Family Business

By Douglas J. Keeling

Douglas J. Keeling "staked out his territory with a fresh and provocative eye" (Birch Lane Press) with his first novel, A CASE OF INNOCENCE, which Kirkus Reviews called a "follow-in-the-golden-age-footsteps-of-Spade-and-Marlow first novel, with nice, sardonic touches-a strong start," and Publisher's Weekly dubbed "an amusing entry in the tough-private-eye genre." In his new novel, FAMILY BUSINESS, Keeling takes on a timely and controversial subject with which he is intimately familiar to weave a tale that is both intriguing and impactful, as seen through the eyes of new character Luke Kelsey. Lucas Kelsey, a Kansas City attorney whose comfortable but relatively mundane legal practice centers around adoption cases, finds his world turned upside down when he discovers the body of a murdered four-year-old girl in his office. Never in his wildest dreams could he imagine how the case would come to involve him, and then pull him into a vortex where past meets present. As Kelsey tries to protect his family from the killer while unraveling the mystery, he is forced to confront issues from his own life that surface unexpectedly in connection with the murder, leading to a stunning, dramatic conclusion. In this fast-paced thriller, Keeling draws on his unique knowledge of the worlds of law and adoption, and his roots in hard-boiled detective fiction, to pen a study in crime and human drama as complex as it is compelling.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 19, 2002
• ISBN: 9781469705002

Douglas J. Keeling

Douglas J. Keeling is an attorney who lives and practices law in Wichita, Kansas. He has a degree in Journalism from Kansas State University, and a Juris Doctorate from Washburn University School of Law. A large part of his eighteen-year legal career has been concentrated in the area of adoption and related children?s legal issues. He is also the author of A Case of Innocence (Birch Lane Press), a detective novel.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

(T t was Mother’s Day in the Brave New World. I was seated in the living room of a comfortable middle-class home in a conservative Midwestern city with a little boy named Liam and his four mothers. Once again: four mothers. All four women gazed lovingly at young Liam, and then happily, almost conspiratorially, at each other. Liam slept in blissful oblivion. He didn’t know he had four mothers. He was only two days old.

My role in all this, as the only other male in the room, was not what you might think; that being that I was Liam’s father. The truth was that Liam’s father was unknown, an anonymous sperm donor identified only as Specimen #486HG7(neg). I was nothing more than the legal counsel who had tied them all together with pieces of paper and words formulated into sentences and paragraphs in the context of contracts and legal proceedings.

Although the issues involved are not that uncommon in my practice, the circumstances certainly were. The two primary mothers, the ones Liam would first come to know as his parents, were Greta and Susan, a caring, devoted lesbian couple deeply committed to becoming parents, but both frustratingly infertile.

Technically speaking, only one of them, Greta, would be Liam’s legal parent, as neither Kansas nor Missouri recognize same-sex marriages, and both require a couple to be legally married to adopt a child together. So Greta would be adopting Liam as a single parent, with the long-term plan being for Susan to adopt him as a stepparent after a legal marriage became possible, or in a separate proceeding as a single person once the laws made an allowance for that procedure. For now, however, she would simply be a Life Partner and unofficial Mother #2.

Susan was radiant in her new role. Her plain, unremarkable outward appearance belied a passionate, complex woman who tirelessly advocated for gay rights, organized AIDS hospice services and chaired the local ACLU chapter. Under most circumstances, you might mistake her for a meek, vapid housewife, trapped in a mundane existence, unable or unwilling to escape, or even react. But at that moment, in the midst of her domestic nest, surrounded by these women with whom she shared an inexplicable bond, she radiated joy and energy, a visible reaction to the tangible embodiment of her personal dream in the form of little Liam.

Also present was Carol, the Gestational Surrogate who had carried Liam for nine months and delivered him by cesarean section two days earlier. Although he was not genetically related to her in any way, at least not as far as DNA was concerned, she was considered to be his biological mother, a presumption created by the law due to the fact that she had given birth to him. A logical presumption under most circumstances. Carol lounged comfortably on the sofa in an oversized sweatsuit, still recovering from the delivery, looking relaxed, tired and very maternal. She was thirty-two, had three children of her own and a husband who had been supportive of her role, although admittedly baffled by her desire to be a surrogate.

The fourth loving gaze belonged to Amy, the young woman who had supplied the healthy, fertile oocyte from which Liam had grown, after being fertilized by sperm from Specimen #486HG7(neg). Her long blonde hair and fresh face made her look to be all of fifteen years old, but I knew from the file information that she was twenty-five. She glanced shyly at the other women. Of the four, she seemed the most like an outsider, and her discomfort was evident. She was, however, the most closely related to Liam of all the women, his true genetic mother. The irony wasn’t lost on me.

