“Hey.” Logan waved a hand in front of her face. “Are you awake or asleep with your eyes open?”
“I'm here.” She laughed and it felt good. “Sorry, my mind took off for a moment. Thanks for the breakfast.”
“You're welcome. Perhaps we can do it again when I'm not rushed for time.” He checked his watch. “I have an appointment at the office in less than an hour.”
“That would be nice. Breakfast I mean.”
“Count on it. What are your plans for today?” He shoved his plate in the sink and ran water over it.
“Decide what to do next.” She added her nearly full plate to the sink.
He moved next to her. “Don't forget those words on the mirror. My theory is that you've rattled the thief and he's trying to scare you off.”
Quinn chewed her lower lip. “That's not going to happen. This is personal now.” She swallowed hard, tamping down her anger. “Whoever did this doesn't know me very well. Screwing with my personal life doesn't scare me off, it pisses me off.”
Logan nodded. “You should be pissed.”
Before she could reply, he moved a step closer, his blue eyes bored into hers. She broke the contact first; his body was too close. She pulled back and he moved with her. He placed his hands on her shoulders, gently pulling her to him. Then his lips touched hers.
A spicy tingle slipped down her spine while her heart threatened to explode, unaccustomed to the current activity involving her tongue. Logan was one good kisser. He pulled away then straightened his tie.
“I need to get going. Let's have dinner tonight. There are a couple of things I need to check out, then we can talk more about the theft. I'll call you this afternoon.” He picked up his briefcase and suit coat. “A house key is by the phone and I've called a taxi service to take you home. They'll be here in an hour.”
“Thanks for everything.” She waved as he left. What was that? One minute he was kissing her like a long-lost lover and the next minute he was Mr. Businessman. Men were so weird.
She refilled her cup and sat at the counter, her head heavy with stress. Too much had happened in the past twenty-four hours, the past seven days. Frustration, no, anger washed over her.
She pulled out her cell phone to try Roddy and moved to the window. He answered.
“It's Quinn. My house was broken into last night.”
“What!”
“That's right, and the asshole who broke in left a sweet note for me scribbled on my bathroom mirror â âBack off bitch or you'll be sorry.'”
“Did the Sugar Land police answer the call?”
“Yep.” She glanced out the kitchen window. Sunlight penetrated the dreary blanket of clouds.
“Good, I'll give them a call. Were you hurt?” he said.
“No, I wasn't there when the jerk broke in. By the way, why haven't you returned my calls?”
“My mother had surgery yesterday, I've been with her.”
“I hope she's okay,” she said. “Sorry I gave you a hard time.”
“She's fine and no problem. Have you heard from the Sugar Land police this morning?”
“Not a word. Have you heard from your friend at the FBI?”
“Not yet, but I'm hoping today is the day.”
She heard a voice in the background.
“Gotta go,” Roddy said.
Quinn pulled a small notebook and pen from her purse and returned to the counter. The simplest story was that a HCU employee committed the theft for reasons unknown and more than likely killed Bill because he knew too much.
She didn't have a shred of proof to support her assumptions. Clicking the pen, she made a decision. Even though she had no proof, she'd assume the thief was associated with HCU. She'd stick with that until she uncovered something else, or the truth.
Quinn prayed Nana's lessons and her ability to transform a difficult situation into a learning experience would guide her to uncovering the identity of the thief.
She checked her watch. Time to inform Scooter about last night's break-in. She called his office and Ellie answered.
“It's Quinn. How's everything going?”
“How's it going with you? Scooter said you've been busy on your vacation.”
“I've talked to the police a few times and I'm doing my best to help. Is Scooter around?”
“No, he left on a trip today,” Ellie said.
“What trip?” He didn't have a trip scheduled on the calendar. How could he leave in the midst of a crisis? “Where did he go? When will he be back?”
“I know, I thought it was strange, too. He flew to Las Vegas, said it was a family thing that had been planned for a while.”
Yeah, right. “What hotel in Vegas?”
