's checkbook right about now."

"Thanks," I said as Connie handed me a sugary breath mint. I opened the door to the boss's office.

The smoke from his cheap cigar lingered around his head like a Catalina Eddy fog engulfing the Vincent Thomas bridge in the Los Angeles harbor. Robert T. Simmons was a short-by-round piece of slime. His cheap suit's unkempt appearance and coke-bottle glasses were hideous. Simmons was taller than his thinning hair and tried to hide it with a comb-over that didn't fool anyone. Robert T. Simmons was a snake, but he paid me.

"Briggs, my boy, come in, come in," Simmons said in his grating, high-pitched voice. "I'd like you to meet our new client."

Simmons pointed to the raggedy leather sofa and said, "Mrs. Singer, this is Briggs, my best detective. If anyone can find your stepdaughter, he's your man."

The 30-something blonde sat on the decrepit leather sofa. The woman's Harlowesque color hair cascaded down past her shoulders. I was surprised the woman sat on the couch, considering the high-quality clothes she wore. Her dress was cobalt blue with a plunging neckline that automatically focused your attention toward her man-made cleavage. It was a terrible boob job. They looked like someone had stuck two cantaloupes under her skin. To some, they may have been appealing. To me, they were unnatural and hideous. The woman's sexy, nylon-clad legs were crossed at the ankles. She had a hot wife anklet chain with a tiny infinity heart charm on her left ankle. The anklet announced she was available for fun with the right person. The hem of her dress came to about 2 inches above her knees, and I could tell from her look the woman had been to the rodeo more than once. Her slim figure said it all.

That blue silk dress hugged her curves tighter than a stock car in turn four at the Autoclub Speedway. My guess was that she was arm candy for some wealthy fellow. The woman's necklace was a thin gold chain that had three huge champagne-colored diamonds arranged in a vertical pattern that parked in the crux of her oversize tits. The diamond tennis bracelet and massive diamond ring screamed M O N E Y.

"Briggs, Mrs. Singer, wants us to find her stepdaughter," Simmons said.

"My daughter hasn't come back from her 4th of July trip to San Diego," Mrs. Singer said.

I asked if she had a picture of her daughter. Fatso handed me an 8 x 10 color glossy. The daughter was a model, and in the picture, she wore a two-piece bikini while holding a red, white, and blue beach ball. She had legs for days, black stiletto fuck-me pumps, and an onion ass. It's the kind of ass that makes your eyes water by just looking at it. Like mother, like daughter, her tits were doing their damnedest to break free. A blind man could tell without looking that the daughter had breast augmentation, too. From the angle of the shot, her fun bags looked to be about the size of volleyballs. Her under-boob was more prominent than her cleavage. The daughter's frame was lithe, her ribs were showing, and you could tell she ate less food than a Chickadee would need to stay alive. The bikini was not much more than three postage stamps with strings. The daughter had the kind of look that would make the parish Priest kick out stained glass windows.

I asked, "Did you file a missing person report with the police?"

Mrs. Singer said, "Yes, and they haven't any clues where she is. It's like she vanished. The detective on the case told me there wasn't anything else they could do except be hopeful Cora comes home safe and sound."

"Is Cora your daughter's name? Why was she in San Diego, who was her contact there, and when was the last time you spoke with your daughter?" I asked.

Mrs. Singer said, "Her agent had entered her into the Miss Emersome bathing beauty contest at the Over-the-Line Tournament at Mission Bay. She was supposed to stay in a hotel in Pacific Beach the night before the contest and return home the next day. But, she never came home."

Over-the-Line is a pseudo softball game typically played on beach sand. Miss Emersome is the name given to the beautiful woman who typifies the spirit of the bawdy names the teams use during the tournament. The title winner is usually barely legal, well-endowed, and sexy. The game was invented shortly after WWII by a group of Marines who had returned home after the war. While the Marine buddies were walking along the beach, they saw a beautiful blonde with huge tits walking toward them. Armed with probably the worst pick-up line ever, one of the Marines asked the blonde a question.

