“The best crimes are the ones where no one can figure out who done ’em,” Grant concludes, and we all laugh.
“I went to a continuing education seminar on fraud awhile back,” I say. “The instructor referred to a ‘fraud triangle’ to explain the factors that cause someone to commit a fraud. The theory is that there must be pressure, opportunity, and the ability to rationalize the act. This guy took it one step further. He thought everyone had the potential to commit a fraud; the tipping point is unique to each person. It’s in every one of us, though.”
Beth takes exception to this idea. “I would never steal!”
“Not even if you were starving to death or your child was starving? You wouldn’t steal a piece of bread? Didn’t you see Les Misérabes?”
“Well, maybe. But that’s different!”
It isn’t different, though. It is just a matter of degree. Beth and Grant have so much money that they would never feel the pressure to steal, because they can always buy what they need.
“The same triangle can apply to unethical behavior other than stealing—such as cheating on your wife,” I say. “Pressure: You really need to get laid; opportunity: A beautiful babe is interested in you, a potbellied, rich old fart; rationalization: Your wife is sick, bored, disgusted by you, or all of the above.”
“I do not have a potbelly!” Grant says grinning.
“I was talking about Winston,” I say.
They get quiet. “Have you talked to Winston lately?” Beth asks.
When I say no, Beth and Grant exchange looks.
“Caroline is pregnant. Did you know?” Beth finally says.
I down the rest of my martini and signal the waiter to bring me another.
“Oh my,” I muster. “Is that a good thing?”
Grant and Beth decide not to answer my question, and we are saved by the waiter bringing our entrées to the table. Suddenly, I wish I had ordered the lasagna instead of having what Beth ordered: the broiled fish and steamed spinach, all taste on the side. Impulsively, I take a piece of garlic bread from the basket and consume it in a single bite, issuing Beth a “don’t judge me” look as I reach for another.
“How would you steal the painting?” Grant asks to break the silence.
“What?”
“You said you would probably do the same thing. How would you go about it?”
Grant is a sweetheart for trying to take my mind off Winston.
“I don’t know. Probably take a picture of the real one, have a forgery made, and then switch them over a weekend or after hours.”
“It’s a huge painting. You don’t think security would see you?”
“Let me tell you a thing or two about building security.” I begin the tale of my Easter Sunday, assuring them that you could probably convince the security guard to hang the fake painting for you and load the priceless one into your car, all without the slightest inquiry as to what you are doing.
“It always amazes me that businesses tend to leave something so critical under the control of minimum wage rent-a-cops.”
We finish our dinner refining criminal strategies. I am grateful for the temporary diversion.
When we return to the house, Beth and Grant leave me while I head out to the patio for a nightcap and to chain-smoke the last five cigarettes in my pack. I think of Winston raising a child at his age. I guess now that his climb to the top is finally complete, he can devote himself to fatherhood with a new young wife. How lucky for him, I decide, and I smoke and sob quietly, thinking about Winston starting a family and me not even having my dog.
CHAPTER SEVEN
When I wake, I find the house empty. Groggily, I walk through silence and unfamiliar rooms until I come across Beth on the patio, a newspaper spread out on a glass table in front of her and a lit cigarette in her hand. Maria brings out some coffee and fruit for me, and I bum a cigarette from Beth. I had smoked all mine the night before. I grimace as I look down at the Houston Chronicle. News of the pipeline explosion dominates every story on the front page.
“At least there’s a nice obituary for Alice and Ken,” Beth says. She folds the paper back to an interior page and hands it to me. “I can’t believe they’re gone.”
I take the paper and look down at the low-resolution, gray-toned picture of Alice and Ken. It isn’t their best; Alice’s makeup was smudged under her left eye and Ken was smiling too broadly the way he sometimes did after a few drinks. It gave him a whole extra chin. Alice’s mother must have had to choose one where their faces were close together so that it could be cropped to fit the copy. There are too many gray squares of faces crowding that page. I put the paper back down.