“The Grand Resort and Casino,” Ellie replied. “If you're calling him, wait until later in the day. His flight is at noon.”
“Will do. Do you know if Rebecca Holland is out sick today?”
“Yes, she is. I had a question for her earlier and Daniel said she's still ill.” They ended the call.
A few minutes later, the taxi arrived and dropped her at her townhouse, where Quinn jumped in the Volvo and backed down the driveway. A face-to-face conversation with Rebecca should clear up any question of her involvement. She found her home address in the campus directory. It was close to HCU and easy to find. Traffic was light on the freeway so she arrived in twenty minutes.
Rebecca lived in one of those large old houses divided into apartments. Trees and overgrown shrubs surrounded it. Her apartment was on the bottom floor with the entrance on the left side of the house. A brick path bordered by lush white hibiscus led to the door.
Quinn rang the doorbell, waited a moment, pushed the button again. Hopefully, Rebecca wasn't so ill she couldn't come to the door. Three newspapers were strewn over the front step. She knocked on the door. Still no answer.
The glare of a large window to the right of the door caught her attention. It was covered with sheers so she scrunched her face against the glass, shielding her eyes with her hands. She had a good view of the living room. Papers, books, and pillows were scattered over the floor. A lamp sat askew on the sofa and an overturned potted plant rested on an area rug.
This couldn't be good. Had Rebecca been hurt or even killed like Bill?
She raced back to the door and pounded on it, then rang the bell again. No answer. Should she call the police? She tried the doorknob and it turned. What idiot left their home unlocked in Houston? She didn't know if stepping into someone's house without being invited was breaking and entering but she took the plunge. Rebecca could be in trouble.
She shut the door quickly behind her and gazed around the front room. It was devoid of human spirit, as if the air had been sucked out.
“Rebecca, are you home?” Quinn yelled. No answer. “This can't be good,” she mumbled and started to search the apartment. She called out Rebecca's name as she moved from room to room. It was a quick tour. She concluded Rebecca wasn't dead, merely not at home. She hadn't been there for two to three days based on the newspapers stacked on the front step along with the musty smell.
Yet she'd been calling HCU reporting in sick since Tuesday. She obviously wanted to give the impression she was in Houston. The twit had left in a hurry based on the condition of the living room and the unlocked front door.
Quinn spied a small table and a computer in the corner of the dining room â the perfect place to start snooping. She wondered about jail time for a first B and E while the computer fired up. Maybe Roddy could convince the judge to be lenient on her. After all, she was acting on behalf of her employer.
Once the start page settled down, she reviewed the desktop icons, and saw nothing unusual. She performed a document search on the hard drive, came up with zilch. Even the recycle bin was empty. If Rebecca had used the computer to plan the theft she had done an excellent job of erasing evidence of it. What was next? TV cops always did a search of the premises. Quinn realized her chance of discovering any proof was minuscule.
As she reached to turn of the computer, her eye caught the mail icon. She hadn't looked at an email account. She clicked on the button. The user name and password were stored with the program so she had no problem opening it. There were only a handful of messages in the in-box and one was from United Airlines.
The message was a flight confirmation for a seven
A.M.
flight from Houston Bush to San Francisco this past Tuesday, then a second flight to Las Vegas yesterday afternoon. This was a one-way ticket. The date of the email was early April.
What did this mean? Number one, Rebecca had lied about being ill. Number two, she had been in Houston when Bill was killed. And number three, numbers one and two had moved her to the top of Quinn's inventory of suspects. She froze, a chill slid down her spine. This could be the beginning of the end.
Apparently, Rebecca had plans. Quinn should call Roddy and tell him everything she'd just learned. That was the smart thing to do. But dammit, Rebecca had been dishonest to everyone and she shouldn't be allowed to get away with it. Quinn thought about those nasty words on her mirror. She fisted her hands. Discovering the identity of the thief was personal now. It was her duty as the HCU point person to follow Rebecca to Las Vegas.
Thursday, 1:16
P.M.
