Over the years, the program had helped families with transportation expenses, equipment needs, and other approved costs that insurance didn't always cover.
I was proud of it.
I was even prouder that my daughter volunteered to help with the bookkeeping.
She understood the financial records better than most club members.
She created spreadsheets.
Organized receipts.
And helped the treasurer prepare reports for the independent charity partner that administered the funds.
At first, everybody loved her.
The club president called her brilliant.
The treasurer joked that she'd discovered more mistakes in two months than he had in ten years.
And I walked around telling anyone who would listen that my little girl was the smartest person in the room.
Then she noticed a discrepancy.
It began with three invoices.
Each listed payments to a company supposedly providing transportation equipment for children with mobility needs.
The invoice numbers were consecutive.
The amounts were substantial.
And the descriptions looked almost identical.
My daughter asked the treasurer for supporting documents.
He said the purchases had been handled through a separate supplier arrangement.
She requested confirmation.
He became irritated.
Then she contacted the charity partner to verify that the equipment had been received.
They had no record of it.
She came to my workshop one Thursday evening carrying a folder.
I remember the exact moment because I was rebuilding a transmission and had oil all over my hands.
She stood beside the workbench.
"Dad, can we talk?"
I looked up.
"Sure, sweetheart."
She placed the folder down.
"I think there's a problem with the children's fund."
I frowned.
"What kind?"
She opened the documents.
"Payments that don't match the charity's records."
I wiped my hands.
Then examined the pages.
I didn't understand everything immediately.
She explained.
Dates.
Amounts.
Vendor names.
And several transfers she couldn't reconcile.
The total was more than thirty-eight thousand dollars.
I stared.
"That's impossible."
She shook her head.
"I wish it was."
I looked toward her.
"The treasurer handles those accounts."
"I know."
"He's been doing it fifteen years."
She nodded.
"That's why I'm worried."
I didn't like that answer.
The treasurer was one of my oldest friends.
We had ridden together through thunderstorms.
Helped one another during family emergencies.
And spent countless nights repairing motorcycles after long charity events.
I trusted him.
He was generous.
Funny.
And always the first to volunteer when somebody needed help.
The idea that he might be involved in financial wrongdoing seemed ridiculous.