I wonder if I’ll hear from Honey again, and I think about giving her a call. This was not her trademark martyr drama last night. It was genuine hurt. Hurt because I casually implied a horrible thing about someone with whom she may have had a deep friendship at one time. I think about how I can make amends. Maybe I can put more effort into Spiro’s request, assuming that he still wants help. It’s possible that with Tina’s illness, he may call off the whole thing. Then I’ll be left with the bogus investigation at Westwind and an estranged sister. What was supposed to be my path to redemption has morphed into a family catastrophe.
But by the second cigarette, I’ve processed my feelings and put my shame squarely in my back pocket. The ability to soldier on through life by compartmentalizing my feelings is one of my best coping mechanisms. It kept me from murdering Winston in his sleep for all those years. So, I choose to wait for Honey to reach out to me.
There is no text from Sandy, but I see her reading her iPad in the restaurant and walk to her table.
“Black coffee,” I tell the waiter. “And dry wheat toast,” I add for Sandy’s benefit. “Did you get your work done?”
“I made a large dent, but it’s a never-ending list. Shit just keeps piling up,” she says. “Do you like my shoes?” She gets up and walks over to my side of the booth.
“Hair-on-hide platforms. Not everyone can pull that look off,” I tell her.
“Thanks,” she says, sitting back down and taking a bite of bacon. No strawberry waffle this morning; instead, there’s an omelet the size of a hubcap with crab meat, gooey cheese, and other add-ins leaking onto the plate next to two and a half links of sausage and some bacon and potatoes.
I brief Sandy on what I got done yesterday. “I don’t think there’s anything to that allegation,” I tell her. “Most of those contracts are turnkey, fixed fee EPC.”
“Do what?” she asks. The expression “do what” is common in the South, particularly among Texans, and rarely heard north of the Mason–Dixon. Sometimes the word “now” is attached to the end, as in “do what now?” It means either “I didn’t hear you,” or “I don’t understand.” In this case, it means she doesn’t understand what an EPC contract is, since her background is in financial auditing and not contract fraud.
“It stands for engineering, procurement, and construction,” I explain. “Essentially, you contract with another party to do all the work for a fixed fee. It’s a way to transfer the risk of a large contract. From a fraud perspective, there’s no risk of padded invoicing, because the total cost has been negotiated upfront.”
“EPC or no EPC,” she says, “I still don’t trust him.”
“Shit!” Sandy says as we enter the Westwind offices. “I left my dang badge at the hotel.”
I let her piggyback in, something that’s against policy, but she doesn’t object. “I’ll see if I can get a spare from Connie,” she says. “Otherwise, I’ll be trapped down here. No Diet Cokes.”
I give Sandy my badge so she can access the fortieth floor. “Don’t lose it.” I smile.
In the world of auditing, day one is spent organizing, and day two is when the real work begins. Sandy will take the contract review piece, which includes looking for suspicious bonus clauses or excessive billing rates. I, the flunky, will tackle reviewing individual invoices for inflated charges and change orders, which could be disguised as kickbacks. The last two pieces, reviewing other expenditures and expense reports, will be divvied up depending on who gets through her work first. Probably me, since Sandy is only working part-time on this assignment, it seems. Generally, we look through all the documentation and only make work papers for things that require follow-up or result in a recommendation. This strategy should allow us some hope of getting through all the documents.
“What time is your meeting with Doug?” Sandy asks after returning with her new badge.
“Umm, nine thirty,” I say after consulting my Outlook calendar. “Marshall said he’d stop by and take me to his office.”
“Can I trust you two to keep your mind on business?” She grins.
“Sandy!” I chide.
“Just kidding. Go get him, Tanzie. I know he’s dirty. It’s a sixth sense with me. I can just tell these things.”
Apparently, you can’t, I think, sliding a binder filled with invoices over to my side of the table. The first one is from a company named Wind Fabricators and is a percentage-of-completion invoice for turbines in a farm down in the San Fernando Valley. I put a red stickie on the page, put the invoice to the right of the stack, and move on to the next one.
