by Devon Scott
“It’s great to see you, too, Kennedy. We should do this more often.”
Kennedy grunts while Joe stirs his coffee and takes a satisfied swig. “So, what’s new? I know this isn’t a social call,” he says, giving her his attention.
“I need your help, Joe. If it wasn’t serious, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Go on.”
Kennedy eats a few bites of her muffin before wiping her hands on a paper napkin.
“Last Sunday night, Michael and I received an e-mail from an unknown person. It was threatening, but we thought it was probably addressed to the wrong person. Then on Tuesday, while I was at work, my job received an e-mail. It went to most of my coworkers—again, it was from an unknown person, but this time the e-mail contained . . . it contained revealing photos.”
Joe is watching her closely. He can sense her discomfort. She lowers her gaze and swallows hard. Joe waits for her to continue. When she does not, he asks calmly, “Revealing photos of whom?”
Her gaze rises to meet his.
“Me.”
“Okay.” Joe processes what he’s heard so far. He pulls out a wirebound memo pad and makes a few notes. “Any idea who sent the messages?” he asks.
“None.”
“Did you happen to notice if the two e-mails were from the same sender?”
“They are not.”
Joe nods.
“Any enemies or someone who has reason to harm you?”
Kennedy shakes her head. “None that I know of.”
“How about your husband?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
“Are you seeing anyone?” he asks.
“You don’t sugarcoat it, do you?” Kennedy replies.
“Just doing my job,” Joe says. “I assume that’s why you’re here.”
Kennedy glares at him.
“No, I’m not involved with anyone, Joe. And neither is my husband. We have a very good marriage.”
Joe accepts what she says at face value. He switches gears. “Who has copies of the photos that were e-mailed to your job?”
“No one.” Kennedy adds, “As far as we know.”
Joe leans back, sipping his coffee. “So, I assume they are your photos. You took them or Michael did.” He glances at Kennedy, who nods. “And you’re telling me that neither you nor he shared the photos with anyone else?”
“That’s correct.”
“And yet they made their way to your job. How did that happen?”
“You tell me. We assume our PC at home was compromised in some way.”
“Has your home been broken into?”
“No.”
“Who has a key to your place?”
“Besides Michael and I, my parents and his.”
“Any workers having access to the house? Recent repairs, housecleaning, babysitters, et cetera?” Joe has demolished his muffin and is eyeing Kennedy’s. She pushes the plate with her half-eaten one over to him. Joe grunts happily.
“We have a cleaning service that comes biweekly. And yeah, occasionally we get a sitter for Zack.”
“So one of the cleaning crew or your sitter could have easily seen the pics on your computer and made copies.”
“That’s not possible. The computer in the den is password protected. And the photos are on a password-protected external drive and hidden deep in a subdirectory.”
“And you’ve never gotten up from the computer, leaving it unattended? In other words, isn’t it possible that you or your husband forgot to set the password when leaving for work or when you went out?”
“Michael says no. But I don’t know, Joe. Honestly, I don’t know.”
Joe scribbles a few more notes.
“Your husband has not received any e-mails containing incriminating photos, right?”
“Correct.”
Joe nods. “And these photos. They’re just of you, the two of you, or what?”
Kennedy takes a gulp of her coffee. She grits her teeth as she sets the mug down. Joe looks up from his memo pad. Kennedy is taking several seconds too long to answer. He contemplates what her answer might be, and feels sorry for his ex. She may be many things, he muses, but none warrant this.
Joe is unprepared when after a prolonged sigh the words escape from Kennedy’s lips.
“Nude photos. Of me and another woman.”
Chapter 22
“Let me get this straight,” Joe Goodman, Metropolitan Police Department detective and ex-husband of Kennedy, says with a touch of mockery. “You were with a woman? As in sexually?”
“Yes, Joe.” Kennedy has lowered her voice. She takes a sip of coffee, hoping it will calm her nerves. Regrettably, it does not.
“And your husband is aware of this?” he asks disbelievingly. His voice has risen in volume, causing Kennedy further grief.
“Yes, Joe. He took the pictures.” She adds hesitantly, “Can you keep your voice down?”
Joe glances around the coffee shop. The nearest patron is several tables away, and her attention is on the laptop computer in front of her.
“I can’t believe this,” Joe hisses. Suddenly Kennedy is afraid. She reaches for her purse and rises.
“Forget it, this was a bad idea.”
Joe looks up and reaches for her arm.
“Sit down.”
She glares at him, but her eyes soften when he adds, “Please.”
She does. Joe consults his memo pad. For a few seconds neither speaks.
“So you’re with women now?”
“Jesus Christ, Joe. What do you want me to say? Are you going to help me or not?”
“Hey, just trying to understand what we’ve got here. I mean, wow—look at you. Who would have thunk it? Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes getting her groove on with chicks.”
“You are such an asshole, you know that?” Kennedy does nothing to hide her disdain. “What is so hard for you to comprehend? Yeah, I get my groove on with women. So fucking what? There’s plenty of more important shit in the world for you to be worrying about. Plenty of bad people out there, in case you haven’t noticed. And I know you are not sitting there judging me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Joe asks with raised eyebrows.
