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“How?” My mother pulled away, anguished. “What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to figure out how much he stole and we’re going to pay back every penny. We’ll say it was an accounting error. The clients won’t question it. Nobody complains about a bank error in their favor.”
My mother wiped her eyes. “Right, that’s the way to go. We’ll make the clients whole. We can cover it if we don’t get hit with lawsuits.”
“That’s the problem. We don’t know how many clients, how much money, or what we owe, and if we get sued, we could be very exposed. We have insurance but it may not cover in case of fraud. So I won’t retire next year, I didn’t want to anyway. Everything will be all right. We’ll keep going.”
My mother nodded. “I can keep working, too. John will have to take a leave, though. Nobody has to know why but us.”
I realized I was engaging in a conspiracy, but I had no cause to complain. My parents would lie for John the same way they’d lied for me. But it had just become more likely that John had killed Lemaire, maybe because Lemaire wouldn’t go along with his kickback scheme.
Gabby shifted in her seat. “Mom, Dad, I know you love John, and so do I, but should we tell the cops? This is illegal—”
“No.” My father shook his head. “Billing fraud could take down the firm. We’d never recover. You’d be out of a job, too.”
My mother lifted an eyebrow. “Gabby, that boy will be punished enough afterIget through with him.”
I saw an opening. And I had a plan. “You know, I should go to his house right now, and see if he’s there. He’s not taking your calls, and this is too important to wait. I want to get to the bottom of this. I’ll tell him what’s going on and give him a chance to explain. I can talk to him, I’m not a partner or even an associate.”
My parents exchanged glances.
“Go get him, TJ,” my father said grimly.
Chapter Forty-Nine
I pulled into John’s driveway behind his Range Rover. I couldn’t wait to confront him, now that I’d have him alone. I had to know if he put me on the hook for Lemaire’s murder. I also had to know if he killed Lemaire himself.
I got out of the car and stalked to the front steps. There was a fancy gaslight mounted on the wall at the entrance, and when I got closer, I could see the front door was splintered and hung ajar, as if the house had been broken into.
Jesus. “John!” I pushed through the door and ran inside, terrified. The entrance hall was dark and still.
“John!” I heard an agonized moan from the kitchen. I ran in and turned on the light.
John was lying on the floor, beaten. Blood covered the left side of his face, spattering onto his white shirt. His eyebrow looked split. Reddish bruises swelled on his forehead.
Oh my God. “John!” I rushed to his side, shocked.
“TJ?” He squinted up at me.
“My God, what happened? I’m calling 911.”
“No, no…don’t.” John’s voice was hoarse.
“Yes.”
“No…please.”
“John, who beat you up? Was it those guys following us? Did they follow you home?”
“No, it…wasn’t them.”
“How do you know? Was there a fight? Were you robbed?” Horrified, I looked around at the mess in the fancy kitchen. Chairs had been knocked over. A big crystal bowl shattered into shards. A chrome Cuisinart and a lime-green Vitamix had been dumped, trailing electrical cords. Spatulas, serving spoons, and utensil jars lay strewn on the Mexican tile floor.
“I’m…fine,” John croaked.
“No, you’re not.” I squinted at the cut on his eyebrow. “You need stitches. I’m calling 911.”
“No, don’t.” John cleared his throat. “No cops.”
