In Hot Pursuit Page 7

  “Who — ”

  “I almost forgot,” Lynne said. “Bill Jenkins’s assistant emailed the instructions on Thursday.”

  “Did any of the messages have an attachment?”

  “Let’s see, I’ll have to check each one.” Lynne spoke again after several seconds. “The message from Rebecca Holland on Friday had another copy of the wire instructions. That’s the only attachment.”

  “Hmm, does anyone else routinely receive emails from HCU?” She had to be missing something. “What about your assistant?”

  “Hold on a second and I’ll go ask her.”

  It didn’t take more than a minute for Lynne to return. “My assistant received an email from Rebecca last Thursday. It was one of those silly jokes with a picture of a black cat in a pink bikini.”

  “Has she received them before from Rebecca?”

  “Yes, they both like animals and send jokes back and forth. You know how those things get passed around.”

  “Sure do, I’ve received plenty myself.” Was it possible, even remotely possible, that Quinn had stumbled on how the wire instructions were altered? “Any word yet on the bank’s progress?”

  “Nothing as of this morning. I hope to hear news later in the day,” Lynne replied.

  Quinn ended the call and began to pace from the kitchen to the study, around her desk, and back to the kitchen. Her nerves twitched, beating a steady rhythm against her elation that she may have figured out how the wire instructions were altered. A virus in the wire instructions or black cat attachment might hold the answer. She needed to talk to Roddy.

  A greeting stated he was unavailable for the rest of the day. She left a plea for him to call as soon as possible. She itched to take action, then her eye caught the to-do list she had jotted down on Monday. The euphoria bubble burst. She had no proof that an email virus had modified the wire instructions. She had no evidence a message from HCU carried the aforementioned virus. Maybe she should try a new hobby as a writer of crime fiction. Of course, she didn’t have a murder victim to add to the plot so the book would be a bust.

  $ $ $

  Two hours later at the Bridge Foundation, Amanda greeted Quinn by name.

  “Mr. Rice is running late this morning. Please have a seat until he’s free.”

  While she waited on the sofa, her thoughts turned to Logan Rice. She pictured him as conservative, refined, a tad snobbish, and having a nasty temper based on his outburst in Scooter’s office. She’d be lucky if she learned anything useful from him about the foundation’s role in the transfer. But then again Liz’s husband, Dirk said he was a nice guy.

  Men were terrible judges of the character of other men. If a man could play hoops and drink beer, they were automatically included in the man club. More than likely Mr. Rice was spoiled by his family’s money. She’d allow him an extra point for working with a charitable organization.

  Her cell rang and this time it was Dr. Arnold. Uh-oh, this couldn’t be good. How’d he get her number?

  “Quinn, there are a couple of items I need to discuss with you. Since you’re not on campus, could you meet me at Hermann Park? Would one o’clock work?”

  “Yes, one is fine. Where in the park should I go?” What was this about? And why meet in the park and not his office?

  He provided directions, then ended the call. She was more than curious about the “items” on his mind. She’d rarely been in meetings with him, as that was Scooter’s territory. No doubt the meeting related to the theft, as had every breath she’d taken for the last six days.

  Five minutes later, Amanda ushered Quinn to the office at the end of the hall with the double doors. She knocked, pushed on the half-open door.

  Genuine surprise rarely crawled along Quinn’s backbone. Not so today. Her breath momentarily halted, and she struggled to stifle a nervous giggle.

  Not five feet from her stood a tall Bozo the clown, complete with orange hair, a red and blue striped blousy costume, floppy black shoes, painted face, and a large red nose in his hand.

  “Excuse me.” The first five seconds of shock had passed. “I must be in the wrong office. I’m here to meet Logan Rice and you don’t look like him.”

  “Oh.” The clown’s shoes clomped half a turn to face her. “Miss Wells, you’re in the right office. I realize this must look strange.”

  Her eyes closed briefly, allowing a moment of pure humor. “I can say without reservation, this is a first for me.”

  “I’m substituting for a friend at Children’s Hospital, last minute.” He waved a red tie, smiled, displayed those million-watt teeth. “I’m sorry but we’ll have to postpone our meeting. Are you free for dinner this evening? We can discuss the HCU business then.”

  “Well, uh … .”

  “Is seven good for you?”

  “Uh …okay.”

  “Great. Give Amanda your home address. I’ll pick you up. Casual, okay? I’ll need to relax after this.” He grinned. “It’s my first clown gig.”

  “That sounds fine.” What else could she say? “I’ll leave you to your clown gig.”

  “See you this evening, Miss Wells.”

  Quinn jotted down her home address for Amanda and retraced her steps to the garage. As she headed home, her mind wasn’t on driving but on the clown named Logan Rice. A chuckle erupted at the memory of walking into his office. Even with the makeup, his grin was cute as hell, something she hadn’t noticed last Friday. Her thoughts transitioned to what might be under the costume. Before her imagination could rev up, the cell rang, again. She was one popular girl.

  Lynne’s name appeared on the digital read screen.