"Excuse me," the Marine said to the blonde. "Is your last name Emersome?"

The blonde said, "No, it is not."

The Marine said, "Well, em-are-some really nice tits you have there."

The rest of the story is lost to history.

"I'll need the name of the modeling agency and her agent's contact information," I said.

Mrs. Singer stood, walked toward Simmons, and handed him a retainer check. She turned toward me and stopped close in front of me. I could smell her Chanel Number Five perfume as she leaned close to my ear. I don't like people invading my personal space, but man, this babe was making little Briggs stand up and salute.

The woman's breath tickled my ear when she said, "I don't have it with me, But if you come by this evening, I can give it to you then. Shall we say eight O'Clock?"

Mrs. Singer then placed her hand on my cheek and slowly slid it down to my chest. As she walked toward the door, Mrs. Singer gave me a sensual over-the-shoulder look that wasn't like a concerned step-parent but rather a predator stalking its' prey. Her delicious ass wiggled as she left the office.

"Damn it, Briggs!" The fat man said. "Don't foul this up. She said money is no object, so you had better find that daughter so we can milk her for as much as we can get."

"What's her story?" I asked.

"Mrs. Singer said when her daughter hadn't come home the next day, she called the police," Simmons said. "They made her wait 48 hours before they would take a missing person report."

"If that's the case, why am I here?" I complained.

"Because it's been since July that Mrs. Singer had seen her daughter, and she's worried for Cora's well-being!" Simmons barked.

"Naturally," I said.

Chapter 2: The investigation begins

My piece of shit 12-year-old Chevy Lumina smokes more than I do. It's the perfect car for a private dick like me. The mohair-like seats shock the shit out of me whenever I get out of the car from static electricity. The Singer estate is in the Holmby Hills subdivision, a ritzy suburb on the west side of Los Angeles. On the way to the Singer home, I mulled the little bit of information I had over in my brain, and things didn't add up. If Mrs. Singer was so concerned about her stepdaughter, why did she wait 90 days to contact a PI to investigate Cora's disappearance? What had she done in the meantime, and had she contacted another PI? I pushed the button at the gate, and a whiney male voice said to drive in.

My car felt embarrassed as I forced it to drive the 100 yards toward the French Provincial monstrosity of a house. Think Clampett mansion on the Beverly Hillbillies television show. The rich fucks who lived there probably spent more each month on their water bill and groundskeeping staff payroll than I made in a year. The nearby Bel-Air and Los Angeles country clubs should look so good. It was 8:00 PM on the dot when I stepped out of my car into the cool breeze that wafted off the nearby Pacific Ocean. The lights of West L.A. and Santa Monica twinkled in the night below. It definitely was a million-dollar view. I could see the faint glow of the huge cargo ships at sea near the horizon. The lyrics of the Pink Floyd song Comfortably Numb sprang to life in my mind. "There is no pain you are receding; a distant ship smoke on the horizon."

The double doors to the Singer mansion were about 15 feet high, with the doorknob in the middle of each door instead of next to the edge. Who in their right mind put the door knob in the middle of the door? Think about it. How much leverage do you need to swing the door open? To put the knob in the middle means more effort to open the door.

When I walked toward the entrance, a scene from the movie Young Frankenstein popped into my head. It's the scene where Victor Frahnk-en-steen, not Frankenstein, is helping Inga from the back of the horse-drawn hay wagon. He had her in his arms with Inga's tits level with Victor's face. Victor turned and looked at the large metal rings hanging on the door as Igor, pronounced eye-gore, used one to bang on the massive door with a deep crashing sound. Victor said, "Wow! What knockers!" Inga giggled and, in her thick German-like accent, said, "Sank you, Dock-tor." I chuckled to myself with that thought as the doors opened. A short, skinny, bald man in his early 50s said to come inside. It was the whiney voice I heard at the gate.

The home's living room was grand and occupied more space than the four-bedroom home I used to own with my cheating slut of an ex-wife. The luxury was overwhelming, and I couldn't even begin to describe in any detail how extravagant the room felt. It was like I walked into the Palace in Marseille or Randolf Hurst's Castle.

