Logan and Quinn entered the Grand's main lobby at ten o'clock. Hotel guests waited in line at the reception desk and milled around the massive lobby. She imagined they were fighting the urge to visit the ATM machine located next to the casino entrance.
She expected Mr. McKenzie to come through the revolving glass doors at any moment. Someone behind them called Logan's name. They turned together.
“Mr. Rice, Logan Rice?”
“Yes,” Logan said.
“Good, I'm J.W. McKenzie.”
Shock silenced both Logan and Quinn. He started to speak then stopped. The private investigator they hoped to hire was not the male they assumed, but a woman, a hot-looking young woman. She was tall and dressed in black leather jeans and jacket, with a pink T-shirt. Her blonde hair was pulled back from her face. Blue eyes gazed steadily at Logan.
This was the PI?
“Ms. McKenzie, I'm Quinn Wells.” She offered her hand. “I'm the one who will be hiring you. Mr. Rice is here as an interested party.”
“Nice to meet you, Quinn; you too, Mr. Rice.” She waved her hand toward the casino. “Let's get a cup of coffee at the North Edge. It's quiet this time of day.”
Logan and Quinn exchanged a “why not” look and followed her around the backside of the casino toward the bar. A bartender at the long sleek bar saluted them as they settled at a small table. J.W. moved to the bar to order the coffee. She returned shortly carrying a tray with three oversized mugs.
“This is my special recipe.” She emptied the tray. “Enjoy.”
Quinn tasted the brew. “This is good. What's the liquor?”
“That's a secret my dear mama made me promise never to reveal.” J.W.'s lips curved.
“You're not what we expected,” Logan said.
“Really?” She laughed. “Is that because I'm young or because I'm young and blonde?”
“Actually, it's neither,” Quinn said. “We incorrectly assumed J.W. McKenzie was a Mr. McKenzie. But that's not important. We need your help to locate someone here in Las Vegas.”
“First, tell me why you want to find this person.” J.W. pulled a pen and notebook from a leather backpack.
Quinn stole a glance at Logan. He winked and nodded. Her hands shook a bit so she clasped them in her lap. Telling a complete stranger her suspicions about Rebecca made them more real and more ridiculous.
“I assume you hear plenty of crazy stories in your profession.” Quinn placed her hands on the table. “What I'm about to tell you isn't one of those crazy stories.” She took a deep breath. “I believe a coworker stole $25 million dollars from our employer, Houston Cullen University. I believe she's in Las Vegas right now.”
“Let's start at the beginning.” J.W. studied Quinn, her face neutral. “Tell me about the theft.”
Quinn hesitated; it was becoming a habit. Should she tell J.W. the whole story or the edited version?
“I must clarify something.” Quinn had to understand the rules. “Everything we tell you is in total confidence, right?”
“Yes.” J.W. nodded at her, looked at Logan. “What you say to me goes no further than the three of us unless you give me the authority to share the information.”
“Fair enough,” Quinn said, relieved at the authority in J.W.'s voice. “Logan, are you okay with this?”
“We need J.W.'s help. Go for it.”
The accountant in Quinn kicked in and she started at the beginning, one week ago. Accountants are both detail- and process-oriented so naturally she enlightened J.W. with the most important details in chronological order. It was a gift.
Logan chimed in to explain the Bridge Foundation's rationale for donating the money, highlighting his grandmother's role in the initial request.
Quinn finished her monologue with last night's chase after Scooter.
J.W. wrote in her notebook, then looked around the bar. A group of men had settled at a corner table. They were laughing, high-fiving, and order pitchers of beer.
“We love our tourists.” J.W. chuckled. “Who do you want me to locate â Rebecca, Scooter, or both?”
“J.W., would you mind if I speak to Logan for a moment?”
“No problem. I'll be back in a couple of minutes.” J.W. strolled out of the bar in the direction of the restrooms. She gave the beer drinkers a wide smile as she passed their table. They howled and slapped each other on the back.
Men are so easy.
“Should I hire her to find both of them or just Rebecca? I haven't even considered how I'll pay her. I need to call Dr. Arnold.”
