Chapter Forty-Two
Quinn opens the front door to the old house that’s been converted into law offices for three solo practitioners.
The receptionist, Silvie, says hi, gestures that Mark is free and Quinn can head up to his office.
Mark Markowski, the most sought-after divorce lawyer in Omaha (notwithstanding the shitty office), is a large guy in an expensive suit that somehow looks cheap on him.
He’s on the phone, holds up his index finger and thumb signaling that it’ll be quick.
Quinn looks around the cluttered office, wonders if Mark is related to his mom’s pack rat friend, Ms. Glomm.
The room smells of cigar smoke, and that’s confirmed when Quinn sees the butt in an ashtray hemmed in by stacks of papers on Mark’s desk, a fire marshal’s nightmare.
“Alright, but she needs the funds transferred by the end of this week or the deal’s off,” Mark says into the phone. He slams it down without saying goodbye.
Quinn hands him the VHS tape. “It’s clear she’s cheating.”
Mark rubs his hands together like he’s excited to watch. “I told my client. He was furious but ecstatic at the same time.”
Quinn shakes his head, not understanding why the husband is pleased at the news.
“The guy’s loaded. From a rich family. They have a prenup. She gets nothing if she cheats.”
Mark shoves the tape into a small TV/VHS combo unit perched on a table in the corner.
They watch the shaky video of the woman walking out of the salon’s back door, Quinn tailing her to the motel where someone lets her inside the room.
It’s one of those depressing two-story places where the rooms face the parking lot.
Quinn fast-forwards to the money shot: her leaving the room, straightening her skirt, then a few minutes later, the good-looking guy casually leaving the same room.
“A real detective would’ve found a way to get shots in the room, shown them in the act.” Mark grins. “But this will do the trick.”
Quinn is about to leave when the door bursts open. It’s a woman—oh shit, it’s the woman they just watched on the video—and she looks pissed. The receptionist is chasing after her, flustered.
The woman eyes Quinn a moment, like she’s trying to place him. He thankfully doesn’t have on the fake beard.
“It’s okay, Silvie,” the lawyer says to the receptionist. “You can leave us.” Silvie looks conflicted but disappears, shutting the door behind her.
The woman starts to speak but is cut off by Mark.
“Before you say anything, do you have a lawyer?” Mark asks. “Because I can’t speak to you if you’re represented by counsel.”
“Yes, I have a lawyer. You think I’m stupid? You think I didn’t know he’s been having someone follow me?”
Mark grimaces, directs his gaze to the TV, which shows the video paused on the man leaving the motel room, like maybe she’s not as smart as she thinks she is.
“I’m sorry, but if you have counsel, you need to go. I can’t speak to someone represented unless their lawyer is present.”
“Then we have a problem.”
Mark doesn’t reply, but his expression shows curiosity.
“Because my lawyer said he wouldn’t convey what I need you to tell your client.”
Again, Mark says nothing.
“You tell my husband that I want half. Of everything.”
Mark is smirking now.
“And if he refuses, I’m turning in the Polaroids I found of the teenage girls to the police.”
Mark’s mouth is open now.
“I want you to know this in case something happens to me. You tell Trent. Half or he’s going to fucking jail.”