"My wife will be with you shortly," the little man said. Then, turning toward the stairs, he yelled, "Pumpkin, the detective is here."

I heard footsteps echoing above and to my right. When I turned toward the sound, I saw Mrs. Singer. The flowing, full-length sheer dressing gown she wore accentuated her unencumbered chest. In one hand, she held a highball glass containing a golden-colored liquid. In her other hand, she held a burning Virginia Slims 120 cigarette. As she descended the stairs, I could immediately tell she was naked underneath. Her large pink areolas and shaved pussy were clearly visible through the gown. The golden liquid I soon discovered was a 12-year-old single malt Scotch.

"Would you like a drink, Mr. Briggs?" She asked. "Stanley, be a dear and get Mr. Briggs a drink. Scotch suit your taste, Briggs?"

I nodded and deduced that Stanley was her emasculated husband. He poured my drink and handed it to me.

"That will be all, Stanley," Mrs. Singer said. "Please go to your room. I will see you tomorrow."

"Yes, mist," Stanley corrected himself and continued, "Yes, dear. Thank you."

As Stanley turned to walk away, I could see the elastic of the plastic pants he wore under his dress trousers, peeking above his beltline. They were the kind of plastic pants a child in cloth diapers would wear. Mr. Singer was definitely a submissive and likely had a baby and mommy fetish. Who cares? With his kind of money, he can do what he damn well pleases.

"Come, Briggs, sit with me," Mrs. Singer said in her deep, smoke-altered voice as she patted the loveseat she sat on.

"Are you sure your husband won't mind me sitting so close to you dressed like that?" I asked while sitting next to the wife of the plastic pants-wearing man I had just seen leaving the room.

Leaning forward toward me and looking through her smokey eye shadow eyes, the hot wife said, "Stanley? Oh, he won't mind. You see, we have a peculiar sort of relationship. Stanley does whatever I say, so there is no need to worry."

"I see," I said. "You were going to give me the contact information for Cora's manager?"

"Oh, her?" Mrs. Singer replied. "There's no need to rush. Let's get to know one another before business. How is your drink?"

"Mrs. Singer," I started to say.

She interrupted me and said, "Helen, please call me Helen."

"Okay, Helen, tell me more about your stepdaughter," I said.

"Let's not talk about her. Let's talk about us," Helen said as she scooted closer, placed her hand on my thigh, and said, "I am more interested in you than her right now." I could feel her tits brush against my arm.

In my line of work, this tactic is nothing new. The women I meet seem to think that seduction is part of the process. Not that I mind, of course. She is, after all, a beautiful woman. I can only imagine the kind of 'peculiar relationship' Helen has with her husband. From the looks of the furnishings in the mansion, the sultriness of Helen's demeanor, and her nearly nude peignoir, the evidence tells me she is a trophy wife with a tiny dicked husband. Helen wants, no, she needs dick, and mine seems to be responding to her ministrations. Helen came closer. Her lips nibbled on my ear lobe, and her hand squeezed my hardening cock in my pants.

"Oh my, what do we have here?" Helen asked. "Somebody is getting excited. I know a place where we can do something about that."

Helen stood, turned toward the stairs, and began walking. As she neared the first step, she turned toward me, undid the strings holding her dressing gown on, and let it fall to the marble floor. Helen was naked, except for the red-soled Christian Louboutin fuck me pumps.

"Are you coming, Briggs?" Helen said over her shoulder.

As much as I would have liked to have impaled my cock in Helen until she screamed no more, I refused on ethical grounds. She's Simmons' client, and we both could lose our licenses if I crossed that line. It pained me to refuse.

I said, "Mrs. Singer, I am here to get some information about your daughter."

The look of disgust in Helen's eyes was so scary it could have made a freight train take a dirt road. Rejection is not something Helen is accustomed to. She almost stomped her heels on the marble floor as she crossed the room. The loud clacking sound seemed to echo throughout the mansion.