  “I have information for you, but not a complete answer.” Lynne’s voice was steady and even. “When the wire first entered our system, the account information was per the HCU instructions. Somewhere along the way, the information was electronically changed and re-routed out of the system.” She sighed, frustration laced her words. “Unfortunately, we don’t know how the account data was changed or where the funds were directed.”

  “Damn. I had hoped for more progress. I appreciate that much though.” Quinn switched her phone to the other ear. “I assume your IT folks are working on how the alteration was accomplished.”

  “Definitely. This isn’t good for business so everyone is on red alert. You know how it goes.”

  “I do.” Quinn debated about mentioning the possibility of an email virus doing the dirty work. Oh, what the hell. “You might mention that the instructions could have been altered with an email virus.”

  “That’s why you were asking about emails,” Lynne said.

  “I was thinking out loud, trying to be creative. It’s just a thought. Please call me when you have another update.”

  “I’ll call if I have solid information. Hopefully, it won’t be more than twenty-four hours.”

  “Thanks, Lynne.” Quinn high-fived the steering wheel. Progress. “By the way, Detective Phillips is single.”

  “Cool.” Her voice jumped two octaves. “Thanks.”

  Quinn made her way to Smith Street and the entrance to the Southwest Freeway. She had the afternoon to rethink her logic and plan what she’d wear to dinner. The traffic was light for a Wednesday afternoon so she made good time. Halfway home she remembered the meeting with Dr. Arnold. Going the opposite direction of Hermann Park, she contemplated where to turn around when her cell rang.

  “It’s Roddy. We need to talk.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “I’ve uncovered a piece of information on the cancelled check from Jack Franks. Meet me at the Starbucks on Gessner near the Southwest Freeway. How long before you can get there?” He sounded out of breath.

  “Are you jogging?”

  “Running down stairs. Damn elevators are too slow.”

 
“Don’t have a heart attack,” she said.

  “Very funny. How long, fifteen minutes?”

  “I’ll be there in ten.”

  “Good. Order a tall mocha latte for me.” He clicked off.

  Damn that man. Gessner was the next exit so Quinn swung over a couple of lanes to the off-ramp without noticeably ticking off surrounding drivers. The exit headed straight to the stoplight. She turned right and shortly swung into a parking space in front of Starbucks.

  She ordered a café mocha and a $4 dollar latte for Roddy and settled at table in the corner of the store with an easy view of the entrance. Roddy soon arrived. She spied him before he glanced in her direction. More than one female head turned toward him as he wound his way through the tables. He looked frazzled. Was that a good sign or a bad sign?

  He plopped in the metal chair opposite her. “One helluva day so far.”

  “What’s up?”

  “It’s my mother and her — never mind.” He eyed the coffee cup. “Thanks for the latte.”

  “You’re welcome. What’s the story on the cancelled check?”

  “You sure know how to get to the point.” He slurped the latte.

  “You called me,” she said.

  Roddy looked tired. His eyes didn’t have the usual sparkle.

  “That I did,” he said.

  “Come on, tell me what you discovered about the Franks check.”

  He didn’t answer immediately. Her words floated in the space between them.

  “It was not deposited to a HCU bank account.” He grinned with those dimples waving. “Feel better?”

  “Damn right.” Relief slid down her shoulders. Her lungs filled with air and she blew a slow breath, it felt wonderful. “Where was the check deposited?”

  “Banco Economico on the Grand Cayman Island. That’s the easy part.” He tore a hand through his short hair. “We know the account number but the bank refuses to release the name on the account.”

  “Can’t you go through Interpol or the CIA or Homeland Security?” She couldn’t believe it — a Caribbean bank refusing to give the Houston police important information.

  “No.” He chuckled deep in his chest. “Security is why people open accounts in the Caymans, and Switzerland, for that matter. We’ve contacted the FBI — ”

  “The FBI?”

  “Yes, the FBI. I have a buddy in the Houston field office and he’s helping with the account owner. I’m sure you’ll be happy to know I have a strong hunch the Franks’ check is related to our case.” He chugged the latte. “Good work, by the way. This may turn out to be our strongest lead so far.”

  Oops, she needed to come clean. “By the way, there are, uh … other missing gifts.”

  “What?” Roddy’s chest leaned over the small round table, his mouth a hard line, no dimples. “Talk to me.”

  Hopefully, confessing would ensure his continued help and good will. Her earlier relief evaporated and her stomach felt edgy. “The Franks’ gift is the largest but there are two for $10,000 dollars. I talked to one of the donors but she doesn’t receive her cancelled checks back from her bank. The second donor wasn’t at home when I called.”

  “We’ll contact both of them. I’ll need a list of the missing gifts. I assume there’s more than three.” A grin flitted across his face. Robo-cop he was not.

  “I’ve got it right here.” She tore through her purse and pulled out the list and the notes she’d made when attempting to call each donor yesterday morning. “Here’s the list and my notes.” Was she the poster child for police cooperation or what?

  “Thanks.” He slipped the police issue notebook from his shirt pocket and began writing in it. “Which donors did you talk to?”

  “Everyone except Lopez and Brooks.”

  “Good. We’ll contact each of them and their banks. This may take a few days.”

  “Why so long?” she said. This was so frustrating. The police moved slower than Congress in an election year.