“I can’t read it now. It’s like if I think about it too much I’ll just start crying and never stop.”
“I know. Me too.”
“I hope Bill burns that company to the ground, just sues the living shit out them,” I say finally. Beth purses her lips and nods, tearing up a bit.
“You’d be out of a job.”
I nod. “I’ve had enough of Tulsa and enough of that stupid job. It’s like stepping back in time every morning.” I give Beth a recap of the work situation—every single misstep and reprimand. Office politics are lost on Beth, but when I am done, she hugs me and pats my back.
“You can always come back. You can join Ravenswood,” she suggests. “Margie is the worst tournament partner I’ve ever had. She can’t sink a putt and it’s killing me.” She stutters through those last words as she tries to catch her breath after all the crying.
“Beth, I’m a weekend golfer at best,” I say. “Besides, I’m fifty-two. I need a job that comes with health insurance. It’s a lousy market right now, especially for someone my age. I’m lucky to have anything. I’ll keep looking for something down here, but for now I’m stuck where I am.”
“Don’t be so down on yourself, Tanzie. You just need to get back on your feet.”
“Thanks,” I say, shrug, and look out beyond the patio. I don’t want to continue the conversation. What is friendly reassurance going to do to fix this situation, any of it? Maybe I can get back on my feet in a few years, but I am never going to be a country club regular again. Beth cannot understand it. My charmed life is over, while Beth’s is only just hitting its stride. I have been cut from that team with no hope of returning.
Beth excuses herself to get dressed and then run some errands. There is a visitation for Ken, Alice, and the boys that evening, and we are planning a late dinner out afterward. Beth tells me she will be out of pocket most of the day since one of the charity boards she volunteers on is planning a gala that’s scheduled in a few weeks. That is fine with me. Relaxing at their River Oaks estate is like vacationing at a five-star resort, something that is beyond my reach at the moment.
I experience some guilt for feeling sorry for myself when I start to read the article about Ken and Alice. What do I have to complain about? Still, I am surprised to read in the second paragraph that Ken had graduated from the University of Kansas in the late ’70s and had played on the Jayhawk football team. The word “Jayhawk” sounds familiar, and then I remember the password under Marla’s pen set.
I call to Beth upstairs and ask if I can borrow a computer.
“Grant has one in his office,” she yells back. “Feel free.”
Bishop does not allow telecommuting but does have remote access so that employees can work from home after hours, on weekends, or while traveling. I access the login site, https://portal.bishopgroup.com. I type BBISHOP as the user name and then look at the saved memo on my iPhone and type GOJayhawks!17 as the password. Access denied flashes back at me. With two BBISHOPs, I figure maybe one of their user IDs includes a middle initial. Baldwin’s is R for Robert and Bennet’s is C for Charles. BRBISHOP, I type, and boom, I’m in. I am looking at a Citrix screen with subheadings for web bookmarks, secured folders, and terminal sessions. The screen displays Welcome to Bishop secure access, BRBishop.
I quickly log out. I am shaking.
Why did I just do that? What if they trace the login to Grant? I do not want to involve him. Also, what if Baldwin was on his computer when I accessed it? Would he be able to tell I was in there, too?
I need some time to think about what to do with this access. I initially thought the Jayhawk password was Marla’s, but Baldwin probably gave her access so she could send email on his behalf. Clearly it would be interesting to eavesdrop during this explosion crisis; I just don’t want to get arrested doing it.
“Get what you needed?” Beth asks, stopping by Grant’s office.
“Oh yes. Thanks.”
“See ya this evening.” And with that, I hear Beth’s footsteps headed down the hallway and the heavy door to the garage shut loudly.