Logan placed a hand over Quinn's on the table. “First, I think
we
should hire J.W. to locate both Scooter and Rebecca. Second, the Bridge Foundation will take care of J.W.'s costs. It's the least we can do considering what you're doing on behalf of the university.”
“Fine, and thanks,” she said. “As long as Dr. Arnold agrees.”
She found her cell and discovered it was turned off. Once it found a signal, she discovered four messages. They'd have to wait as Dr. Arnold had priority. He answered on the first ring.
“It's Quinn. I have something to discuss with you.”
“Of course. Have you seen Scooter?”
She watched Logan wander into the casino. He sat at a random slot machine, fed in a bill. She swallowed, realized he was giving her privacy. Complete honesty was her only choice with Dr. Arnold. She explained about Scooter not having a reservation at the Grand, and seeing him at the Bellagio.
“I don't understand why he acted like that.”
“I think I do.” Dr. Arnold's tone was solemn. “Over the past year or so, Scooter has changed and I have a good idea why. But anything is possible at this point.”
It was clear Dr. Arnold withheld information from her and that was the way it should be since Scooter was her direct supervisor. She didn't need to know everything.
“The real reason I called is to ask a question. Logan Rice and I talked to a private investigator this morning. Should she pursue Rebecca only or for Scooter as well.”
“Good idea. Tell her to search for both of them,” Dr. Arnold said.
“Thanks. Also, Logan says the Bridge Foundation will pick up the cost for hiring the PI.”
“Tell him thanks, but no. We're in this together and the university will pay its share. Give me a call when you have news.”
She clicked off then listened to her phone messages â Jane and Liz wanted her home, Ruthie had wonderful news, and Lynne Jenkins had a progress report from the bank. Neither J.W. or Logan had wandered back, so she called Lynne.
“You have good news for me?”
“Yes and no. We know the virus that changed the wire instructions was attached to an email and the sending server was HCU.”
“Excellent.” Quinn crossed her fingers, hoping Lynne wouldn't say the sending email address was hers. It would be another manufactured piece of evidence like the Gregory James email.
“Don't get too excited. The virus also erased the sending address along with the ISP address. Bottom-line, we can't determine the specific computer at the University that sent the email. That's it. We can't go any further unless our IT group works magic on the server. The good news is that we know the wire was rerouted to a bank in the Cayman Islands. I've already given the information to the police and the FBI.”
“That's great progress.” Relief washed over Quinn. Lynne's news verified Quinn's theory of the missing gifts being related to the theft. Yet the guilt from withholding the false email, bubbled over the relief. “Did you talk to Roddy?”
“Yes, and he didn't seem surprised by the Caymans bank. We're meeting for a drink.”
“Tell Roddy I'll call as soon as something turns up here, and thanks.”
Logan returned to the table along with J.W..
Quinn turned to J.W.. “Logan and I are hiring you together. We'd like you to search for both Rebecca and Scooter.” She removed the campus directory from her purse. “Photos are in here. What else do you need?”
“This is a good start. I'll make copies at the front desk and then circulate the pictures to all hotels, restaurants, taxis and so on. We have a good network here. Do you have their social security numbers?”
“You'd better contact Dr. Arnold for that.” She wrote his phone number on a napkin. “Do you check credit card records?”
“We retrieve information in a variety of ways,” J.W. said.
“Everything is legal, right?” Quinn asked.
“Nothing for you to worry about,” J.W. replied. “I need your phone numbers.” She wrote them in her notebook and handed out business cards. “Call me if you think of anything else. I'll make those copies now.” She stood and slung the backpack over her shoulder. “Be back in five minutes.” She walked toward the lobby.
Logan and Quinn looked at each other.
“That was easy,” he said. “What do you want to do now?”
“I'm going to call Scooter's wife. Maybe she knows where he's staying.”
“Why wouldn't she be here with him?”
“Let's just say I'm curious.” She found Scooter's home number on her phone's contact list.
“May I speak to Mrs. Taylor?”
“This is she.”
“Hi, Mrs. Taylor, this is Quinn Wells from HCU.”
