“Agreed. But look on the bright side.”
“There's a bright side?”
“Definitely.” His lips twitched then he chuckled. “You met me.”
Good point. If the Bridge foundation donation hadn't been stolen, she wouldn't have walked into his office with a fistful of questions. The world does work in mysterious ways but this was a stretch, for any single lady, to meet a man. More important though, was that damned email. She made her decision.
“Yes, I did meet you.” And that made her happy. “I have something to tell you.”
He sighed.
Quinn placed her hand on his, then withdrew it quickly. The contact increased her anxiety.
“Tell me,” he said, his voice soft and measured. “What is it?”
She pressed her lips together, dug in her purse and removed the Gregory James message from her wallet. She unfolded the paper and pushed it across the table.
“Read this,” she whispered.
His brow furrowed as he retrieved the paper. “What's this?”
Quinn stared at him with wide, thick-lashed eyes. She licked her lips then said. “It's not true. I didn't change the wire instructions. That email is a fake.”
Logan's attention returned to the paper, surveying it closer. “You're right, it's fake.”
She flinched at his statement. “How can you say that so easily?”
Logan smiled. “Did you notice the sending address?”
She shook her head.
“You should have. The message isn't from Gregory James. Someone is trying to freak you out.”
“They did a damn good job.”
“Did you mention this to Detective Phillips?”
She fiddled with a napkin. “No, I didn't tell him and I feel guilty as hell. I, uh ⦠.”
“Why?”
Anger flashed in her eyes. “Because, dammit, he'd consider me a suspect and then I couldn't look for the real thief.”
$ $ $
Logan's initial distrust of Quinn evaporated into the Nevada air. He'd heard earlier from Billy and the report from their private investigator came back clean. This admission proved to him she had nothing to do with the theft. It seemed strange though that she didn't know about the gift.
“We need to tell Roddy so he can check out of the sender of the email.”
“I hadn't considered that,” she said.
“I'll give him a call later. I do have a question.” Logan figured she'd have a surprising answer. “Why didn't you know about the gift transfer?”
“Scooter is a lousy communicator and development loves to play with me. They know I make sure gifts get to the right bank account so on large ones, they don't tell me until the last minute. It's just a stupid game.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Girls don't always play nice with other girls.”
He laughed as he deposited the remains of their meal in a nearby trash can.
“What's next?” he said. “Want to gamble a bit?”
“I doubt I'd have any luck.”
“The more you play, the better chance you have of winning.”
“I disagree. It's nothing more than chance, aka luck.”
“I concede on slots,” he said. “But surely you agree skill is involved in, say, blackjack?”
“Sure, the key is counting cards and a dealer can spot a card counter a mile away. You might win big and get thrown off the table.” She stood, stretched out her arms. “I don't have enough experience at tracking cards.”
“But you're an accountant.”
“Who said accountants are good at math?”
Logan appreciated Quinn's sense of humor and quick wit. So different from the women he usually dated. “You could try your hand at a poker table.”
A look of panic flew across her face. “Uh, no, that would take time away from our mission of locating Rebecca”
“You're right. Let's check out the casino.”
They entered the Paris casino and stopped to watch a slots tournament in progress. A square, created by rows of slot machines, contained players pounding the spin buttons as fast as possible. A DJ encouraged the contestants to “spin, baby, spin.” A couple of blue-jacketed casino employees walked the rows of machines, apparently to verify that bionic hands weren't hitting the button. Quinn stopped walking and watched the tournament with narrowed eyes.
She leaned over to him, whispered in his ear. “Look at the woman sitting at the end of the last row.” She pointed to the last row of slots. “Doesn't she look like Rebecca?”
Friday, 1:32
P.M.
Logan nodded after following Quinn's gaze across the rows of slot machines. He motioned with a pointed finger for her to head to the right and he'd go around the left side of the roped-off machines. They set off in opposite directions along the perimeter of the tournament.
