In Hot Pursuit

by Karen Sue Burns

  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 — 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.

  NINE

  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 — 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.

  She expected the plane’s interior to be luxurious and she wasn’t disappointed. It set the bar high for future flying. Logan gave her the ten-dollar tour of the main cabin and the galley before they buckled in for take-off.

  Once the plane achieved cruising altitude, the co-pilot strolled into the main cabin with a serving cart loaded with champagne, fruit, cheese and crackers. He parked it in the aisle next to their seats, locked its wheels, and disappeared to the front of the plane.

  “It’s a family tradition to bless every flight after lift off.” Logan filled two champagne flutes, handed one to Quinn. “We also have a traditional toast.”

  Her eyes widened. “A toast?”

  “Grandma Rice started it with our first plane over thirty years ago. Ready?”

  “You bet.”

  “Here goes: ‘May the breath of angels lift your wings, may the brilliance of stars guide your way, keep us sound and safe, and let there be champagne for another day.’” He touched his flute to hers. “Gram has quite th
e sense of humor.”

  “I’ll say. You toast every flight?” She had a suspicion he was teasing her.

  “Yes, ma’am. Gram makes us swear we do the toast every time we fly. We’ve never had an accident, so,” he shrugged, “I guess it works.”

  Quinn envied his casualness about the toast. “It’s cute. Your grandmother obviously loves her family. Anything else I should know, rituals, eating or drinking contests?”

  “The toast is the extent of our craziness.” He pointed to the tray of food. “Have something to eat. It’ll be several hours before we have dinner.”

  She made a plate of fruit and cheese and sat back to enjoy the company, the champagne, and the cocoon of luxury.

  $ $ $

  The plane rolled to a stop in front of a pink hangar. Once they climbed into the cool interior of a limousine, they set off for the Las Vegas strip. He explained they had a ten minute drive along Tropicana Boulevard to the Grand Hotel and Casino.

  “Why did you select that hotel?” she asked. Was it a coincidence Scooter was also booked at the Grand?

  “Grandfather Rice went to Yale with one of the developers and bought a family suite before it opened. We all use it when we’re in town. My brother, Max, and his wife were here last weekend. We should have the place to ourselves.” He winked and displayed that killer grin. “That’s good, I guess.” Asking about the number of bedrooms sat on her tongue yet she swallowed the words. He called the room a suite, which implied multiple bedrooms. Good.

  “We’ve had some great times here. There’s enough room for two or three families, kids and all. I think we’ve managed to stay every New Year’s Eve for the last ten years. Gram loves the lights and the action.”

  “Your grandmother sounds like a hoot.” Nana would probably like her, too.

  They soon passed the Grand’s towers, pink glass reflecting the afternoon sun, reminding her of cotton candy. The limo made a right turn before Las Vegas Boulevard and steered into the hotel’s circular driveway. A uniformed valet welcomed them with a wide smile.

  “Come on.” Logan grabbed her hand and led her through the rotating glass door. “We’ll be on our way once we pick up the key to the suite.”

  They crossed the dark marble floor of the lobby to the reception desk. Behind the desk, a huge digital screen played a U-2 video. The attendant greeted Logan by name and handed him a couple of card keys. After walking to the tower elevators, he punched in a code on the keypad and the elevator rose silently to the penthouse suite. The door opened to a small lobby with one large bronze door. Logan slid the card key in a security slot and opened the door.

  They entered the foyer. Quinn stopped and gawked.

  It was spectacular — black marble floors and red walls with framed artwork from floor to ceiling. She trotted behind Logan to the living room. The bold colors transitioned to muted tones of peach and green gracing the walls and furniture. He pointed out the bar to one side, a dining room and the kitchen around the corner, and the wing of bedrooms. He led her down a hallway to the bedrooms. It was wide and just as elegant as the rest of the suite. He opened a door on the left.

  “This should do.” Logan opened the window draperies, the late afternoon sun streamed across the light sage bedspread. The demeanor of the room was calming — a good omen for her first out-of-town investigation.

  “This is beautiful. Let me take a minute to freshen up.”

  A bell trilled.

  “Our luggage has arrived. Take your time,” Logan said.

  Once he left, she melted onto the bed. Her adrenaline rush had evaporated. The reality of Las Vegas, and Logan, and a hotel suite stung her eyes. She brushed away a tear.

  On her fingers, she counted off her very good reasons for feeling off-kilter. Number one, she had no concrete evidence that Rebecca was the guilty party. Number two, she could be arrested for breaking into Rebecca’s rented house. Number three, Dr. Arnold had been acting very chummy toward Quinn, not normal. Number four, rushing off to Las Vegas could end up being a huge disaster. And, number five, Logan was too good to be true.

  She sat for a moment, feeling uncertain and unsure and uncomfortable. At the same time, she knew without question that Rebecca was up to her designer eyebrows in something that didn’t pass the smell test.

