In Hot Pursuit (2 page)

“Rebecca, you're here,” Scooter said, smiling.

“Looks like we made it in time.” She pointed to the man beside her. “This is Logan Rice, the executive director at the Bridge Foundation.”

Scooter made the introductions and hustled everyone to sit at the table. Quinn turned her chair around to join the group. She had a good view of both Logan Rice and the detective, each a good-looking man. But looks were often deceptive.

“Mr. Taylor, tell me about the missing funds,” the detective said.

“A twenty-five million dollar gift to the university is missing,” Scooter explained. He waved a hand toward Logan. “The Bridge Foundation, one of our most prominent donors, electronically transferred the funds to a HCU bank account this morning. They used wire instructions faxed to their office by Rebecca's assistant.”

“I can verify our brokerage firm used those instructions,” Logan added.

Quinn's stomach performed a loop-da-loop. How could Mr. Rice be certain the correct wire instructions were used?

“The problem is that the wire was sent but the funds never arrived in our bank account,” Scooter said.

“Okay,” the detective said. “Why was the transfer made today?”

“The date has been set for two weeks,” Scooter explained. “HCU is in the middle of a six-year capital campaign to raise 100 million dollars. The foundation's cash donation was the premier gift for the campaign.”

Quinn's breathing hitched. This could prove to be a nightmare for HCU. She wished she had worked harder at getting Development to understand the importance of her accounting procedures. Maybe then she wouldn't have received a mysterious message. Would the detective suspect her? Her face was hot and her left leg tapped a steady rhythm on the carpet.

“This is terrible,” Rebecca said. “What are we going to do?” She ran a hand through her blonde hair, mussing her perfect bob.

“Our bank officer told me she would put a trace on the wire using the transaction number from the brokerage firm,” Quinn said.

“That's good. But, Detective, Rebecca is right, this is terrible for the university. What do we do now?” Scooter said. “My God, twenty-five million dollars gone … like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“This is ridiculous.” Logan spat out, glaring at Scooter. “How in the hell, in this electronic age, does your bank lose our gift?”

Scooter's eyes widened at the outburst. “Mr. Rice, please, we need to stay calm. Like Quinn said, First National is tracing the wire.”

Logan glanced at Quinn and their eyes locked. In that instant, she felt her heart flutter in her chest. Then he broke his gaze and dismissed her with a curt nod. What was that? He pulled a business card from a pocket of his suit jacket and slid it across the table to the detective. He rose. “I have to go. My grandmother needs to hear about this before it hits the local news. Please contact me with any updates.”

Detective Phillips jotted in his notebook. “Thanks, Mr. Taylor. Before I leave, I'll need a copy of the wire instructions, all the contact names at the Bridge Foundation, their brokerage firm, and your bank.”

Scooter nodded, his face a grim mask.

Quinn felt the tension in the room crawl along her arms. She knew Scooter worried about the potential negative impact on donors. Would this mess cause them to reduce their giving to HCU?

To make matters worse, neither the university president nor Rebecca's boss, the development VP, were even on campus. They were traveling somewhere together, trying to raise more money. Neither executive would be happy when they heard about the theft and the possibility that the Bridge Foundation might publicly blame HCU.

“Also, I'll also need a list of names, work locations, and phone numbers for employees in the development and finance offices.” The detective's eyes focused on each of them, one at a time. “There'll be additional requests if we get into an investigation. I hope that won't create any difficulty for y'all.”

“Not at all,” Scooter said, glancing at his watch. “We'll do everything we can to help with your investigation. I'm sure our president will want to talk with you as soon as his plane lands. I'll leave a message for him.”

“Good.” Detective Phillips handed out business cards. “We'll put a trace on the wire transfer to verify it's not a bank error. You'll hear from me once I know something.”

“I realize we don't know if there has been a crime,” Scooter explained. “But I wanted to alert you as to our concern.”

The detective nodded. “We'll see.”