The tasteful surroundings were home for Greta and Susan, a sprawling ranch-style house in the Fairway section of Kansas City. They had lived there as a couple for more than nine years, and the airy rooms were filled with mementos of their lives together. A bottle of good wine sat chilling in a silver ice bucket on the glass-top coffee table. We were comfortably dispersed around a huge leather sectional and matching sofa and armchair, facing the stone fireplace at the heart of the room. It was the middle of an unseasonably warm spring afternoon, so there was no fire in the hearth, but the room seemed to glow all the same. An elegant Persian cat slept placidly on the soft leather behind Carol’s left shoulder, oblivious to the gravity of the moment at hand. An enormous white ceiling fan rotated slowly overhead, moving the air around the room ever so slightly.

Greta was the recognized leader of the group, as well as its most senior member, and as such was serving as Master of Ceremonies.

I think we should acknowledge Mr. Kelsey’s role in all of this, she said, nodding in my direction and raising her wineglass. The warm smiles in the room followed her lead, and murmurs of appreciation sprang forth obediently as the others motioned with their glasses.

Greta was an attractive woman, in her mid-forties, and absolutely unabashed in her sexual orientation, her general despise for the male gender, and her love for Susan. And, I was willing to wager for the future, her devotion to her son, Liam. Her short, dark hair was flecked with gray, and her intelligent eyes were strikingly blue. Her stature and bearing gave her an almost regal air. She was serious to the point of being dour, but could share a laugh at the most improbable moments.

I’m still upset that we couldn’t find a woman lawyer, she went on, her eyes twinkling, but I guess you came through for us

I nodded in acceptance of the backhanded compliment, and returned the smiles. I really do have to go, guys, I said, gulping the last of my wine and standing. I had learned right from the beginning not to address the group as ladies, a faux pas that had earned me icy stares from Greta and Susan. Carol and Amy hadn’t seemed nearly as offended, but I had been careful not to repeat the mistake. I’ve gotten all the signatures I need for now. We’ll file the paternity proceeding this week, and then the adoption after that’s complete. Then a new birth certificate. It should all take about eight weeks. The group nodded at me in unison. Any questions?

I think you’ve covered everything,’ Greta said, standing to show me out. She handed Liam gently to Susan. Pour me some more wine, please, she said to Carol. I’ll walk Mr. Kelsey to the door."

I followed her into the entryway, where she shook my hand. Thanks, Luke, she said warmly, her pale eyes locking onto mine. Every bit of pretense was gone. Genuine gratitude remained. We couldn’t have done it without you.

Oh, quite the contrary, I said, smiling.

You know what I mean, she said, giving my hand a small squeeze. I had to admit it had all come together beautifully.

I know, I said, nodding.

A warm sensation came over me as I walked down the sidewalk toward my car. I glanced back, and Greta gave me a graceful wave as she shut the door.

I allowed the feeling of elation to last all the way back to the office. It was uncharacteristic for me, and I should have known better.

I should have known that soaring on the heights of satisfaction only gives you that much further to fall. And the past has taught me that you always fall, that no matter how much good you can do, there’s always a negative force bound to balance the scales. I may sound like a pessimist, but my life experience has taught me to hope for the best, plan against the worst, and expect something in the middle.

But nothing could have prepared me for the horror that awaited.

CHAPTER 2

I am sitting alone in my office. It is dark except for a small lamp on the desk that casts a yellowish circle of light across the dark wood surface. The light glows and glitters through the ice and amber liquid that half-fills a clear glass on the desk, condensation clinging to its sides and pooling around the base. The dusky liquid is bourbon, diluted by ice nearly melted away. I haven’t touched the drink since I poured it from the bottle, which i stowed safely away in the cabinet above the sink in the breakroom.

my head rests heavily against my forearm on the desk and the numbers glowing red from the digital clock over my right shoulder tell me that I haven’t moved from that position for over an hour. I exhale heavily. It is after 9:30 p.m., and I know my wife and kids are waiting for me at home, worried about me, but I can’t move. My head is throbbing, my entire body feels paralyzed and detached from my brain, and I am sweating, even though the air in the room is cool. My eyes are dry and burn as if someone had rubbed sand in them.

All this is far from routine for me, but it has been anything but a routine day. At 3:40 in the afternoon I discovered the body of a four-year-old child on the floor of the reception area in my office. She was wrapped in a bloody yellow blanket, lying on the blue plush carpet. She had been dead long enough for rigor mortis to have set in, but not for all of the blood to have dried. My assistant had already gone for the day, running errands on her way home. I returned from my meeting with the four mothers to find the office door unlocked and the grisly bundle waiting inside. It was at that moment that the nightmare had begun.

By the time I had pulled back enough of the blanket to determine what was inside, it was clear that the girl was dead. I fought off a wave of nausea and called 911 with hands shaking so badly that I could barely hold the phone. I sat and waited in silence for the police to arrive, staring at the body on the floor, willing it to move, to spring to life, to jump up and laugh like my own daughter, amused at the joke she had played on me. It didn’t happen.

