Excerpt from Final Decree
You can catch more flies with honey,
So you better find some now.
You think you’re gonna get your way,
I really can’t see how.
CHAPTER 1
Some investigators turn down divorce-related work, but I get a perverse satisfaction from putting the screws to a guilty spouse. Late Friday afternoon, I flipped through photos of a client’s unfaithful wife whose clandestine meeting with the other man had taken place in the primates section of the Houston Zoo. My best shot featured the couple in a lip-lock, a treeful of curious squirrel monkeys looking on. As I admired the picture, Hank Williams belted out “Your Cheating Heart” on my office radio. How appropriate.
Footsteps tapped down the marble-tiled hallway outside my open door. Company coming. Gathering my unruly hair into a presentable ponytail, I clamped it in place with a large clip. I stuck the prints back into their envelope, just as the yelling started.
“Suzanna’s not getting away with anything,” a man thundered, “especially not my son!”
Jeez. I reached across the desk to crank down the radio volume.
“I’ll make her regret this day, by God. Do whatever it takes. Just nail the bitch!”
My good friend, divorce attorney Wade Alexander, appeared in the doorway. Impeccable as always in a well-cut navy suit, he held a manila folder in one hand. Wade’s unannounced appearances aren’t unusual because his law firm is right down the hall. Today he was shadowed by a man in scrubs and a white lab coat.
“Got a minute?” Wade looked apologetic.
“Why not?” I said, even though this was obviously a client-from-hell case.
Wade didn’t give me a chance to change my mind, smiling and motioning for the man to enter my office.
“Dr. Edward Kemp, this is Corinne McKenna. Corie, Dr. Kemp is a new client. Just served with divorce papers this afternoon. Hearing’s in two weeks.”
Kemp. The name sounded awfully familiar. I stood and rounded the desk, my hand extended.
The doctor checked out my khakis and T-shirt, giving me the same nod of disapproval made famous by my mother, chief of the wardrobe police. He studied the McKenna Investigations placard on my door before stepping inside to glance around my one-room office. His gaze lingered on the bookcase, taking in the stacks of country-western CDs, a framed photo of me shaking hands with Alan Jackson, and my collection of “how-to” songwriting books.
He glared at Wade. “You’re trusting her with my case?”
What was his problem? He didn’t think investigators were entitled to have a hobby? Or was I simply the wrong gender for the jerk? I lowered my hand, no longer interested in shaking his. Plopping into my chair, I grabbed a fresh tablet and a pen and scribbled the date along with Kemp’s name.
“Relax, Doctor,” Wade said, losing the smile. “Have a seat.”
Kemp muttered something unintelligible, reluctantly settling into one of the chairs across from me. He ran a hand through his kinky brown hair and pushed wire-rimmed glasses up on his thin nose. Though he had shut up for the moment, his face still held an angry purplish tinge.
Wade sat next to the client and cleared his throat. “Dr. Kemp, when you hire me and the firm Alexander & Glover we like to make some judgment calls. Corie specializes in domestic cases. She’s worked closely with our firm for many years. I’m telling you she’s the best person for the surveillance. If you’d rather hire other counsel, say so now.”
“Don't be absurd,” Kemp said. “Of course I want you to represent me. And I want this whole thing over, finished, as soon as possible.”
Wade held up a hand to interrupt his client. “We're a long way from the final decree. As I’ve already told you, the hearing is for temporary orders only. Use and possession of the house, cars, temporary custody—”
“And I told you I’m going to have custody of my son!” Kemp’s white-knuckled hands gripped the chair arms.
Cringing at the thought of some poor boy having this guy for a dad, I wrote “Fat Chance!” on my tablet.
Knowing Wade as well as I do, I detected the strain behind his calm facade. “You and Suzanna will probably be named joint managing conservators,” he said. “She’ll have the right to establish your son’s primary residence, unless we show a good reason she shouldn’t have that right. That’s why we need Corie on the case.” He pushed back his chair and stood, handing me the manila folder. “Now, I'm running late for my four o’clock, so I'll leave you in her capable hands.”
Gee, thanks.
“Don't worry,” he told the client. “Corie will dig up the evidence we need to present your case.”
“Just so I get my boy.” Kemp gave Wade a dismissive nod, then turned and shook his finger at me. “Make damn sure we find out what she’s been up to. I want everything photographed, logged, labeled—”
“Doctor Kemp.” I picked up my tablet and slammed it back down on the desk. The tactic earned me an even deeper scowl, but at least the man was quiet for the moment.
Pasting on a sickeningly sweet smile, I reached over to flick the radio off. John Michael Montgomery was singing “I Can Love You Like That”, absolutely the wrong tone for this meeting.
“We need to start at the beginning.” Skimming Wade’s notes, I realized where I’d heard Kemp’s name before. He was the orthopedic surgeon Mother worshipped for putting her back on the River Oaks Country Club tennis court in record time. It’d take a lot more to impress me.
I gazed at the doctor, working to maintain a neutral expression. “Tell me why you think Suzanna needs to be followed.”
“She goes out several nights a week, that's why,” he answered without hesitation.
“Out?” He made it sound like she shouldn’t be allowed to leave the house.
“That's what I said — out.” Kemp threw his hands in the air. By now his complexion looked as though he’d spent three hot, sunny days on a sailboat without sunscreen.
I tried to summon up some patience. “And when she goes ‘out’ she leaves you at home with little—” I glanced at Wade's notes. “With little Edward?”
“No,” Kemp said. “We have a live-in. She either leaves Eddie with the old lady or takes him along. I'm not sure.” He shrugged.
I twirled my pen, confused. “So, you and Mrs. Kemp are already separated?”
“No. I just got the damn divorce papers today.” Kemp drummed long, thin fingers on his chair arm.
“Oh, you must be on call evenings at the hospital.” Kemp didn't confirm or deny my statement. “I’m a busy man. When I’m out at night, I phone home to check on my wife. Lately, she’s never there when I call. She's out screwing around somewhere.”
“I see.” What a jerk! Obnoxious men like Kemp always remind me how lucky I’d been to marry someone like David. I fingered the sterling silver locket he’d given me on our last anniversary before his death.
“Did you hear me?” Kemp said. “I want to know exactly what she’s up to.”
“I get the idea, Dr. Kemp, and I have enough information to do the job.” Not that the prospect thrilled me. “Do you have a photograph of Suzanna with you?”
The doctor took his wallet from the pocket of his lab coat. I watched him flip through the plastic sleeves, passing up several pictures of attractive women. He stopped at a beautiful blonde cuddling an adorable infant. The baby wore cute Mickey Mouse overalls and a miniature red baseball cap.
Kemp pulled the photo out and slapped it on my desk. “That’s the slut,” he said. “Keep it.”
I hadn’t liked the man from the start, but his statement turned my dislike into loathing. Suzanna Kemp was, after all, mother to his son. The picture of the little boy grinning at her tugged my heart strings. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for both of them.
When Kemp finally left, his footsteps fading off down the hall, I thought about recent cases that had left me with a good feeling in my gut. Tracking down a stingy husband’s hidden assets. Smoking out a deadbeat dad. Taking those pictures of the two-timing wife at the zoo.
I stared at Kemp’s divorce petition, then picked up the photo of his wife and son. The only good I could see coming from this case was that it might inspire lyrics for a good gut-wrenching country music hit.
