Marshall, it appears, is an open book. Sadly, it’s a long, boring one. What’s perplexing to me, though, is that he isn’t looking at Sandy when he speaks. Instead, Marshall is making eye contact with me. As flattering as this is, it seems rather odd. It’s a sad truth, but eventually all women learn that there comes a day when men no longer look at you. When a pretty young woman walks by, most men look up. Not leer; just look. But as women age, this phenomenon tapers off until it disappears altogether sometime in your late forties. It doesn’t matter if you keep yourself up or get work done; you can look good for your age, but in my experience, if you are past fifty and a man looks up as you pass by, you have toilet paper stuck to your shoe or a rip in the seat of your pants. Sandy’s in her early thirties, and she’s a knockout, but Marshall is looking at me. Perhaps I have a feral nose hair on the loose.
“You’re from Houston, then?” I ask when Marshall finally comes up for air.
“Yes ma’am.” He stands up and walks around the desk, pointing to his Tony Lamas boots. Even with man heels, he’s only about five foot six; a stark contrast to Sandy, who—thank goodness—is sitting down.
“This must be a big change for you.” I smile.
“Oh yes.” Marshall shakes his head. “The cost of living is killing me. It’s nuts. Absolutely nuts.” He rolls his eyes for effect. “Not that I’m not fairly compensated. No, I’m not complaining. Please don’t think I’m complaining.”
I can tell what Sandy’s thinking: Red flag! Economic pressure. Silently, I groan; the more reasons she has to take my phony helpline call seriously, the less time I’ll have to work with Spiro and Honey.
“I grew up in San Francisco. Richmond District,” I say, before Marshall can continue.
“Really?” Marshall gives a broad smile.
“I think it’s cheaper to fly out every weekend than to actually live here.”
Marshall chuckles and leans forward. “I do like it out here, though, I must confess. Worth every penny.”
After the small talk, we move on to our real business. Marshall gives us the lowdown on how bids are awarded. Westwind builds large wind farms, and many components of the turbines have to be individually designed and manufactured. This is not a matter of finding the cheapest widget out in the marketplace, Marshall tells us. There are only a handful of engineering firms to choose from.
“So, how do you choose?” Sandy asks.
Marshall shifts a bit while he takes in the question.
“It’s complicated,” he says.
We wait for him to elaborate, remaining silent as he shifts in his chair. It’s an effective technique auditors use to get information after a rebuff during an interview. “It’s complicated” is code for “I don’t want to tell you,” “I don’t really understand myself,” or “I find you so stupid that it’s a complete waste of time to continue this discussion.” In all cases, it’s meant to end a conversation. By remaining silent, the pressure is on Marshall to break the pregnant pause.
If we were investigating a real bid-rigging case instead of my phony tip, of course, how Marshall determines bids would be the most important issue, and his non-response here would raise suspicion. Most companies require competitive bidding for major projects. It’s a way to keep things honest in an environment prone to dishonesty and “good ol’ boy” corruption. The vendors are supposed to submit confidential bids stating what they charge to complete the project. In theory, they’re competing on a level playing field by all receiving the same terms and conditions. But sometimes, an insider with influence provides an advantage to one of the bidders by disclosing a preferred specification or timing that the others don’t know in exchange for a “fee.” While bid rigging is far from rare, if the participants are careful, it’s very difficult to identify.
“We take a look at the bids, the timing, how fast the work can get done. Things like that,” Marshall says finally. “Then we make a decision. It’s always handled in accordance with CoGenCo policy, I can assure you. Our VP of Ops, Doug Minton, coordinates most of it.”
“Marshall,” I say, “Can you educate us on the more technical aspects of wind energy?”
Marshall turns to me and smiles, relieved to put the procurement discussion behind him. I can tell Sandy notices his relief, and I hope she’s not speculating wildly about how guilty he must be as a result, even if she does still believe in my phony tip. Allegations are just that. Allegations.