“Scooter, can I help you get anything?” Quinn asked.

“No, both you and Rebecca can head on home,” he said. “I'll give you a call tomorrow since I know you're scheduled for vacation next week.”

“My vacation can wait,” Quinn said quickly.

“Let's see what happens.” Scooter rose and went to his desk. They were dismissed.

Rebecca and Quinn left quietly and walked down the hall to the front of the Finance Office.

“This is like a freaking nightmare,” Quinn said.

“Or a really bad horror movie,” Rebecca replied. “I hope the police find whoever did this.”

“Me, too.” Quinn also hoped they didn't consider her the number one suspect once they started the investigation.

$ $ $

Logan parked in the circular driveway in front of the Rice family home. No doubt about it, he'd rather be drinking a beer at his favorite neighborhood bar. Telling his grandmother about the loss of the gift would not be easy. She'd probably blame it on him.

He found her in the study, watching some reality show on television. He hated the stupid shows.

“Good evening, Gram.” He bent down and kissed her cheek.

Sarah Rice, the regal matriarch of the Rice family, beamed at her grandson from her seat on the luxurious leather sofa. “Logan, what a surprise,” she said, lowering the television's volume. “What brings you here? No date tonight?”

He sat across from her. He knew she wouldn't appreciate any hedging at his reason for visiting her unannounced on a Friday evening. He got right to the point.

“I had a meeting at Houston Cullen University thirty minutes ago. There's a problem.”

“A problem?”

“The Foundation's gift didn't make it to the University's bank.”

“What in the world do you mean?”

“The money is gone, possibly stolen.”

“How could someone steal a wire transfer?” She rose, anger flashing across her normally composed features. She walked to the fireplace with a slight limp, her back to her grandson. After a long minute, she turned. “How could you let this happen?”

He ignored her question. “I don't know how a wire transfer gets stolen.”

“We need to call the police.”

“Taken care of. Remember Roddy Phillips? The guy I trained with for the Houston Marathon a couple years ago.”

“Yes, of course, a nice young man.”

Logan nearly rolled his eyes at the “nice young man” comment. Roddy was tough as nails with a wicked sense of humor.

“He's the detective working on the case. I just met with him.”

“I need to talk with him. This situation is totally unacceptable.” She returned to the sofa. “Logan, the Rice family does not have this type of thing happen to them.” She punched a small pillow, her lips a thin line. “I expect you to find the bastard who stole our money. Then bring him to me. I'll make sure he pays for his crime.”

“Gram, please, the police will take care of this.”

She looked at him with steel in her eyes. “They damn well better do their job, then. The Rice family will not tolerate anyone taking advantage of us.”

Logan changed the subject and asked his grandmother about her spring garden. She loved planning the colors every year. The change in conversation helped to keep her blood pressure in check. At least he hoped it did.

He left an hour later, after assuring his grandmother that he'd provide updates on the police investigation. As he drove away, he congratulated himself on convincing her he'd deal with the theft and that she didn't need to be hands on. After all, she had a full schedule running the family and he did have some experience with police matters.

He called Roddy on his cell phone.

“Man, what a surprise to see you at HCU. I thought you were working homicide.”

“Switched a few months ago,” Roddy said with a chuckle. “Sorry this happened to your family. You guys have been good to Houston over the years.”

“Whatever. Do you have any suspects yet?”

“Hell, no, we don't even know if there's been a theft. We're starting with a bank trace and we'll go from there. But … if it is a theft, who would be on your suspect list?”

“I don't know. How about everyone working at the school?”

“We'll start with the ones who knew about the transfer.”

“I'd start with that controller, Quinn something,” Logan said. “Rebecca told me she said she didn't know about the transfer. That doesn't make sense considering her position.”

“I agree.”

“There was something strange about her, too, like she was nervous or on edge. What could be the reason for that?”

$ $ $

Quinn started her ten-year-old Volvo wagon, adjusting the air-conditioning to neutralize the heat of the day. She dug her cell phone out of her purse and called her best friend, Ruthie.