I start to get up and notice a flash drive sticking out of Grant’s computer. I remember the one in my purse that has the files I took from Marla’s desktop. I run upstairs to get my purse, and in seconds I have replaced Grant’s portable device with my own. I have an overwhelming desire to spy on Baldwin. I want to know what he knew about the explosion that incinerated my friends and their children. I do not feel comfortable logging on to his computer while there is a chance he might be on it, but I can gain some familiarity by checking out the files I downloaded on Easter. Maybe the files will be as dull as his medicine cabinet, but I won’t know if I don’t look. Perhaps they will provide some insight that will help me later on.
I click on the first folder, titled “LEAR,” and open one of the documents in the 2010 subfolder. There are seven or eight documents, all headed the same: Large Expenditure Authorization Request. Each document is a proposal from a business segment to spend a large amount of money on a project. There are financial models and return on investment rates along with supporting spreadsheets and narratives describing the benefits, risks, and other details associated with each proposal. Approved proposals have either Bennet’s or Baldwin’s signature on the bottom of the PDF file. Denied or deferred proposals have that status indicated on the signature line.
This is pretty interesting stuff, and it makes me forget that I am a nobody with a career going nowhere. By noon I have made it through 2010. I enjoy reading about each project and looking at the numbers supporting the request. I chuckle to myself when I notice that an approved project to build a gas plant in Kansas has a bust in the spreadsheet calculating the return on investment. Based on my calculation, the return should be closer to 3 percent than the 9 percent appearing in the request. I wonder if they will ever figure that out when the actual numbers come in.
Maria comes by to see if I want lunch, but I am too engrossed in my reading to stop. Around 4:00 I finish with 2009 and open the 2008 folder. Scanning the titles I notice a file named LEAR_2008_17_Houston_Gas and open that one up first. After starting on the narrative part of the form, I slowly put my hand to my mouth as I read.
This proposal is for a large-scale maintenance project for a gas pipeline in Houston. According to the proposal, the pipeline dates back to the 1930s and extends from West Texas to a hub near the Gulf Coast. When it was originally built, it ran through what was considered the outskirts of Houston, but with the expansion over the last seventy-five years, it now has sections running through some heavily populated areas. The request references a report from Wagner Jones, Bishop’s former Vice President of Environmental Health and Safety, or EH&S as it is generally referred to, indicating that corrosion had been identified during pigging of another section of the line and that there could very well be something similar in the section under the Houston property.
Pigging is a pipeline term that has nothing to do with real pigs, or quirky sayings by Mark Twain. A pig is an object that is run through the pipe to collect information about the integrity of the pipe, as well as to identify obstructions or other problems that could affect performance. The initial studies about potential corrosion on the Houston pipeline were inconclusive, however, and according to the accompanying report, the pipe would have to be excavated and examined to be absolutely certain.
The records are not complete, but it seemed to the engineers that the section of pipe running under the Galleria area was slightly larger and of a different spec than the other sections. No one could explain this, but it was not uncommon back in the day to use leftover materials from another project to save a dollar or two. The size change made the pigging results unreliable, and without physical inspection the engineers could not be certain as to the condition of the pipe.
But in order to do a physical inspection, housing on top of the pipe would need to be moved or raised onto pilings to allow for excavation. Further complicating the effort, Bishop could not find the maps indicating exactly where the pipes were. They had a general idea, but could only estimate within a forty-foot range.
The LEAR file includes e-mail correspondence between the Bishop brothers, Pipeline Integrity, Operations, and the environmental team trying to get their arms around what exactly the problems are and what to do about them. There is a worst-case scenario calculation that, to my horror, estimates the dollar value of each life potentially lost that could be netted for insurance recoveries should an explosion occur. Unfortunately, that figure, though in the millions, is far less than the excavation and replacement cost of that section of the pipe.
It appears that the Bishops didn’t want to launch such a huge project on just a perceived risk rather than conclusive evidence, so they decided to defer the project and do more studies. Wagner was put in charge of coordinating with the Pipeline Integrity folks and Gas Operations and getting back to the executive team with more proposals.
