Divorce, Wife Cheating
James Brogan sat in his cramped office above the pawn shop on 9th, nursing a lukewarm coffee and staring at the rain streaking the window like it had a personal grudge. The neon sign outside buzzed and flickered—half the letters burned out—so it just read “BRO AN – NVEST GAT ONS.” Good enough.
The door opened without a knock. A man in an expensive gray suit stepped in, shaking water from a black umbrella that probably cost more than Brogan’s rent. Mid-forties, thinning hair, eyes that looked like they hadn’t slept in weeks.
“James Brogan?” the man asked.
“Last time I checked.”
“I’m Richard Harlan. I think my wife is cheating on me.”
Brogan leaned back in his creaky chair. “You ‘think,’ or you know?”
Harlan dropped a thick envelope on the desk. “Photos. Credit card statements. She’s been distant for months. Late nights. New lingerie I’ve never seen her wear. I want proof. Ironclad. For the divorce.”
Brogan thumbed through the photos. Standard stuff—blurry shots of a stylish woman in her late thirties getting into a silver Lexus with tinted windows. Nothing conclusive.
“Three days,” Brogan said. “Two grand a day plus expenses. Half up front.”
Harlan didn’t blink. He peeled off ten crisp hundreds and laid them down. “I want her followed starting tonight. She’s having dinner at La Fontaine at eight.”
Brogan took the cash. “You’ll hear from me.”
That night, Brogan sat in his old Buick across from the upscale French restaurant, collar turned up against the drizzle. Eleanor Harlan emerged at 8:45 on the arm of a tall, silver-haired man in a tailored coat. They laughed too easily. He helped her into the Lexus, his hand lingering a little too long on her back.
Brogan followed at a distance. The Lexus wound through the city and pulled into the underground garage of a sleek new high-rise downtown. Brogan parked on the street and waited.
Two hours later, Eleanor came out alone, fixing her hair in a compact mirror before driving off. Brogan noted the time, snapped a few shots of the building’s entrance.
The next two days were more of the same. Secret lunches. Hotel bars. One afternoon at a boutique hotel where the silver-haired man—identified quickly as Victor Lang, a corporate lawyer with a reputation for winning ugly cases—booked a suite under a fake name. Brogan got photos of them entering together, leaving separately. He even sweet-talked a maid for confirmation on the room service order for two.
On the third evening, Brogan met Richard Harlan at a quiet bar near the harbor.
Brogan slid a thick manila envelope across the table. “It’s all there. Names, dates, times, photos. They’ve been seeing each other for at least four months. He’s her old law school professor. Turned business associate. Turned something else.”
Harlan’s face went pale as he flipped through the evidence. His hands trembled slightly. “That son of a bitch.”
Brogan sipped his whiskey. “You wanted proof. You got it. She’s good at covering tracks, but not good enough.”
Harlan stared at a particularly clear photo of his wife kissing Victor Lang in the hotel elevator. “I loved her, you know. Really loved her.”
Brogan didn’t say anything. He’d heard that line too many times.
“What now?” Harlan asked quietly.
“Now you talk to your lawyer. File the papers. Use this to get whatever you want in the settlement. And try not to do anything stupid.”
Harlan nodded, paid Brogan the rest of the fee in cash, and left without finishing his drink.
Brogan stayed at the bar a while longer, watching the boats rock in the harbor. Another marriage down the drain. Another paycheck in his pocket. He wondered, not for the first time, if anyone ever really beat the house in this game.
He finished his whiskey, left a tip, and stepped back out into the rain. The city didn’t care. It never did.