“Something awful happened at work and I'm not in the mood for a noisy bar.”

“We can do happy hour next week.”

“No, come to my house,” Quinn said. “I have alcohol and I'll make you dinner.”

“You are so predictable. You always cook when you're stressed.”

“And lucky for you, I'm a good cook.”

“All right, I'll be there in a thirty minutes.”

Quinn drove on autopilot down Highway 59 to Sugar Land, an upscale community southwest of Houston, her thoughts on the Gregory James email. She didn't know what to do. The obvious answer was to show the email to the police. Of course, they would then consider her the thief. Whoever had changed the wire instructions and sent the fake email had probably covered their tracks and all guilty roads would then lead to Quinn. She was better off keeping her mouth shut and pretending she'd never received the damned email.

Although staying quiet didn't feel right, it felt dishonest. She'd see how things went with the police. That was the best she could do for now.

She turned in the driveway of her townhouse and hit the button to open the garage. Once inside, she shed a layer of stress and turned on the lights. She headed up the stairs to her bedroom, threw her purse and tote on the bed, then went into the closet, pulling off her summer suit.

After donning a T-shirt and shorts, the doorbell rang and Quinn hurried down the stairs. She swung open the front door and enveloped Ruthie in a fierce hug.

“I'm so glad you're here.”

“You really did have a bad day.”

“You have no idea. Come in the kitchen and I'll give you all the details.”

Ruthie sat at the granite island, in her favorite leather stool, while Quinn retrieved a bottle of wine from the under-counter cooler. She held it up. “Cabernet okay?”

“You bet.”

Quinn uncorked the wine, then poured two glasses, handing one to Ruthie. “How about pasta and a salad for dinner? I made pesto sauce last night.”

“Sounds great. What can I do to help?”

“Nothing right now, this won't take long.”

“Tell me what happened. I'm dying to hear.”

As she cooked, Quinn explained everything from the phone call from Lynne Jenkins to walking out of Scooter's office with Rebecca, everything minus the Gregory James email. She ignored the guilt battering her heart.

“I thought you didn't care much for Rebecca?” Ruthie said.

“I don't. She seems fake to me but everyone at HCU loves her.” Quinn sipped her wine and thought about that. “Maybe I'm a bitch.”

“That's not it. You're just prickly at times.” Ruthie smiled, eyes crinkling.

“You're right. But this is awful for the university. That Logan Rice was a real piece of work, leaving in a huff. The police detective was so calm it was eerie.”

“You can't blame Mr. Rice for being upset. That's a lot of money to lose.”

“Of course it is. I'm not thinking straight. Scooter wasn't thinking straight either, saying it's my fault.”

“You two have had a bit of a love-hate relationship the last ten years.”

Quinn dropped linguini in a pot of boiling water and stirred the noodles. “He's just so unpredictable. I've always wondered if his marriage is good. He never talks about his family.”

“Neither does my boss. Maybe Scooter is simply a moody guy.”

Ruthie always made good sense. “You're probably right. Would you mind putting the salad together? I'll put garlic bread in the oven.”

Ten minutes later, the dinner was served and the wine glasses refilled.

Ruthie waved her fork in the air. “I was thinking. What if Scooter meant it, that he thinks the theft is your fault?”

“Why would he seriously think that?”

“You're the only one who claims she didn't know about the wire transfer. You know that old saying, she who protests too much is guilty.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“Just playing devil's advocate. If I thought it, you can bet the police will as well.”

“Like I said, that's ridiculous.” Quinn wanted to shout the words but kept her voice low. She couldn't forget the email. “This is a terrible blow to HCU but I didn't cause it. Scooter said he'd call me tomorrow. I figure my vacation next week is history.”

“Do you suppose the police will want you to stay in town?” Ruthie's lip twitched, then she burst out laughing.

“Stop that,” Quinn said. “This is a horrible situation.”