Anyone who knows anything about Houston knows the rapid pace of change within the housing market. The lack of city zoning enables neighborhoods to change with astonishing frequency. Slums become haute and the other way around within just a few years. Such is the case in the Galleria area. When this LEAR was presented, the area was transitioning from rundown to upscale. The 1950s houses primarily used as rental property were being replaced by McMansions, million-dollar townhouses, and mid-rise condo buildings, including the one that was home to the Mayhews.
The initial loss calculations from the report were significantly undervalued and had not considered the recent gentrification of that particular section of the city. Even so, I am horrified that the company I work for had made a purely economic decision that had risked the safety of a community. What was the break-even point in human lives that would have compelled Bishop to take steps to find and maintain the pipeline? I wonder if they would have approved the LEAR if the loss calculation had been based on country club members versus immigrant families like the O’Learys.
I nearly jump out of my skin as Grant walks in, home from work early to get ready for the wake.
“Oh my God, you scared me!” I say, startled.
“I live here,” he says, joking. “What’s wrong, Tanzie? You look upset.”
As much as I would love to tell Grant what I have just found, I decide to keep it to myself for the moment. I’m not sure how he would feel about me effectively stealing files.
“Oh, nothing, Grant,” I lie. “Just catching up on paperwork.”
I remove my flash drive and shut down his desktop, making sure I haven’t saved anything to his computer. Then I go upstairs to shower and get ready. The whole time, I am shaking with anger. I now have proof of serious Bishop complicity in my friends’ deaths.
Normally, I would have been terribly stressed about seeing the old gang with so little time to prepare, but I am still too furious about the incriminating file to worry about my appearance. Besides, my black dress looks great thanks to Tommy, and I wonder how good a pregnant Caroline will look. I am hoping she looks as fat as a cow, with swollen ankles and sausage fingers.
Beth came home while I was getting ready and the three of us pile into Grant’s Escalade for the ride to the funeral home. The building is a tasteful combination of elegance and sterility—trimmed ivy covering ivory stucco with stern wrought iron accents. Gorgeou
s live oaks with white impatiens blooming underneath border a drive leading to the facility, and two huge porte cocheres extend outward to accommodate rows of limos in bad weather.
The parking lot is packed, but a valet is available to ease the congestion. Inside is crowded as well, and we stand in line for over fifteen minutes just to sign the guest book. This is not just any funeral home; it is Foster and Sons, the one that caters to the rich and famous of the Houston dead. They have remained independent rather than getting acquired by the funeral conglomerates and are known for their outstanding care during difficult times. In Houston, that means having a bar or two and catered hors d’oeuvres at all events.
Inside, a looping film on several flat screens shows photographs of the family from birth to their last Easter together less than a week ago. The caskets are closed, but there are large portraits of each individual, as well as a family one in black and white showing them on the beach in Galveston, all wearing jeans and white button-down shirts. I remember when Alice arranged for that sitting. I had helped her look through the proofs and select the very one on display. “You were such a great friend, and I’ve only been thinking of myself. I’m so sorry, Alice,” I whisper as I touch her casket and reflect on how awful I have been.
I feel my eyes start to burn again as I stop to look at the picture of my sweet Matty. What a handsome young man he had become. Memories come flooding back between tears. Blubber-kissing him into hysteria as a toddler; chasing him around the backyard with his little brother Eric; caddying for him during the Jr. Club championship one year. Now I would never see how the story ended. What kind of girl he would fall in love with or what profession he would settle on. His life was slammed shut because cost projections were not finalized.
Guilt and then rage replaces my sorrow as I try to sort out my emotions. The disequilibrium sends me back to my childhood ritual in search of comfort, and I kneel by Matty’s casket, making the sign of the cross. It has been years, but I remember the prayer my mother taught me growing up and that I had in turn taught Matt as part of my godmother duties.
Revenge of the Cube Dweller Page 8
