James Brogan: Divorce, Husband Cheating
The rain was doing its usual number on the city, turning the streets into black mirrors that reflected every neon regret. I was nursing a warm whiskey in my office above the laundromat when she walked in. Mrs. Eleanor Hargrove, all pearls and quiet fury, smelling like money and Chanel No. 5.
“Mr. Brogan,” she said, voice steady but her hands twisting the strap of her purse. “I need proof. My husband, Richard. I know he’s seeing someone. I just… I need it ironclad for the divorce.”
I leaned back in my creaky chair. Richard Hargrove. Mid-forties, VP at some downtown investment firm, member of the right clubs, donor to the right causes. The kind of guy who looked like he’d never gotten his hands dirty in his life. Exactly the type who always did.
“Rates are posted,” I told her. “Photos, video if possible, times, locations, names. The works. You sure you want this door opened?”
She met my eyes. “I’ve been smelling perfume on his collars for three months. I’m sure.”
Two days later I was parked in a gray sedan across from the Meridian Hotel, the kind of place that charges by the hour for “discretion.” Hargrove’s silver Lexus was in the lot. I’d followed him from the office after he’d told his secretary he was heading to a “client dinner.”
At 7:42 p.m. he emerged from the side entrance with a woman maybe ten years younger. Blonde, sharp suit, legs that knew how to walk in heels. They weren’t holding hands like nervous newlyweds. They moved like people who’d done this dance before. Comfortable. Greedy.
I got the shots. Clear ones through the telephoto: his hand on the small of her back, the kiss in the elevator lobby before the doors closed, the way she laughed at something he whispered. I even caught the room number when the clerk handed over the keycard.
The next afternoon I was in my office developing the prints when the phone rang.
“Brogan,” a male voice said, smooth as expensive liquor. “Richard Hargrove. I hear you’ve been asking questions about me.”
“Word travels fast in certain circles.”
“Let’s cut the dance. Whatever Eleanor’s paying you, I’ll double it. Burn the photos. Tell her I was at a legitimate meeting.”
I chuckled. “Tempting. But I’ve got a code. Loose as it is, it doesn’t include taking bribes from guys banging their executive assistant.”
There was a pause. “You don’t know what you’re stepping in.”
“Probably not. But I’ve got an appointment with your wife tomorrow morning. Unless there’s something you want to tell me that changes the math.”
He hung up.
That night I tailed him again. Different hotel this time. Same blonde. I got more pictures, including one hell of a compromising angle through a gap in the curtains that would make any judge grant Eleanor everything she asked for and then some.
The next morning Mrs. Hargrove sat across from my desk looking at the photos like they were autopsy pictures of her marriage. Her face didn’t crumble. It just went very still.
“He offered me double to bury this,” I told her. “I declined.”
She nodded slowly, then wrote me a check with a very steady hand. “Thank you, Mr. Brogan. The truth hurts. But lies hurt longer.”
As she stood to leave, she paused at the door. “One more thing. The woman… is she just an assistant?”
“Senior analyst at his firm. Been with the company eighteen months. Looks like it started around month four.”
Eleanor gave a small, bitter smile. “Of course it did.”
She left. I poured myself a real drink this time, not the warm leftover from yesterday. The city kept raining outside, washing nothing clean.
Another marriage down. Another paycheck collected. And somewhere out there, Richard Hargrove was probably already calling his lawyer.
Just another Tuesday in the life.