His description of wind energy is painfully detailed. He takes out engineering drawings, puts yellow stickies on pages, and draws schematics freehand on a tablet he pulls from a desk drawer. The tedium is exhausting, but I feign interest with periodic nods.
“Well, do you have any questions?” Marshall asks, signaling that he has concluded his lesson on wind turbines.
“It’s a lot to take in, Marshall,” I say.
Marshall is still smiling at me, and I close my mouth and try to clean my teeth with my tongue.
“Can we get an interview with Doug Minton today?” interjects Sandy sternly.
“He’s out, but I’ll have Phyllis set something up for tomorrow,” Marshall answers.
As if on cue, Phyllis pokes her head through the doorway. “Marshall, don’t forget about your eleven o’clock.” The comment seems rehearsed, something devised to get the auditors out of the office if the conversation goes on too long. Par for the course with these guys.
Sandy and I take the hint and get up, receive a quick handshake each from Marshall, and head over to the elevator.
“What an asshole!” Sandy shouts as soon as the elevator doors shut. “‘It’s complicated,’” she says, mimicking Marshall’s high twang. “I’ll tell you what’s not complicated—”
“Sandy, calm down,” I chide, interrupting her. She may be my boss, but she’s young, and this is life experience talking here. “We don’t have anything on him yet.”
Sandy takes a deep breath. “You’re right, Tanzie,” she concedes. That’s one of the things I like best about Sandy: She’s not all caught up in the power trip that comes with supervision. “It’s my hot button—guys like Marshall insinuating that I’m an idiot.”
The elevator doors open, and we step into the dim corridor. There’s no sign of Ted or the IT guy, so we continue the conversation in the hallway.
“You’re just out of his league, Sandy.”
“No shit.” Her mood seems to lighten as this realization takes root, and her face begins to relax. Soon, a smile emerges. “Jeeze Louise. He never stops talking! I thought I was going to die.” “No wonder his wife left him,” I say. “He’s so boring!”
“I think Marshall likes you, though,” she says. “He couldn’t take his eyes off of you.”
“You noticed? Do I have something in my teeth?”
Sandy squints and tilts her head as she examines my smile. “Nope.”
“Maybe I remind him of his mother,” I suggest.
Sandy laughs. “Or maybe he just likes you.”
“Lucky me.” I sigh.
“He’s a little cutie,” says Sandy. “Even if he is a thief. Let’s get him!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tuesday Afternoon
When we arrive back at the conference room, new file boxes have been stacked against the wall.
“Dang!” Sandy sighs, “How can there be this many files when their operation is so small? Typical stall tactic—give the auditor way too much to look through, and they’ll eventually just run out of time.”
I walk over and remove the top of one of the cardboard boxes labeled Westwind Invoices 2011. The invoices and contracts are all kept inside four-inch black binders and sorted by date, so there’s no easy way to find all the invoices for a particular vendor or project. They don’t have an automated procurement system that would allow for downloads, filters, or sorting. Instead, invoices are processed in groups, making it a complicated and manual process to identify relevant documents for our audit.
“This is a nightmare,” Sa
ndy remarks. “I can’t believe this is all hard copy. This is San Francisco, for pity’s sake, not Bedrock.”
I move the top box over to the table, and Sandy starts to thumb through the files. We work silently for a few minutes, getting our spaces organized.
“It doesn’t matter how much hard copy they throw at us—Marshall Carter is going down,” Sandy announces, looking at me with a smile. “I’m gonna get him.”
“Sandy, just because the guy’s a sexist doesn’t mean he’s a criminal.” I think about what I’m saying here. I’m defending a man that ticked off my boss less than an hour ago. But I’m the one who set him up, and I’m the one who got Sandy involved. This whole audit could blow up if I’m not careful. “What if the helpline call was just one of his assistants getting even, someone like Connie or Phyllis? Maybe he dismisses them, too. So many of these calls turn out to be nothing. And I mean, he’s a bit on the boring side, but he seemed like a pretty nice guy to me.”