As she walked, Quinn's eyes drilled into the blonde, whose head stayed down. Unfortunately, she failed to notice a cocktail waitress carrying a tray of drinks and ran smack into her. Wine, beer, and plastic cups rained down. The tray rolled along the carpet and clattered against the stool of a tournament player. He barely glanced at the commotion.
“I'm so sorry,” Quinn whispered.
She scooped up cups leaking on the carpet and trotted after the tray. Once it was retrieved, she turned back and witnessed a small crowd gathered around the waitress.
“Are you okay?” she asked the young woman. “I'm usually not so clumsy.”
“No problem, ma'am.” The woman reclaimed the tray and cups from Quinn's hands. “This happens once a week.” She moved through the crowd and disappeared around a corner.
Quinn did her best to shrug off the incident â humiliating to disrupt the delivery of free drinks. She moved along the outside of the tournament and scanned the area where she last saw the Rebecca look-alike.
The stool was empty. Dammit.
She ran toward it and collided with Logan. Her heart galloped. “Did you see her leave?”
“No. I was watching you and the tray of exploding drinks.”
“Wonderful, just wonderful. Our timing stinks.”
“You do have a gift for running into liquids,” he said.
She rolled her eyes and swallowed a smart response â
play nice
. They began to question people standing next to the ropes. No one had noticed a blonde slip under them due to the drink fiasco. The DJ declared a five-minute break. Players stood, stretched their arms and wiggled their fingers. She didn't envy their stiff fingers or the stress.
A casino blue-coat moved past them.
“Sir, sir,” Quinn said, hurrying after him. “May I ask you a question?”
“Sure, but the tournament is closed.” He looked about twenty-five with a sexy grin.
“I think I saw an old friend who taught my daughter kindergarten. She moved away and we lost touch. She was sitting at that stool.” Quinn pointed to the look-a-like's stool. “Do you have a list of players I could look at so I'd know for sure it was her?”
“Ma'am, that's not information we normally share with our guests.” He planted himself in front of her, spread his legs, and moved his arms and a clipboard to his back.
“Please. It would mean so much to me.” Logan appeared at Quinn's side, she hugged his arm. “Honey, tell him how upsetting this is to me.”
“She's been a little, you know.” He lowered his voice, “Hormonal if you know what I mean.”
“I understand, sir.” The blue-coat grinned. “I have three sisters. What's the name?” He pulled the clipboard from behind his back.
“Rebecca Holland. But she may have gotten married,” Quinn said.
“Let's see,” he mumbled as he scanned a paper. “No Rebecca.”
What was the name on the Cayman bank account?
She snapped her fingers. “Holly? Her nickname was Holly.”
The blue-coat reviewed the paper again. “There is a Holly. But the last name is Barry. Sorry, it's not your friend. Enjoy your stay at the Paris Casino.” He melted between rows of slots.
Why would the woman leave during the break? She'd be disqualified. Maybe she went to the restroom, or was hungry, or recognized her coworker from the finance office.
Quinn turned to Logan, pushed him gently forward. “Let's go. We need to check the casino floor. She might still be here.”
They spent the next half hour trekking through the rows of slots and gambling tables, staring at women with blonde hair. Quinn checked every stall in three ladies' rooms surrounding the casino area then stamped her feet in frustration. The Rebecca clone had disappeared.
Unconvinced, they circled the casino again. The crowds had increased along with the noise level. The only item of interest was an ant-sized woman jumping next to a silver Mercedes Benz. The orange light on a slot machine sliced through the crowd engulfing her and reminding gamblers that jackpots were real.
Their search culminated along a row of dollar slot machines.
“She's not here.” Logan flashed a lop-sided grin. “Let's regroup and mull over our next move.”
“You're right, let's mull.” She plopped on the stool of the nearest machine and considered why Rebecca had ventured to Las Vegas in the first place. Gambling, shows, hanging out at a pool?
“What's next?”
“I've been considering why Rebecca came to Las Vegas in the first place.” She frowned. “There has to be something worth the risk for her to come here.”
“I agree.” Logan leaned against a Blue Diamond machine. “Maybe she was meeting someone. Surely she wouldn't travel commercially without having a very good reason.”