The last hour had been a whirlwind. Once she decided to fly to Las Vegas, Quinn called Logan. Why she thought of him rather than Nana or the twins was a mystery. However, she didn't call Roddy for fear of him throwing her in jail for breaking into Rebecca's house.
Once Quinn informed Logan of her plan, he arranged to accompany her on the Bridge Foundation/RBI corporate jet. Why the hell not? She agreed to meet him at Hull Airport in Sugar Land and rushed back to the townhouse to pack and rummage around for her sanity.
Packing a suitcase was one of her least favorite activities â right up there with going to the dentist and taking down Christmas decorations. She didn't have time to think logically about her outfits so she threw in jeans, shorts, slacks, tops, a couple of sundresses and a cocktail dress, in case the need might arise. She bumped the suitcase down the stairs and stowed it in the Volvo's trunk.
Heading north on Highway 6 to the airport, she called Dr. Arnold on her cell, hoping he wouldn't answer. No such luck.
“Good to hear from you.”
“You told me to keep you informed of my activities.” Quinn realized her voice sounded rushed so she slowed down. “I'm reporting in.”
“Good, what's new?”
“I'm not sure if this means anything ⦠but Rebecca has been calling in sick since Tuesday and I believe she's flown to Las Vegas.”
“That doesn't sound like Rebecca. What does her misrepresenting her absence from the office have to do with the missing funds? Surely, you don't suspect her?”
That was exactly what Quinn thought. It had been rolling around in her head for the past two days and erupted with the flight confirmation. She didn't know if Rebecca possessed the skill to steal $25 million dollars or to possibly kill Bill, but she intended to find out.
“Dr. Arnold, I don't know who's responsible at this point. The police haven't turned up any suspects. I wanted you to know I'm flying to Las Vegas. I intend to find Rebecca and talk with her.”
“Are you sure that's necessary?” Impatience frosted his words.
“I do think it's necessary. Scooter is flying there this afternoon, too. Maybe it's a coincidence, but don't you find it odd?” Personally, she thought it beyond strange.
“I suppose it is a bit unusual.” She heard Dr. Arnold's sigh. “Consider yourself on official University business, not vacation time. I expect to hear from you twice a day. If you don't discover worthwhile information within two days, come home.”
“That's fair. I'll call you once I'm settled this evening.”
As she drove, Quinn acknowledged that flying off to Nevada was impulsive. She was leaving Houston without a defined action plan and that made her nervous. She wasn't good at winging it. And, concluding Rebecca was the guilty party, even though she'd been lying about being sick, was a gigantic leap in logic. But the timing came under the heading of “Too Damned Coincidental.”
She arrived at the airport, parked, pulled out the suitcase and headed for the one-story terminal building. Once inside, she glanced around the lobby and spied an information desk tucked in a corner. A teenaged boy with headphones glued to his head stood behind the counter. He bopped and weaved to the music pouring into his head.
“Excuse me.” She waved her arms. “Excuse me.”
He looked at her.
“I need to find a plane,” she shouted.
“Gee lady, ya don't haft ta yell.” He wrapped the headphones around his neck. “What plane?”
“It belongs to the Bridge Foundation.”
“The what? The Street Foundation?” He riffled through papers on a clipboard.
“No, the Bridge Foundation.”
He glanced up and grinned. Was every teenager a wiseacre?
“Can you tell me what hangar it's in?” She was wasting time.
“Sure, it's in F-20. There's a black SUV out the door to take you over. Any other questions?” The headphones were back in place before she could answer.
Quinn turned around and headed for a door in the back. The kid was right; the ride waited for her outside the terminal. A driver introduced himself and ushered her to the back seat. They skated along the edge of the tarmac to a collection of metal hangars. Many of the wide doors were open with planes perched in front.
They drove around the side of a light-blue hangar and finally she saw Logan, ambling down the steps of a gleaming silver plane. The SUV parked at its steps and she emerged.
“Quinn, you're right on time.” He kissed her cheek. “We're ready to leave, so let's get on board.” He picked up her bag and she followed him up the stairs.