From the time I had walked in the door my mind had been racing in an endless loop of questions with no answers, thoughts with no logic. Reality seemed to have left me behind, speeding casually on without me. My brain felt dead, flat and inelastic. It rolled and tumbled awkwardly as I ineffectively answered the questions that the police officers asked me when they arrived, buzzed and clattered annoyingly as the medical examiner shot inquiries at me while he probed and studied the body. It popped and sizzled frustratingly as my old friend Damon Long, a police detective, led me gently into the small conference room next to my office and questioned me.

Lucas, he said to me softly, closing the door to the room. The windowless walls seemed to close in around me. You okay? He sat down across the oak table from me, his dark eyes fixed on mine.

Yeah, I’m fine, I said. We both knew they were just words.

I gotta ask you to tell me the whole thing from the beginning, Luke, he said. I know you’ve probably told it a couple times already, but I’ve got to hear it. Okay?

Yeah, I nodded, I understand.

And so I told it again. Not that there was that much to tell. I walked in. I saw the body. I called the police.

Except it wasn’t that simple. Not for me.

You know her? Damon asked me. It would be a normal question under the circumstances, but he meant something more by it. I shook my head, examining a scratch on the back of my knuckle I’d gotten trimming brush in my yard the week before.

I mean, he went on haltingly, you know, in your practice…

I know what you mean. Was she an adoption case I handled? I don’t think so, but I wouldn’t recognize her if she had been a newborn at the time I handled the adoption.

Yeah, I s’pose that’s right, he said, making a notation on the pad in front of him. And they’re mostly newborns, babies?

I nodded. Mostly.

Hard to know if she was or wasn’t, then?

I nodded again. Unless I’ve seen pictures as they get older. I don’t recognize this one from any pictures. I closed my eyes on the image of the tangle of fine, brown hair spilling from beneath the satin-banded edge of the blanket, spots of moist, dark blood spattered on the fleecy surface. The face was pale, waxen, but almost cherubic, with dark blue, nearly purple, rings around the eyes that gave it a surreal, ghastly quality.

But that still leaves open lots of possibilities. He paused and looked up at me. The cool florescent light in the room made his smooth brown skin look like plastic. I could see the stubble of coarse black hair on his chin and above his lip. His hair was cropped close to his scalp, and the light reflected off the angular bones of his skull.

Yeah, I said, rubbing my face, it does.

He studied my eyes in silence, tapping his pen against his front teeth. It was a habit he’d had as long as I’d known him. Since college. His dark brown eyes had a moist look, the whites slightly yellow around the edges, crow’s feet splayed from the corners like dark fingers. I heard the phone ringing in the outer office and listened distractedly until the answering machine picked up.

Let’s trudge on through this, he said, glancing down at his pad. It’s better if I get it from you while it’s fresh.

Sure, I said. While it’s fresh.

He took me through nearly an hour’s worth of additional questions, but none of them meant much to me. My answer to most of them was a completely candid I don’t know.

All right, then, Damon said finally. I guess you’ll need to take a look at your files, see if anything rings a bell. The Medical Examiner should be able to give a more accurate age by morning. He paused, thinking. We’re gonna need to look at them, eventually.

The files?

Uh-huh. You going to have a problem with that? I mean, confidentiality? I could sense a slight hardening on his part, shifting into doing his job. I knew him too well.

I’m not sure, I said. Might depend on what I find. I’ll have to check into it.

Damon picked up his note pad, stood and moved toward the door.

You see anything missing, disturbed? he asked, making a circular motion with his pen, indicating the office parameters.

I haven’t really looked, I replied, but I haven’t noticed anything yet.

How about the door? You said it was unlocked, there’s no sign of forced entry.

Anita could have left it unlocked when she left, I said. She knew I was due back any time, and we leave it unlocked during the day a lot. There aren’t that many people in the building and we keep an eye out for each other, so we really don’t worry about it that much. I’ll check with her, see if she remembers.

Damon eyed me, his look serious, concerned.

Okay, he said. We’ll have a lot more to talk about tomorrow. I think the guys should be done out here in a couple hours. The Captain’s been here and gone already.

I walked out to the reception area with him. There were three lab guys and a police photographer working. The place was a mess; blood and tape on the carpet where the body had been, print dust on every exposed surface, evidence cards scattered around the room, a yellow plastic crime scene banner stretched across the open doorway.

You want us to seal it, Detective? one of the lab guys asked Damon, seeing that he was on his way out.

No, Damon responded. Finish and lock up, if Mr. Kelsey’s gone by that time. He looked at me.

I’ll stay till they’re done, I said.

Damon made a there you have it gesture with his hands to the lab guy, ducked under the yellow banner into the hallway and turned around to face me across the room.

You call me, or I call you? he asked.

I’ll call, I said. I’ll have them page you.

He gave me a quick nod and strode off down the hallway. The few remaining onlookers stepped aside to let him pass. Several were occupants of the office building, the others I didn’t recognize.

And so I poured the drink from the bottle