  $ $ $

  Quinn stood at the living room window gazing at the view below. The sun had retired and the lights of the Strip sparkled with a fairy-tale quality. She wondered about Rebecca’s location amidst the perpetual illumination and glitter. Perhaps she was holed up in a hotel room or walking the Strip without a care in the world.

  Quinn heard a noise behind her and turned. Logan moved to her side.

  “Everything okay?” he said.

  “Just day dreaming.” She stepped back from the window. “Do we need to call room service for a glass of wine?”

  “Nope.” He strode to the bar, pulled a bottle from an under-counter cooler and uncorked it. After accepting a glass of cabernet, she settled in a corner of the peach and cream sofa. It was time to coordinate their plans but first, she wanted to talk to Scooter. “I need to see if Scooter has arrived.”

  “Go ahead, I need to call my cousin.” He moved to the bar, cell phone in hand.

  She picked up the suite’s phone, dialed the operator, and asked for Scooter’s room.

  “Ma’am, we don’t have a guest with that name.”

  “Maybe he hasn’t checked in yet. Is there a reservation? He’s my boss and I need to reach him.” How weird. Ellie said he was leaving Houston at noon.

  “We don’t have a reservation in that name for this evening. Perhaps he’s at another hotel.”

  “You’re probably right.” Wrong. Ellie told her the Grand Hotel and Casino.

  “Right about what?” Logan had finished.

  “Scooter isn’t registered here tonight. This morning he told his assistant he was flying to Las Vegas for a family vacation but he’s not here. She doesn’t get these things wrong.”

  “There’s probably a logical explanation. Maybe he switched hotels for a better room,” Logan said.

  “Maybe. I’m not sure.”

  “Do you suppose he gave Ellie the wrong information on purpose?”

  “I don’t know.” That didn’t seem like Scooter.

  “You think he’s involved in the theft?” Logan perched on a chair across from her.

  “Not at all. But you have to admit it’s weird he’s here at the same time as Rebecca.” Rather than finding answers, the list of questions continued to multiply.

  “Perhaps it’s simply a coincidence,” Logan offered.

  “No clue.” She shrugged. “Maybe he did switch hotels.” She stood and began to pace from the window to the bar and back, shaking down her nerves. “Let’s talk about finding Rebecca. Should we go to the police?”

  “I’ve thought about that, too. Max has a friend here who’s a detective with the Las Vegas police. We could call him,” Logan suggested.

  “Sure. We’ll tell him I’m helping the Houston police solve a $25 million dollar theft. I’ve a hunch that a coworker has committed the theft. I came to this conclusion after breaking into her residence and her personal computer. My conclusion was based on an email I discovered on said computer which I had no right to read, yet it provided a flight itinerary for Las Vegas. I immediately flew here in pursuit and I have not one piece of concrete evidence linking Rebecca Holland to the theft. Still want to call Max’s friend?” She stopped pacing a few feet from Logan.

  “I see your point.”

  “Good. The Las Vegas police would consider me a nut job. That reminds me, I forgot to tell Roddy about my travel plans. I better give him a call.”

  “Go ahead. I need to make another call myself.” Logan moved over to the bar again, this time sitting in one of t
he tall, bronze stools.

  Quinn hesitated before calling. How much should she tell him? Spill the beans or filter the facts? She didn’t really break into Rebecca’s house; the door was unlocked. She’d opened it as she was overly concerned about her ill co-worker, bless her skinny cold heart.

  She had her story and keyed in Roddy’s number, praying he’d answer. The phone gods hurled good vibes as he picked up on the second ring.

  “Glad you finally called, Miss Wells, I have good news,” he teased.

  “Yay, what?”

  “We have the name on the Caymans bank account for the Franks’ check. It’s Holly Roberts. Ring any bells?”

  “No, I don’t know anyone with that name.” The name had a curious sound though. “Did you get an address or the date of a $25 million dollar deposit?”

  “I wish. All the bank would release was the name on the account. We’ll find something. We’re searching every available database.” He sighed, heavily. “What have you been up to?”

  “I’m in Las Vegas with Logan Rice.”

  “What? Oh, that’s right, your vacation.”

  “No, not my vacation.” She swallowed, began pacing across the room. “Actually … I found an email on the PC in Rebecca’s house this morning confirming a flight to Las Vegas and here I am.”

  “What? Back up. Tell Uncle Roddy what the hell you’ve been doing since this morning.”

  She heard the impatience in his voice and spilled the beans, reciting her theory on an email virus altering the wire instructions, who had sent emails with attachments to First National, and her earlier visit to Rebecca’s house.

  She told him the truth about traveling to Las Vegas to find Rebecca and to confront her. Roddy was not a happy camper with her last admission.

  “Damn it, you can’t go off half-cocked, looking for someone who you’ve concluded, without any concrete evidence, is responsible for a crime. You have no idea how dangerous she might be, assuming she’s even associated with the theft. Are you out of your freaking mind?”