He downed the rest of the drink and stood. “What check number?”
“It's number 10542 written on February 6th.”
“Probably cleared in February.” At the bar again, he poured more liquor, then moved to a bank of file cabinets hugging the opposite wall, and sat his glass on the top. He opened and slammed shut a couple of drawers before finding the one he wanted, and rifled through its contents.
“Here's the February bank statement. What was that number again?” He took another long swallow of liquor.
“It's 10542. May I help?” The process needed to speed up. The amount of alcohol Mr. Franks had consumed in less than fifteen minutes was unnerving. Her dirty-old-man radar began to ping.
“Nope, it's here somewhere.” His finger scratched across a piece of paper from the file. “Here it is, cleared on February 25. Want a copy of the back, too?”
She nodded and the copies were in her hand before she rose from the chair. She was dying to look at the back but didn't dare risk it in front him. The less he knew about her real motive, the better.
“Thanks again for the time, Mr. Franks.” With the copies safely stowed in her purse, Quinn started toward the study door.
“Sure you don't have time for lunch?”
She sensed him close behind. “I can't miss the meeting. It's with my boss and he's a stickler for punctuality.” It seemed like a good ten minutes before she reached the front door. She turned to shake his shake and damn near knocked him over. “Oops, sorry.”
“No problem at all.” Franks grabbed her hand. “I'll give you a call in a couple of days.”
She could smell the liquor on his breath.
“To see if you need anything else. We can plan a lunch then.”
Surprise fogged her brain for one second only. This guy was not her type. She pulled her hand out of his grasp. “Thanks again.” She hurried to the Volvo.
Franks remained standing on the front step as she put the wagon in gear and drove off. She waved exiting the driveway. Good riddance. No way would she meet that man for any meal. He was too pushy and too pickled.
Once she was out of sight of the house, Quinn pulled over to the curb. She couldn't wait any longer. If her hunch was right, she'd be one step closer to solving the theft and starting her vacation. She pulled out the copies and looked at the back. The printing was faint so she had to find her reading glasses.
What she found on the back of the check could be the beginning of her own investigation and proof that the Gregory James email was a fraud. She took a calming breath, donned the glasses and looked at the copy. She couldn't make out one word or number. The printing was too small and too faint.
Getting older sucked. Even with the discount-store reading glasses she couldn't identify the details. She'd have to use a magnifying glass at home.
Quinn shrugged off her disappointment and focused on tasks still to accomplish. Next on her agenda was a visit to the Bridge Foundation. She didn't have an appointment and hoped simple surprise might get her in the door. She headed back to downtown Houston.
The Bridge Foundation had been a Houston institution for at least fifty years. It was founded on profits resulting from the discovery of drilling mud in 1901 and its use in almost every drill hole around the world ever since. Adolf Ricenski and his brother Joseph formed Rice Brothers International in 1902, shortened their last name to Rice, and made billions selling mud to drilling operations. The brothers were astute businessmen and grateful for their success. The foundation commenced operations in 1953 and wasn't named after the family but after its purpose. The mission was simple â to provide a bridge to a better life or purpose for its clients.
Quinn didn't know any of the Rice family personally, although she'd observed them around town a few times at a play or the symphony. She remembered reading that two or three of the great-grandchildren worked for the foundation, Logan Rice being one of them. Guess the family was civic minded, with silver spoons in their mouths.
Rice Center was another beautiful Houston office building. Its sixty floors housed both RBI and the Bridge Foundation and Ruthie's office as well. After parking in the visitor section of the garage, Quinn hurried to the first floor. Pink marble graced the lobby along with a twenty-five-foot tall oak tree. The pink and dark green were a startling contrast to each other. Quinn studied the digital floor directory. The foundation was located on the forty-eighth floor. It was after the lunch hour so she hoped Logan or another Rice family member would be available for a chat.