“Please, Joe. I DIVORCED your ass because you were out all hours of the night in those skanky titty bars on Georgia Avenue doing Lord knows what while I sat at home waiting for you. Wondering if you were coming home, wondering if today would be the day you got shot by some lowlife.”
Kennedy is visibly upset. She lowers her voice until it’s a near whisper.
“Don’t you dare criticize me or my actions. I did nothing wrong. I don’t deserve this. My life has been turned upside down. Someone is stalking me, and I’m terrified. So do something about it. Help me, Joe. Do your job.”
Joe takes a moment to consider the woman sitting across from him. He sips his coffee, eyeing her as he contemplates her words. He reaches for his cheek and follows the scar as it curves upward. Finally, after another minute, he shakes his head.
Joe smiles briefly.
“When you and I were married, I wanted for us to have a threesome. Remember, I asked you numerous times? Was hoping it would spice things up.”
Kennedy makes eye contact with him.
“Our marriage didn’t need spicing up. It needed for you to act like a husband. Not a free agent.”
Joe winces from the harsh words.
“Wow. Who’s sugarcoating things now?”
“What am I supposed to say, Joe? It didn’t feel right at the time. You and I had serious marital issues. I couldn’t even think beyond what was happening then. Now, things are different. I’m in a different place. I’m sorry, but that is where I am.”
“Okay. But still, I can’t believe you and your man are swingers. That’s just wonderful!”
“Joe, I loathe that term. I don’t even know what that means. It sounds so, I don’t know, filthy.”
Joe holds his hands up in surrender.
“Okay. Let’s move on. Yes, Kennedy, I will help you. As you know, it’s not my jurisdiction, but I will do what I can.”
“Thank you, Joe. That’s all I can ask.”
“Right.” Joe consults his memo pad. He closes it and drains the last of his coffee. “One more thing. Was this”—he searches for the right word—“this encounter with the woman in the photo, was she the only one? I guess I’m asking, have there been other sexual encounters or was this a one-time deal?”
Kennedy tips the coffee cup to her lips. She swallows hard. “There have been others.”
Joe nods somberly.
“I’m going to need contact information for . . . all of them. Whatever you’ve got, Kennedy. We’ll start there.”
Kennedy gets up as Joe stands. She reaches across the table and hugs him briefly.
“Thank you, Joe. I really mean it.”
Joe scratches his scar while flashing a brief smile.
“Yeah, sure. I mean, what are exes good for?”
Chapter 23
Michael and Kennedy are lying in bed.
Michael’s attention is on a leafy novel—the latest James Patterson book. He loves to read and is fond of letting anyone who will listen know that he is not one of those black men who is averse to reading. Quite the contrary, Michael loves to stretch out on the couch with a good book, preferring it to typically mindless male activities such as Monday Night Football or playing pool.
Kennedy, against the orders of her boss, is glancing over a legal pad full of notes. She and Daniel were on the phone for an hour—she gave him his marching orders and told him to get it done clandestinely.
Zack’s been asleep for several hours now. Things are still tense, but with Joe on the case, at least they aren’t sitting around being passive.
Speaking of Joe.
Kennedy needs to tell her husband about her ex’s involvement.
Michael puts his book down and takes off his reading glasses. He glances over at Kennedy, who is eyeing him as if she is readying herself to tell him something.
“You okay?” he asks.
Kennedy blinks.
“I’m making it.”
“I know you are, baby. I admire the way you’re handling all of this. Most people would have crawled into a hole and stayed there until the coast is clear.”
Kennedy smiles.
“I want to do that. I think about doing that.”
“I know. But you won’t. Not my wife.”
They are silent for a moment, each alone with their thoughts. Michael shatters the peace first.
“I spoke to Makayla today.”
Kennedy looks at him interestedly.
“You did?”
“Yup. Called her.”
Kennedy waits for more.
“I wanted to check in, say hello and all. But the main reason for me calling was to ask her not to share the photos of us with anyone else.”
Kennedy looks at his face.
“You didn’t tell her what was happening, did you?”
“No, I didn’t. But I wanted to make sure she’s not e-mailing that stuff around.”
“And? Is she?”
“No. I think she was offended that I asked. She said she likes to keep her personal life personal. And she hoped we’d do the same.”
“Okay. What else?”
“Nothing much.... She reiterated just how much she enjoyed meeting us. I told her we felt the same.”
“Cool.”
“Is that it?”
“That’s it. Why?”
Kennedy shakes her head.
“No reason.”
Kennedy’s face has taken on a look of impending dread. Michael recognizes it and asks, “What’s wrong, baby?”
Kennedy sighs.
“I went to see Joe today.”
“You WHAT?”
“Keep your voice down, Michael. Our son is sleeping!”
Michael ignores her.
“What part of ‘keep your ex out of this’ did you not understand?”
“Do not speak to me that way. Let me remind you that I’m your wife,” she says.
“And let me remind you that I am your husband. This is not, contrary to what you may believe, only your problem. This is our problem—it affects both of us. You had no right to go and discuss this with Joe after I expressly forbade it.”
