Chapter 8: What Greer Didn't Know
Martin Greer's office was on the fourteenth floor of a glass building downtown, the kind of address designed to make clients feel that the person charging them four hundred dollars an hour was worth it.
I had been there once before — six weeks before the wedding, to review the prenup.
I had sat across from Greer's wide mahogany desk while he explained, in a warm and unhurried voice, that Clause 14(b) was standard language, nothing to worry about, and that my own attorney — the one Derek had recommended — had already reviewed and approved it.
I had believed him.
I thought about that as Detective Marsh's car pulled into the building's underground garage at 11 a.m., two hours after Greer's text.
Grace was in the passenger seat.
I was in the back with Paul, who had been on his laptop since we left the station.
"He's still in his office," Paul said, looking at his screen.
"His assistant confirmed a ten-thirty appointment that he cancelled twenty minutes ago."
"He's waiting for us," Grace said.
"He's waiting for me," I said.
"He thinks I'm coming alone."
Detective Marsh glanced at me in the rearview mirror.
"You're not going in alone."
"I know," I said.
"But he doesn't know that yet."
The plan was simple.
I would go up first.
Grace and Detective Marsh would follow two minutes behind with Paul and the hard drive.
Greer's text had said he wanted to make things simple — which meant he had an offer.
We needed to hear the offer on record before he knew the full weight of what was already filed.
The recording app was running before I stepped into the elevator.
Greer's assistant showed me in without a word.
Greer was standing at his window when I entered, hands in his pockets, looking at the city below with the posture of a man who had rehearsed this.
"Chloe," he said, turning.
"Thank you for coming."
"You said you could make this simple," I said.
I sat down across from his desk without being invited to.
"I'm listening."
He sat down.
He folded his hands on the desk in the careful way of someone choosing each word before it leaves his mouth.
"There has been a misunderstanding," he said.
"The prenuptial agreement was drafted in good faith.
The language in Clause 14(b) is standard in asset-protection agreements.
Any suggestion that it was designed to defraud you is —"
"Rebecca Cho," I said.
He stopped.
"Diane Paulsen," I said.
His hands didn't move, but something behind his eyes did.
"Three property transfer agreements," I said.
"All witnessed by you.
All benefiting Derek.
All signed by women who used lawyers you or Derek recommended." I leaned forward slightly.
"That's not a misunderstanding, Mr.
Greer.
That's a pattern."
"I witness documents," he said carefully.
"I don't control what clients do with —"
"You drafted the prenup," I said.
"You inserted Clause 14(b).
You recommended the attorney who told me it was routine.
You are not a passive witness.
You are the architecture."
The door behind me opened.
I didn't turn around.
Greer looked past me and went very still.
"Martin Greer," Detective Marsh said, "I'm Detective Marsh with the financial crimes unit.
I have a warrant for the records of your firm relating to the Hartwell account and all associated client files."
Greer looked at me.
Something moved across his face — not quite surprise, not quite anger.
Something closer to the expression of a man realizing he had miscalculated the distance of a drop.
"I want my attorney present," he said.
"That's your right," Detective Marsh said.
"Paul, the drive."
Paul stepped forward and connected the hard drive to Greer's desktop computer before Greer could reach for it.
Greer stood up.
"You cannot —"
"The warrant covers all electronic records on this device," Grace said from the doorway, holding up the document.
"Sit down, Mr.
Greer."
He sat down.
I stood up.
"You told me Clause 14(b) was nothing to worry about," I said.
I picked up my bag from the floor.
"You were right.
It wasn't."
I walked out of his office and didn't look back.
In the elevator, going down, Grace stood beside me.
"He'll cooperate," she said.
"They always cooperate when the hard drive is already connected."
"Will it be enough for Derek?" I asked.
"Greer's records will show every communication between him and Derek going back years," Grace said.
"Drafting instructions.
Billing notes.
Email threads." She looked at the elevator doors.
"Derek told him exactly what to put in that prenup.
That makes Derek the architect and Greer the contractor.
Both of them go down."
The elevator opened into the garage.
"What about Brenda?" I asked.
Grace was quiet for a moment.
"The voicemail," she said, "references 'the last one.' That puts her in the pattern.
It's not enough on its own — but combined with Rebecca's testimony about how she was recruited, and Diane's, it establishes her as a knowing participant." She paused.
"It won't be as fast.
But it will come."
I walked to the car.
The morning had turned bright and cold, the kind of day that feels newly made.
My phone buzzed.
Derek.
May you like
I didn't answer.
I got in the car and waited.
