“Looks that way.”
“How did you find it?”
“Becca pointed it out,” Rinaldo says. “When she took over the books, she went back a few months and audited the accounts. The skimming seems to have stopped about the time she came on board.”
“Who was the former bookkeeper?”
“Beni did it part-time when he first arrived,” he tells me. “I think it started before then, though. Before he took over, it was Justin Taylor. Remember him?”
Rinaldo stares at me pointedly.
Yes, I remember Justin Taylor. He hadn’t been just a bookkeeper; he had also been Rinaldo’s tournament fighter. I had been doing a job for Rinaldo last year while Lia had been visiting one of her professors about a project. Justin seemed to think I was getting paid too much for what I did and stuck his nose into my business. He’d gotten in my face about dumping bodies where they could be found, and I’d added his corpse to the pile.
“I remember.” I try to sound apologetic, but I don’t think I pull it off. If Justin had fought in the last tournament instead of me, I might not have lost Lia. I also wouldn’t have found out I have a half brother. I don’t consider the information an even trade for her leaving me though.
“He was good with the numbers, despite getting hit in the head a lot. Justin even had a bachelor’s degree in accounting. Becca doesn’t have any kind of degree.”
I turn a couple of pages, making note of the dates where discrepancies were apparent.
“Did you track where the money was going?” I ask.
“Not a trace.”
“Has Jonathan looked?”
“Not yet.” Rinaldo pours himself more scotch and swirls it around in the glass. “He’s been working on some new security for the warehouse. He wants to be able to control all of it from his damn phone.”
I chuckle. Jonathan has an app for everything.
“Do you want me to check it out?”
“Not yet.” Rinaldo finishes the drink in a big gulp and sits down. “Becca is running the numbers again to be sure. You just be aware and check out the club managers. Make sure we didn’t miss something there.”
I nod and rub at my temple. I can’t shake the damn headache I’ve had for the past two days. No amount of caffeine or ibuprofen seems to help, and I’m finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate.
“What has you on edge?” Rinaldo asks as he leans forward on the desk.
“Not sleeping.” It’s nothing new, and he knows it.
“I need you at your best, Evan.”
“I know. I am.”
“Not if you aren’t sleeping.” Rinaldo narrows his eyes. “How are you spending your evenings?”
I give him a half-smile and shrug. He knows my preference for hookers.
“I hope you aren’t giving the competition your money.”
“No, sir.” I look at his expression carefully, but I can’t determine if he seriously thinks I’d pick up one of the Russians’ girls or not. “I stick to the far south.”
“Have you picked out a favorite?” This time Rinaldo’s expression gives away his concern. The last steady whore I acquired ended up with her brains all over his basement storage room.
“No, sir. I haven’t done any repeats.”
“Going to keep it that way?”
I consider his question for a minute. I’m not going to lie to him.