I’m on my third invoice stack when Marshall appears at the door.
“Is this a good time?” he asks.
Sandy gives me a wink, and I grab my laptop and follow Marshall into the stairwell.
“Hope you don’t mind taking the stairs,” he says from midway up the first flight.
“Not at all. I can use all the exercise I can get at my age.”
“Oh, stop it,” says Marshall, looking back at me.
Doug Minton’s office is just down the hall from Marshall’s, so I find it a little odd that he’s escorting me. Is Sandy right about him being interested in me?
“Doug stepped out for a minute, but he said he’d be back shortly,” says Phyllis, and Marshall and I sit down at a conference table across from his desk and wait. The office is well appointed with a red Heriz rug that I estimate in the low five figures. It is a direct contrast to Marshall’s modern space.
“Wow. Nice office.”
“Doug has very expensive taste. He’s independently wealthy, you know. Early investor in a few local startups. He knows everybody in San Francisco. Just last Thursday—no, wait a minute, it was Wednesday. No, I know it was Thursday, because that’s the day I had 49er tickets. Anyway, Doug tells me he’s meeting Sean Penn for lunch at Gary Danko’s—or was it Quince?” He pauses to review the inconsequential facts in his head, but he gives up. “Sean Penn for lunch!” he says finally.
“So, why does he work for us?” I ask.
“He says it keeps him engaged. We all adore him, you know. He’s really a great fellow. And he knows everybody. Everybody! I keep telling him he needs to go into BD. Business development, that is.” I nod, indicating that I have figured out that BD stands for business development—the wheeler-dealer folks in an organization. “But he always says no,” Marshall continues. “He’s an ops man at heart. Works so well with all our vendors and engineers. Keeps them on their toes. He finds these guys that underbid the big dogs. He knows everybody.”
“Is that a real Winslow behind his desk?” I get up to take a closer look.
“Probably. You should see his home in Pacific Heights. Really fabulous. His wife is some sort of collector.”
“I think it’s a reproduction. It’s a good one, though,” I say, putting on my reading glasses for closer inspection. I do have some expertise in this area.
Then I hear a deep voice with a hint of a New York or Jersey accent: “You must be the auditor.”
I turn around, and there stands Doug. He’s completely bald and has a neck so thick, there is little definition below his ears. He stands about six foot three, with tiny eyes and a big smile dotting his potato face. He has the look of a bodybuilder who regularly misses leg day: big brawny arms and pecs that taper down to a slim waist and long skinny legs. Doug is impeccably dressed in a camel blazer and Gucci loafers. I walk over, and we shake hands before sitting at the table with Marshall.
“Tanzie would like to understand our bidding process for capital projects, Doug. I thought you would be the best person for that. You don’t mind if I stay and listen, do you? It’s a pretty open morning for me.”
“Not at all, Marshall.” Doug gives a broad smile.
So we get started. Doug explains again what Marshall told me yesterday: that Westwind’s farms use very large three- to five-megawatt units, which means that only a handful of vendors can handle the orders. GE, Siemens, and a local group call
ed Wind Fabricators generally offer bids. Doug continues to explain how each proposal is sent to a minimum of three firms and then reviewed by Doug before being discussed among the other engineers.
“And me,” interjects Marshall. “I approve the transactions at the end of the day, which lets me—”
“Right, and Marshall,” Doug interrupts, probably to ward off a lengthy mind dump. “Lately, Tanzie, we’ve been primarily using Wind Fabricators. They’ve been significantly under the other bids, and their work is comparable to the big boys. Am I right, Marshall?” Doug has that habit of using proper names in every sentence. I find it absolutely annoying.
Marshall nods. “Cost containment is a priority, you know.”
“You said they were local,” I say. “Does that mean they manufacture here in the Bay Area?”