“You just think that because he was flirting with you.”
I’m startled by the comment and don’t know what to say. I stay quiet for a bit, picking up an invoice just to give me something to do.
“Oh shit, Tanzie. Did I hurt your feelings? I sure didn’t mean to.”
“No. No, it’s okay.” I shrug. “You think he was just buttering me up so I wouldn’t want to find anything. Got it. You might be right.”
“Hey, I’m sorry, Tanzie,” she says, and I can tell she means it, but the damage is done. In less than a day on the job, Sandy has achieved excellence in hurting my feelings and getting on my nerves.
I think about looking around the floor and offering to work out of a cube without power just to be alone. But Lord knows I’ve been trapped in conference rooms with worse partners: folks who tapped pens, cleared their throats constantly, or whistled. No, Sandy is not that bad, even if sharing a tight workspace is claustrophobic.
Will anyone remain in purgatory after four days of this audit?
Thirty minutes or so go by as I sort out paperwork and set up schedules in Excel. Sandy is busy on her end going over my audit program. I’ve sent out data requests for contract and bidding documents, and I have read-only access to the expense reporting and accounts payable systems. The frustration level makes me crave a smoke, but that’s not possible. I start tapping my pen.
Sandy looks up at me and sighs. “I have all this other work to do,” she says. “I have three other audits going on, and there were twenty emails waiting on me this morning. I have two conference calls this afternoon and another two tomorrow. I’m starting to get stressed about this.”
Now I really feel guilty. Sandy is a great boss, and I’m acting like a child. “Stress will only result in belly fat,” I say laughing. “It’s a fact. It was on Dr. Oz.” She looks down at her stomach and frowns. No doubt I’m getting on her nerves, too, and I start to wonder if she’s as anxious to get her own space as I am.
“I have an idea, Sandy,” I say. “Why don’t you go back to the hotel and work out of your room? That way, we won’t disturb each other, and you’ll probably get a lot more done. If I have any questions or find anything, I’ll send you a text.”
I can tell she likes this idea.
“Okay,” she says. “Maybe we can meet for dinner and go over how things went.”
“I sort of wanted to spend my evenings with my sister,” I say, “but if you need me to meet with you, I will.”
“No way, Tanzie,” she says. “Let’s just go over things at breakfast tomorrow. Is that better?”
“Perfect,” I say. “Thank you.”
She powers down her laptop and gathers her things before heading out. As soon as she’s gone, I take the opportunity to call Honey and ask that she and Spiro meet me around seven at the Hyatt. Then I get busy organizing the paper invoice files and corresponding contracts, change orders, and other documents, enjoying having a workspace all to myself.
Around one thirty, I start to get hungry, and I take the elevator down to the lobby. There’s a Peet’s Coffee down the street on Market, and I enter through a thick glass door. Even at this odd time, the place is packed. I grab a bottle of Pellegrino and an uninspired salad from the refrigerator case. I think about returning to the conference room but instead decide to take a break, even for just twenty minutes, so I grab an empty chair at a long community table. The group, an odd combination of business types and hipsters, sit together with no interaction. Each is in his or her own world—talking on their phones, studying, or typing out their screenplays.
“Mind if I sit here?” I ask a twenty-something kid in a hoodie.
No response, which I take as an okay and sit down. There are at least three phone conversations going on, and it feels uncomfortable overhearing people’s business. The young Asian woman across from me appears to be arguing with someone over the specifics of a reimbursement of some kind, while the fellow to her right is cold-calling IT executives and trying to arrange sales meetings. I take out my phone and start playing a game to pass the time.
“Fuck you, Boomer,” I hear.
No one but me even looks up. I am, it seems, the only patron without earbuds. The f-bomb is being launched from a fortyish Asian man in jeans, a black T-shirt, and a tan suede blazer two seats down from the Zuckerberg clone. “We had a fucking deal. Now what am I supposed to fucking do?” he shouts.