“Yes, Quinn, how are you? I hope you had a bite of the Easter cake I sent to the office.”
“I'm just fine and the cake was delicious,” Quinn said. “I need to talk to Scooter. I hope you can give me the name of the hotel where he's staying in Las Vegas.”
“Of course, dear. It's the Grand Resort. He's attending one of those accounting conferences he attends every year.”
“Right,” Quinn said. She had no knowledge of any conference.
“He called last night and said he's staying over the weekend. One of his college roommates is there as well and they plan to play golf.”
“Did he give you a phone number there?” Quinn asked.
“No. Call his cell phone if you need to reach him. Here's the number.” She rattled off an unfamiliar number. Quinn grabbed a pen and a napkin.
J.W. returned and handed the campus directory to Quinn. “I'll talk to you guys this evening.” She disappeared into the casino.
Quinn watched her walk away and felt good about their decision to hire her. She raised a finger to Logan. “I need to make one more call.”
She dialed Scooter's cell number. No answer. Her stomach assumed that sinking feeling she remembered from a carnival ride that dropped a hundred feet in seconds. Scooter had lied to his wife and to Ellie and Quinn. It made no sense that he'd be so dishonest. It dawned on Quinn that she didn't know her boss at all.
He had to be up to something. She prayed it wasn't the HCU theft.
“Logan, we have work to do.”
“That's why we hired a private investigator.”
“Yes, we did. She's helping us, not replacing us. I can't sit at a blackjack table and pretend the next hand is all I care about. I need to do something.” She pounded a soft fist on the table.
“Okay, all right.” He raised his hands in mock surrender. “What's the next step?”
“We walk the Strip,” she said. “I think better when I'm moving.”
“Let's go then.” Logan stood and pulled back her chair, always the gentleman.
They strolled through the casino, following the green carpet path along the edge of tables and machines. Gamblers were already sitting at slot machines. After a few minutes, they exited air conditioning and entered the hot, exhaust-fumed air on the sidewalk. Quinn settled sunglasses on her nose.
“Let's stroll.” She took Logan's arm then realized she had automatically attached herself to him and stepped away. She put the sidewalk between them, swept an arm from left to right in front of her. “You watch on the left and I'll concentrate to the right. Remember, look for both of them.”
They walked in silence for a long block past the Showcase Mall featuring M & M's World and the World of Coca-Cola, too sweet for her taste, too pedestrian for Rebecca. Logan seemed awfully quiet.
“What's wrong? Don't you like surveillance work?”
“Nothing's wrong,” he said.
“Sure?”
“Nothing's wrong.” He grabbed her hand. “Come on, Planet Hollywood is a couple of blocks down. We can walk through it for more surveillance.”
After forty-five minutes of walking up and down, over and around rows of slot machines, craps tables, and blackjack tables, searching for a glimpse of two people, she was pooped. Logan hadn't said much, being intent on the surveillance and all.
They glanced at each other next to a penguin penny machine. She nodded and they exited the casino through the nearest door. Back on the Strip, she spied the replica of the Eiffel Tower at the Paris Casino. Perfect. They set off for another long walk.
A hotdog cart sat near the casino entrance under a wide green umbrella with a couple of tables.
“How about a hotdog?” Quinn said. “I'm kinda hungry.”
“Good idea. What would you like?”
Logan stood in line for their lunch while Quinn grabbed a table. The day was glorious â bright sun, blue skies, and toasty. The dancing fountains at the Bellagio across the Strip began their first show of the day. She felt good, other than wondering what was up with Logan. He sure seemed moody.
Quinn sat back and watched Logan approach the table. Butterflies raced through her gut. He made her nervous. Granted, he was attractive, polite, and fun, but they came from opposite social groups. He had been born in money and she had yet to get serious about her retirement planning. She brushed off her musings as Logan set a tray on the table.
“Here's lunch.”
“Looks good.” She swirled a French fry in ketchup. “I was just thinking. Seven days ago I planned on a vodka martini at happy hour and now I'm in Las Vegas searching for a coworker who I believe is a thief and I'm questioning the integrity of my boss. What a crazy week.”