  “Can I do something to help?” Surely she could do something to get this part of the investigation on the road.

  “Nothing, I’ll handle the details.”

  She snapped her fingers. “I almost forgot. I sent the same list to Rebecca on Monday and haven’t heard anything other than a phone call. She’s reviewing the gifts.”

  “Keep me informed when you hear from her.”

  “Will do. Any progress on the finances of Scooter, Bill, or Rebecca?” Quinn figured they were a logical starting point for unusual financial transactions in their personal bank accounts, especially Bill. As vice president for development, he should have known about the gift from the get-go and had plenty of time to plan how to steal it.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve discovered, and then we can compare notes.” He popped a grin.

  “Not much actually.” She might as well show him she was fully cooperating. “I think Rebecca rents or leases a townhouse or apartment not far from the university and Bill owns a house in the Heights.”

  “What about Scooter?”

  “The appraised value of his house is close to a million dollars. I don’t understand how he can afford it based on his salary from HCU. But then again, I have no knowledge of his tax situation and other sources of income.” She tilted her head. “But I bet you know all about his tax return.”

  “Right you are. Rebecca rents and pays her bills on time. Bill is frugal and also pays his bills on time.” Roddy shrugged. “Not much to suggest a motive for stealing millions.”

  Damn. Why were they both such good credit risks? “What about Scooter?”

  “I agree his house seems out of line with his income. We’ll look into whether he’s having financial problems.”

  “Being in debt doesn’t make him a thief.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” Roddy finished the latte, wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “We’ll wait to make conclusions until we have all the facts.”

  “Understood.” She saluted him. “Change of subject. Do you think First National could be negligent due to an outdated computer system?”

  “Where’d you get that idea?”

  “Thinking outside the box.”

  “Let’s not make any assumptions until the techie guys file their report.” His cell phone rang. He listened for a moment before stowing it back in his shirt pocket.

  “Gotta go. I’ll let you know when I hear back from the FBI.” He stood and stretched his arms to the ceiling. “In the meantime, give some thought to your other coworkers.”

  “Like anyone who might have a grudge against the university?”

  “Yep, that’s the idea. Anyone whose demeanor has changed in the last year, isn’t as friendly, or is more difficult to work with. You get the picture.” He pushed the chair toward the table. “I’ll see ya later.”

  She called out to his retreating back. “Hey, you owe me for the latte.”

  He responded with a back-handed wave and continued to thread his way among the tables to the exit. He pulled out his cell and stopped walking. After a few seconds, he turned his gaze in Quinn’s direction. He shut the phone, walked back to her.

  “You forget something, like paying for your coffee?”

  “No, but we do have a new development.” Roddy’s mouth had a weird twist. “Bill Jenkins was found dead this morning with a knife in his chest.”

  What? Bill … dead. She sucked in air, digesting the information Roddy had just relayed. She shuddered. My god, a knife in his chest. The mental picture freaked her out.

  Roddy departed immediately after dropping the bomb. She couldn’t get her mind around it — Bill Jenkins, dead. He was the first person she knew who had been murdered. It seemed so grisly and repulsive to imagine Bill dying that way. It was one thing to watch a television cop show with
a gruesome murder and quite another to have worked with a truly nice man who departed this world as a homicide victim.

  Why had Bill been killed and by whom? Was it related to the HCU theft? Her gut screamed the murder was definitely related. The timing was too damned coincidental. He was such a regular guy and a harmless flirt. What a waste of a life.

  Quinn trudged out of Starbucks and headed toward Hermann Park and the one o’clock meeting with Dr. Arnold. She’d be early and take a few minutes to relax in the sunshine. She called Scooter as soon as she headed north on the freeway.

  “It’s Quinn, I heard about Bill.”

  “Thanks for calling. Bill’s death is quite the turn of events. How did you hear about it?” Scooter’s voice was calm and soothing, a contrast to the obvious stress of last Friday.

  “Detective Phillips told me. Do you know who found him? Where was his body found?”

  “Sarah found him.” She had been Bill’s assistant for years. “He didn’t come to work on Tuesday or today so she got curious when he didn’t answer his home phone. She went to his house this morning and let herself in. He was in the living room, lying on the floor. She immediately called nine-one-one.”

  “That’s terrible. Is Sarah okay?” Even imagining that picture of Bill sent a bolt of shivers along her spine.

  “She went home after talking with the police. Her husband is with her. Dr. Arnold plans to stop by this evening.”

  “I’m glad she’s not alone,” Quinn said.

  “Me, too. More bad publicity.” Scooter sighed. “It’s hard to believe someone we know would kill Bill. Do you think he knew something about the stolen money?”

  “I suppose it’s possible. Hard to believe it though.” Surprise flooded through her like a spring rain. She and Scooter almost had a consensus for a change. “There’s something else. Did you read the email I sent to Rebecca this morning?”

  “The one about gifts without matching deposits?”

  “That’s the one.” Her stomach growled. The coffee didn’t substitute for lunch. “I visited Jack Franks yesterday, the donor of the largest gift. He gave me a copy of his cancelled check and I gave it to Detective Phillips. It was deposited at a bank in the Cayman Islands.”