“No, Tanzie. I think they outsource to other engineering firms globally,” says Doug.
“How can that be cheaper?”
“Not sure, but it always is, Tanzie. Maybe it’s a volume thing. I understand they are doing a heavy global business in wind turbines, Tanzie.”
We spend the next fifteen minutes or so getting into the specifics of the bidding process. It all sounds fairly routine to me.
“Are the bids blind?” I finally ask. Blind bids require that all bids be opened at the same time to avoid tampering.
“I’ll be honest, Tanzie,” begins Doug. I always like it when someone opens with “I’ll be honest”; were they dishonest before? “Sometimes we open the bids as they come in.” He shrugs and looks at Marshall.
“Blind bids aren’t required by policy,” interjects Marshall.
“No, they’re not,” I say, “but how do you make sure that no one tampers with the bids? Isn’t that a potential risk?”
Doug gives a dismissive laugh. “You auditors are all the same, Tanzie. Always bringing up theoretical risks. Guys like Marshall and me, we live in the real world.”
“There’s no bid rigging going on here at Westwind,” agrees Marshall, leaning toward me to try to mitigate the sting of Doug’s remark.
“Our cost per turbine is well below industry average, Tanzie. If we were bid rigging, wouldn’t that suggest we were paying more than we should?” adds Doug.
“Probably,” I say, remembering that I manufactured this allegation and there’s no point in getting my back up about a theoretical fraud.
The two of them go on and on, telling war stories about wind energy. I begin to wonder what these guys do all day. Executives tend to be busy people with tight schedules, not guys that burn up their morning bullshitting with the auditor. It all seems very strange, and I begin to wonder whether Sandy was right about Marshall after all.
When I return to the conference room, it’s well after eleven. Sandy is MIA, and her purse is gone. There’s a text on my phone indicating that she returned to the hotel for a conference call but will be back around two. I begin to write a memo on my conversation with Doug and Marshall. In twenty minutes, I have everything documented, along with a recommendation that they require blind bids to ward off theoretical misconduct.
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of Gregorian chants, the ringtone I set up for Honey. I am both relieved and nervous to talk to her again.
“Honey,” I say. “I’m so sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to upset you like that. Really, I was rude.” My compartmentalized guilt springs a large leak, flooding my voice until I’m near tears.
“It’s forgotten, Tanzie.” Her voice is calm but unsettled. “Can we meet somewhere?”
“Now?” I immediately regret my response. “Of course, Honey.”
“Can we meet at the hotel? There’s something I need to discuss with you right away, and you know I don’t like to talk on the phone.”
Actually, I didn’t know that, but I’m not surprised. Honey does lean toward formality.
I look at the stacks of folders, and now I’m the one cultivating stress-induced belly fat. How am I going to get everything done here and work with Honey and Spiro? I know that if I try to put Honey off, she may pout or think I’m ungrateful for her having forgiven me for being rude last night. We are finally getting close, and I don’t want to undermine what small progress we’ve made.
“All right,” I finally say. “Give me twenty minutes, and I’ll meet you in my room. And order some lunch for me, okay? A salad.”
Before she can answer, I hear a beep on the line. “I need to go, Tanzie.” There’s an abruptness in her tone. “It’s Spiro. I need to take this. See you at the hotel.”
I hang up and shut down my laptop. If I leave now, I can make it back to the Hyatt in ten minutes.
CHAPTER TEN
Wednesday Afternoon
When I arrive at the suite, Honey and Spiro are sitting in the living-room area. Honey, in a navy knit couture number, is crying. Maybe last night isn’t forgotten after all. Could Honey’s night have been similar to mine? Did she wonder how she could have let some petty remark undermine what could have been a bonding moment? And what is Spiro doing here? Is this some sort of family intervention?
“I’m sorry, Tanzie, but the Hyatt doesn’t do room service at lunch,” Honey stutters through sobs. “Ryan said he could pick something up for us.”