The elevator doors opened to an unoccupied receptionist's desk and the waiting area. The room was paneled in dark oak with wine-colored ceiling-to -floor draperies bordering a wide window behind the desk. Two high-backed chairs in a wine-and-gold striped fabric along with a matching sofa occupied the waiting area. A plasma television situated on a wall displayed a cable news program. Nice.
She tapped her foot in front of the reception desk, patience not being one of her strong points. Where the hell was the receptionist? The gods were listening; a door adjacent to the desk opened. A young woman in a cute summer dress entered.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. How may I help you?” The name plaque on the desk read Amanda Moore.
“Yes, Amanda, you may. I'm Quinn Wells from Houston Cullen University. I'd like to speak with Logan Rice.”
“I suppose this is about the missing funds.” She smiled, perfect white teeth gleaming.
“There are several things. Is he available?”
“Mr. Rice is out of the office right now. Perhaps our PR director can meet with you. If you have a moment, I'll see if he's available.” She motioned to the sitting area. “Please take a seat.”
Quinn sat on the sofa and did her best to appear serene. It wasn't easy considering her mind rolled over whether someone related to the foundation stole the $25 million dollars. Meanwhile, Amanda picked up the phone and spoke to someone.
Paging through an entertainment magazine, Quinn learned that celebrities apparently keep their svelte figures by eating raw foods only. Yummy.
Amanda summoned her. “Mr. Billy Rice will see you now. Please come with me.”
She followed Amanda down a short hallway with offices along the sides and double doors at the end. They stopped at the second office on the left.
“This is Quinn Wells from Houston Cullen University.”
She stepped into the office and met the man as he came around a large glass topped desk. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rice.”
They shook hands. He motioned for Quinn to sit in front of the desk without saying a word, then returned to his chair on the other side. He steepled his fingers in front of his chest and spoke.
“Miss Wells, I assume this visit is about the missing gift. You're wasting your time. We've already had a long discussion with the authorities.”
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice. I realize you've already spoken with the police. I'm the university's contact working with the police. I need to verify a couple of items about the transfer.”
“You should probably talk to my cousin. He dealt with the approval of the HCU grant request and the actual transfer. I do the public relations for the foundation.”
“This must be a nightmare for you.” It sure as hell was for her and she wasn't out $25 mil.
“It's not one of our better stories. My grandmother is going nuts.”
“Really?” If it were Nana, she'd be spitting bullets.
“The whole grant to a local university scenario was her idea.” He flipped a hand out. “She's taken the theft a bit personally. She believes the money was stolen to embarrass her.”
“I have a grandmother and I know she wouldn't be happy.”
“I think she's way off-base. My theory is that some bastard hacker got lucky.”
“You might be right.” Quinn had nothing else to learn from this man. “I appreciate your time, Mr. Rice. I'll make an appointment with your cousin.”
He walked her to the door and they again shook hands. She hurried to the waiting area and Amanda.
“I need to make an appointment with Logan Rice, as soon as possible, please.”
“I'll check his schedule.” Amanda examined the computer screen, narrowing her eyes as though she were concentrating on brain surgery. “He has a few minutes available tomorrow morning at eleven-fifteen. Can you come back then?”
“Yes,” Quinn started for the elevator. “Thanks again.”
She damn near had a skip in her step. She'd made an initial contact with everyone related to the theft except for the brokerage firm. Ruthie was the next. She punched the elevator button for the tenth floor, then called Ruthie to let her know she would soon have a visitor. This was too convenient.
The elevator opened to another receptionist area. Quinn waved her way in and headed for Ruthie's office. They met in the hallway and walked down the hall.
If she'd said it once, Quinn had said it a million times, working for corporate paid off with a fantastic office â antique desk, small oak conference table with upholstered chairs, paintings, and a view.
“Glad you were free,” Quinn said.
“Always available for you. How's it going being a point person?” Ruthie's lips curved up, although she tried to maintain a bland face.