Call me old fashioned, but I’m astonished by the offensive language in a public place. My natural curiosity takes hold, and I find myself sucked into the drama. After his initial outburst, Mr. Pottymouth settles down, but I can still hear everything from two seats away. I stare down at my phone and pretend to text while eavesdropping.
“You said this contract was a slam dunk!” Pottymouth gets up and begins pacing about four feet in each direction. He sips his coffee while he listens to Boomer on the other end. “We agreed your cut was twenty percent.” His voice is lower, but he’s standing directly behind me now. I wonder if he thinks I’m listening and get nervous, but I relax when he walks back to his spot two seats down. “What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?”
There’s a long pause, presumably while Boomer is answering him.
“What kind of pressure?” Pottymouth asks.
There’s another long pause.
“We’ve been partners for a long time,” Pottymouth pleads. “I’ll lose three fucking million, you asshole.”
The man begins to pace again, this time across the table from me. Pottymouth is in his own world, holding the phone to his ear and shaking his head. I can tell he’s furious. “You give this contract to them, and we’re done, Boomer. You hear me? Fucking done!”
Though it’s difficult to be certain from a one-sided conversation, it sounds like a classic bid-rigging deal gone bad, and the auditor in me is riveted. Why on earth would this guy parade around Peet’s ranting about criminal activity? Maybe, like all the other patrons, he’s in his own world, or maybe his anger got the better of him. I’ll never know. One thing I do know is that this man has no idea that he is being overheard by someone well acquainted with the ins and outs of bid-rigging schemes.
I want to know more. I made up the whole Westwind thing, but I’ve just had the real deal dropped in my lap. This could even be a government contract, in which case there might be a reward for turning him in.
I look for clues for Pottymouth’s identity—an employee badge, a receipt—but find nothing. He gets up to leave, and impulsively I decide to follow him, grabbing his coffee cup from the communal table as I go out. He crosses Market and gets into a yellow cab. I consider hailing a cab for myself, but I stop myself—I know almost nothing about this situation, and I don’t have time to chase someone around the Bay Area for what could turn out to be hours—even if the only thing I’m doing is investigating a made-up fraud.
I check the coffee cup for his name, but it’s more like scribble. Don’t they teach anyone how to write legibly anymore? Discouraged, I return to Peet’s and walk over to the b
arista. Perhaps he can read his own writing.
“It’s Gerard,” he says.
“Do you know him?” I ask.
“Not really,” he says. “Comes in every once in a while, usually with another guy.”
“Boomer?” I’m kind of excited now.
“What?”
“Boomer. Is the other guy named Boomer?” I repeat.
“Boomer?” He looks at me like I’m crazy. “No. It’s, um, Don, I think. Or Dick, or John. You know, one of those old-man names.”
“Okay,” I say. That narrows it down—I’m not looking for someone named Justin, Skyler, or Zach. “Is the man Gerard comes in with an old man?”
“Uh huh,” the barista says. “Got to be at least forty.”
I leave Peet’s and head back to the office, throwing Gerard’s cup in a trash can as I go. Who am I kidding here? I don’t have time to hunt down Gerard or Boomer, or Don, Dick, or John. Catching my reflection in the windows along Market Street as I walk, I straighten up and suck in my stomach. If forty is old, fifty-five is ancient.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tuesday Night
Honey and Spiro are drinking coffee just outside the bar area of the Hyatt, sitting at some sort of technology pod that’s decorated with low orange sofas and cocktail tables and has power outlets and USB ports embedded along its perimeter. I’m glad to see them sticking to coffee. Maybe it’s penance for the three martinis last night.
Honey has switched her habit for a lovely light-blue dress. It’s sensible but elegant; it doesn’t stand out, but it makes sure that if you happen to notice it, you’ll also notice just how skinny you’d have to be to pull it off. She pulls it off. I move a chair next to Spiro and plop down my size-ten-on-a-good-day patootie.
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