Michael throws off the covers and jumps out of bed. He paces the room, eyes glaring at Kennedy as he struggles to control his breathing.
“What would you have me do, Michael? Sit on my ass and wait for the next e-mail to come in? What will it be next time? My job again? Yours? Our parents? No, I can’t sit idly by. We need to be proactive. And Joe’s our best bet.”
“Your ex?” Michael hisses, before spitting out a laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me. He’s gotta be the most unobjective person on the face of the earth. Jesus.” Michael heads into the bathroom to run the water. He splashes some on his face, grabbing a hand-towel to dry. He returns looking and feeling the same as before.
“You have a better suggestion?” Kennedy asks.
“Yeah. Contact the police.”
“Joe is the police.”
“Excuse me. Contact the police and get them to assign someone to this case who’ll remain objective and work diligently to resolve this as quickly as possible.”
“And Joe won’t?” she asks.
Michael glares at her as if she’s insane.
“What Joe will do is have the time of his life poring over our collection of pictures!”
Michael gets back into bed, this time as far away from Kennedy as is physically possible.
Kennedy leans in as he puts his back to her. She reaches gingerly for his shoulder.
“Baby, I did what I thought was the right thing to do. I’m scared. I know you are, too. We cannot sit around and hope things will work themselves out. There is someone out there who wants to hurt us. God knows why. Now, Joe has his faults. But he’s a damn good detective. He’s a good policeman. He can help.” Kennedy pauses a moment before continuing, her voice down a notch. “He came through last time. . . .”
Michael spins in their bed and glares at his wife.
“Oh, so is that what this is about?” he asks with a snicker. “Payback time? You throwing Joe a bone? Give me a fucking break.”
Kennedy sighs forcefully.
“Michael, please. Stop it. Stop acting like this. I need your support. We need to work together. We need to get Joe a complete list of everyone we’ve been with—contact info, whatever we’ve got—so he can jump on this case. I told him we’d get back to him ASAP.”
“Great. Now I’ve got to assemble a list of our sex partners for a man you used to share your bed with. I’m sure he’s waiting with bated breath for that shit.”
Kennedy moves closer until her body is pressing against his. She lets her breasts nuzzle his back, feeling the warmth that spreads between them. She feels Michael’s breathing slow; she knows her husband, so she presses even farther, increasing the pressure of her pelvis against his boxer-clad ass. She grinds ever so slightly and smiles as he drives back, ever so slightly.
“Do it for me, baby,” she says in a whisper, her hand snaking down his arm and over his hip to the bulge that, like a stretching cat, is awakening.
Chapter 24
Flashback. Nine years ago.
Michael had just made the switch from working for a law firm to a government agency, realizing that in the end having a life was more important than having a career. Sure, he was offered a ninety-two-thousand-dollar salary fresh out of law school at Howard University. But it soon became apparent that the hours worked (on average eighty per week) meant that his hourly rate was a tad over twenty-two bucks an hour. Not bad for a twenty-five-year-old, but it was the hours that took their toll. He was working ten- to twelve-hour days, six days a week, and then putting in a “normal” workday on Sunday. No vacation, no time spent with his family. His social life shriveled up. Occasional mea
ningless sex with another overworked associate—she bent over a desk or in an unlocked telecom closet after midnight when the partners were gone.
Michael tolerated it for close to four years. It was amazing he held out as long as he did. In the end, he walked away, student loans be damned, because he was going insane. No amount of money was worth not having a life.
Kennedy came to the same conclusion as well.
She had graduated from the University of Georgia School of Law, passed the D.C. bar on the first try, and accepted an offer at the U.S. Attorney’s Office in D.C., working in its civil division. It was exciting, important work—affirmative civil enforcement, aggressively pursuing fraud in the housing industry, dealing with HUD-related programs and their shady contractors.
She had met Joe while in Atlanta. He had spent a couple of years attending Clark Atlanta University pursuing a degree in criminal justice. They became friends though never dated, and after his grades slipped and financial-aid problems forced him to return home, she lost track of him. Then, two years later, she ran into him while in the D.A.’s office. He had joined the police department and was doing well there. One of their rising stars.
They began dating in the summer. Six months later, they were engaged.
The marriage lasted not quite two years. During that time, Kennedy got a new boss. She was a charming woman who morphed into a maniac after the first month on the job. Never pleased with anything anyone did, she received sheer joy from watching Kennedy and the other attorneys under her squirm. Her reign lasted two and a half years; thirty months of Kennedy hating life, dreading getting up every morning, going to the place that had become hell on earth.
In the end it was Kennedy’s boss who broke the camel’s back. It didn’t matter that the work itself was satisfying. If the person who pulled the strings was evil, then it tainted everything around her.
Kennedy called it quits after four years with the U.S. Attorney’s Office, opting for a kinder, gentler way of practicing law. The not-for-profit work was steady, interesting, and paid the bills. No, she wouldn’t be a D.A. or a partner in a law firm, but she could have a family and a life.
And that was important.
Michael had appeared at just the right time.
