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I put on a worried expression for the receptionist behind a plastic divider. “Excuse me, I’m hoping you can help me. I think my brother might have come in with a head injury. He called me earlier tonight and said he was hit in the forehead with a rock.” I didn’t supply any name because I didn’t know if Lemaire would have used his real one. “He looks like this.” I held my phone up to the glass, showing Lemaire’s photo.
The nurse shook her head. “No adult’s been in with an injury like that.”
“Have you been here all evening?”
“Yes, since four o’clock.”
“Thank you.” I turned away, glancing at the lacrosse girl.
I could still hear Carrie, at the end.
I’ll never have a child with you! Ever!
•••
I checked two other hospitals in the area, but Lemaire hadn’t gone to either. A real investigator would have a police scanner, but I was a nepotism hire with common sense. I surveilled housewives on nooners at the Courtyard Marriott. Adultery was still worth money at settlement.
Your job’s a sinecure.
I shook it off and drove away. I wasn’t sure of my next move andfelt my energy ebbing, so I pulled into a Dunkin’ drive-thru, got a coffee, and scrolled back to Runstan’s website and checked Lemaire’s bio: “A Pennsylvania native, Neil Lemaire graduated from La Salle with a degree in accounting and worked as a financial advisor at PNC, bringing a wealth of business experience to Runstan. He lives in Phoenixville and volunteers at a local cat rescue.”
I sipped my coffee, scrolled to Facebook, and plugged in Lemaire’s name. A slew of entries popped up, but one of the thumbnails was a ginger cat. I clicked it on a hunch; Lemaire had red hair, so maybe he rescued a ginger cat. Sure enough, it was Lemaire’s Facebook page. You don’t have to be a detective to connect the dots.
I scanned his Facebook timeline. There was no personal information, only photos of skinny tabbies, Persians with clumpy fur, calicos missing parts of their ears, and a blind cat. I skimmed the captions: “Walter is a purrbaby AND a furbaby!!” “Mr. Fluff is going to his furever home!” “Bring double the love home! Benny and the Jet must be adopted together!”
I scrolled to Instagram, and Lemaire had an account there, too. He posted the same cats and kittens, but no personal information. I scrolled to the white pages, scanned the addresses that popped up, and picked the only one in Phoenixville, where his bio said he lived.
I’m basically a detective.
It’s not rocket science.
•••
I parked down the street from Lemaire’s house, though a Maserati was too conspicuous for a stakeout vehicle. I had a black Toyota RAV4 and a blue Subaru Forester for that purpose, but I didn’t know I’d be doing this today. At least the Maserati was dark. Actuallyits exterior color wasblu nobile, a metallic blue that twinkled like a starry night over Florence.
The street was quiet, and the houses dark. I eyed Lemaire’s modest brick house, which had a plain front door, a bay window, and two bedrooms on the second floor. There were no lights on inside, and no car in the driveway.
On impulse, I got out of my car, crossed the street, and hurried to the house. I sprinted up the driveway, steering clear of the front door in case he had a Ring camera or the like. Home technology made my job harder. Thanks for nothing, progress.
I went up to a window on the side of the house. Suddenly a motion detector clicked on, blasting the area with light.
I froze, flattening against the window. I stayed still, waiting for the light to flick off. I hoped the neighbors wouldn’t think it was suspicious, since there were deer and other wildlife in Chester County.
The motion detector clicked off. My eyes adjusted to the darkness, and I couldn’t see anything inside the house. I spotted something sitting in the driveway. It was the ginger cat, and I figured Lemaire had a pet door because his cat was outside, seemingly waiting for him to come home.
Aw.
I couldn’t learn much else without breaking in, so I bolted from the house. The motion detector light went on again, but I cut into the shadows on the lawn. I reached my car and slipped inside.
Then I realized something. If Lemaire had co-conspirators, then they would know that John had discovered there was money missing. That meant my brother was in danger.
I hit the ignition, grabbed my phone, and pressed John’s number in Favorites. He was Number Five, dead last. “John?” I said when he picked up. “Are you alone?”
“No, what’s up?” he asked, his tone guarded.
“So Nancy’s there?”
“Yes.”