“Everything is fine. I've been the perfect police contact.” Quinn lowered her voice. “I've been doing some investigating on my own.”
“You're nuts. Leave it to the police.”
“I really am.” She tucked a stray hair behind an ear. “But ⦠I feel the need to look into this on my own, just a little bit. I want to help Scooter even if he thinks I can't play nice with development. I swear he's close to a stroke.”
“What can I do to help?”
“I think I understand the basics of how a wire transfer goes from point A to point B. I need to learn the inside scoop on how one might be interrupted,” Quinn said.
“That shouldn't be too difficult.” Ruthie transitioned from friend mode to professional mode.
Quinn grabbed a note pad and red pen from her purse, moved forward in the chair.
“The easiest explanation is that someone at the Bridge Foundation or their brokerage firm replaced HCU's instructions.” Ruthie played with a jade dangly earring. “Or, the money was received on schedule at your bank and the change was made there.”
“I've thought of those options as well.” Quinn tapped a finger on her bottom lip. “What if the answer isn't so obvious?”
“If it were me, I'd have some fun with it and â ”
“What about a hacker?” Quinn interrupted. “Maybe there's a person, say in China, who just happened on the transfer while illegally poking around on a server.” At least she assumed that's what hackers do.
“Another easy answer, but I don't think so. Think about the logistics.” Ruthie's hands orchestrated her theory. “When someone hacks into a system's server, hundreds of messages and code scroll across their monitor. Unless they slice into the guts of the operating system, they can't control the speed of the scrolling.” She stopped, looked out the window. “I think it's unlikely someone just happened to read the message containing the wire instructions and in a split second, changed HCU's account and routing numbers. It's probably more than one in a fifty million chance.”
“I think I understand, scratch a hacker. I guess that means the alteration of the instructions was intentional ⦠and planned.”
Someone really did want to screw with HCU
.
“Exactly. Let's talk about how and when the change was accomplished.” The desk phone rang. “Excuse me while I get this.”
While Ruthie answered the call, Quinn zeroed in on what they had just concluded â the theft of the $25 million dollars, as it was en route to HCU's bank account, had been deliberate and very well planned. Her gut told her that whoever planned the theft had to be associated with the university â an employee, a student, an alumnus, or a donor.
Ruthie finished her call. “Sorry, we have a new software app rolling out this evening and everyone's getting jumpy.”
“We were discussing how the wire instructions might have been changed,” Quinn said.
“Right. We've ruled out a hacker and concluded the switch was well planned. I assume you want to know how the modification might have been accomplished without a staff member at the foundation, the brokerage firm or the bank simply replacing the bank and account information.”
“That's what I'm asking.” Quinn's fingers tapped a staccato rhythm on the arm of the chair. “Replacing the transfer data is too easy to do and much too easy to discover. Who'd be dumb enough? Whoever stole the money wanted to make a statement or is greedy.”
“Possibly.”
“Or, to settle a grudge.”
“Another good possibility,” Ruthie agreed. “Let's go back to how the crook might have gotten away with it.”
Quinn noticed the sparkle in Ruthie's eyes. She was enjoying the mystery.
Ruthie continued. “If we assume there wasn't any collusion between the foundation, the brokerage firm, and First National, then the change may have been made systematically, independent of the three.”
“Systematically? You mean with a computer program?” Thank heavens she was talking to Ruthie, her brain had regressed back to third grade.
“Consider how a hacker might gain access to your PC at home.” The phone rang again. Ruthie shrugged. “Gotta take the call.”
She talked for less than a minute. “There's a problem with the roll out. I have to cut our conversation short. Duty calls.”
Ruthie walked Quinn to the elevator. “Sorry I don't have more time. My best guess is that the wire instructions were changed by a mole.”
“A mole?” A furry rodent?
She snapped the fingers of one hand. “Come on, Quinn, we've talked about this several times â a targeted virus that's released into the computer system of either the brokerage firm or the bank.”