“Or ⦠she wanted to flaunt it.” Quinn warmed up to that. “By not simply disappearing to say, Mexico or Japan, she's showing how smart she is and that she's not afraid of getting caught.” Her enthusiasm for the theory grew. “Maybe she's playing a game with us.”
“Not likely. She doesn't know we're looking for her.”
“But she knows I'm working with the police on behalf of HCU. I told her that last Monday. If she is the slots blonde, then she knows I'm in Vegas.”
Logan rubbed his chin with nicely manicured fingers. “If I suddenly had unlimited funds ⦠. ”
She chuckled at that comment.
“⦠I'd probably do some serious shopping. Human nature, don't you think?”
“Now you're talking. What would you buy?”
“Probably a very large boat or a fully loaded SUV.”
Was he a guy's guy or what? “Very nice, Logan.” She leaned toward him. “But Rebecca's a sweet Southern girl. I can't see her driving around in a Hummer.”
“Good point,” he said.
She leaned back in the stool, imagining a credit card without a dollar limit. “I'd shop for chunky diamond earrings, a very fancy handbag, and Chanel sunglasses. And those cute girly shoes, Jimmy Choo.”
Logan rose. “Okay, I'm convinced.” He held a hand out. “Let's go shopping.”
When a man says he wants to go shopping, Quinn wasn't one to dilly-dally. They exited the casino back to Las Vegas Boulevard.
Logan led the way. “Since the Bellagio is across the street and has high-end stores, let's start there. We'll ask if any of the clerks have seen her.”
They crossed the street via the overhead walkway and entered the hotel shops through the same set of doors as last night. Quinn stopped a few feet inside to get her bearings. Logan bumped against her and she skipped to the side, the less contact with him, the better. He was starting to grow on her, especially after declaring the fake email a fraud.
Her eyes turned away from his chest and she considered the high-end stores where Rebecca might celebrate her new riches. Hmm, what would Rebecca buy first? Something extravagant but not too-over-the-top. Quinn snapped her fingers â Rebecca wore a scarf nearly every time Quinn had seen her on campus. And, who was famous for beautiful scarves?
A minute later, they entered the Hermes store. A solitary customer browsed the rich leather handbags and wallets, and colorful scarves elegantly arranged on glass shelves. Price tags were discreetly out of sight. A salesclerk busied herself behind a counter and that was where they headed.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“Yes.” Quinn dug in her purse for the HCU directory, opened it to the picture of Rebecca, and placed it on the glass counter. “We're looking for this woman. Have you seen her?”
“Why?” The salesclerk looked first at Quinn, then Logan. She smiled.
“She's my sister. Left her groom at the alter a couple days ago in Des Moines. We need to make sure she's okay.”
Discreet laughter bubbled from the clerk.
“What's the joke?” Quinn said.
“Sorry.” The clerk rubbed her tongue over her lips. “No joke. This woman was in here yesterday and didn't seem the least bit unhappy.”
“Why's that?” Logan said.
“She bought one of our new Birkin handbags.”
Bingo. “Which one?” Quinn asked.
“A black leather tote with diamonds on the closure and studs on the straps. It's part of our spring collection.”
“Was it expensive?” he asked.
Logan obviously knew nothing about Hermes.
The salesclerk brightened. “Yes sir, well over $100,000 dollars.”
Quinn's not too-over-the-top theory evaporated. She imagined the gears in Logan's head crunching to a stop.
“For ⦠a ⦠purse?” he sputtered.
Definitely a sticker-shock moment. Quinn patted his hand then got down to business and convinced the clerk to give her all the information the store had on the buyer. Initially, she wasn't too keen on the idea. But Logan's look of disbelief instigated the “be helpful to strangers” button.
The saleslady explained the buyer's name was Rebecca Holland and she paid for the purchase by credit card around 4:00
P.M.
yesterday. That was all. The clerk didn't know the name of Rebecca's hotel or much else. Apparently, Rebecca wasn't a Chatty Cathy while shopping. She just wanted the damned purse.