Her reaction to having to modify a lunch order seems extreme, but after last night, I’m not sure how well I judge my sister’s moods and reactions. Clearly, sensitivity isn’t my strong suit. “Is that why you’re crying, Honey? It’s okay, really,” I say in a lame attempt to appease the situation.
Honey gives me an incredulous look, and again I turn to my childhood friend for some help. Spiro gives Honey’s hand a couple of pats, and then he stands up and walks toward me.
“Mrs. McCrery died last night,” Spiro says. It’s a calm priestly voice that showcases years of experience with similar painful situations. I exhale and say nothing, because I can’t think of anything to say. I feel a bit ridiculous for having misread the situation so profoundly. Sitting down next to Honey, I put my arm around her, expecting tension. But there isn’t any. Instead, Honey collapses onto me as if we’re the closest of confidants.
“Was she sick?” I look over at Spiro, who has positioned himself on an occasional chair across from the couch.
“Gunshot wound,” he says again, using his professional voice.
“Murder?” I ask.
“Self-inflicted,” Spiro says sadly. Honey shakes her head.
“She killed herself?” I ask softly.
“So it appears,” Honey says, dabbing her eyes. I resist the urge to point out that I may have been right last night about Tina, so I instead get up and grab a bottle of water out of the mini fridge.
“Let me fix you a cup of tea, Honey,” I offer, but my sister shakes her head. I don’t know what to do. I pour a finger of scotch and bring it over to Honey. At first she waves it away, but after I put it down on the table next to her, she concedes and takes a sip.
“Can I ask you something, Spiro?” I say. “Is it possible that Tina was stealing from St. Benedict’s?”
“I don’t believe it,” says Honey emphatically. “I know people. She was absolutely not a dishonest person.”
“What do you think, Spiro?” I ask again, not wanting a repeat of last night’s drama.
Spiro looks uncomfortable. “I can’t comment,” he says. “Listen, I just stopped by to say goodbye to you, Tanzie. I’m being transferred to a parish in Fresno tomorrow.”
“Fresno? Why?”
“I’ll tell you why,” chimes in Honey. “Archbishop Mauriello doesn’t want you snooping around. That’s why!”
I wait for Spiro to offer a rebuttal or say something reassuring—that this reassignment is a coincidence, that it’s normal—but he doesn’t say anything for some time.
“I’m leaving tonight, and I need to get packed,” he finally says, and he walks across the room and gives me a goodbye hug.
“Spiro, do you want me to continue with the investigation
?” I ask. As I see it, Tina McCrery, as the bookkeeper, was the only one who had the opportunity to steal from St. Benedict’s. Now she’s dead, so what would be the point of bringing her crime to light? There’ll be a new bookkeeper now, which means that the thefts will stop. As far as I’m concerned, the case is closed.
Spiro doesn’t answer right away. “Probably not,” he says finally, shaking his head. “I really can’t talk about this right now. I’m sorry, Tanzie. You came all the way out here to help me.”
On the one hand, I’m hugely relieved. If he’s letting me off the hook, my penance is over. I can graciously back out of my commitment to Spiro, complete my audit for CoGenCo, and then get on with my life. On the other hand, it’s a huge coincidence that Spiro is being transferred just after the bookkeeper’s death. Something here isn’t right.
A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts, and Ryan appears with some salads, which he places on the dining table.
“I really need to go and spend the rest of the day with my mother,” Spiro says. “She’s very upset about my transfer. She’s eighty-five, you know.”
“I can’t believe she’s eighty-five.” I can’t believe I’m fifty-five, for that matter. “How did we all get so old?”
Spiro smiles.
Vreseis Cosmo was a fixture at my house growing up. She and my mother would talk for hours over coffee while Spiro played with my sisters and me. We considered the Cosmos family, since Spiro was an only child and we had eight.
“We’ll take care of her, Spiro,” Honey says, looking up from her scotch. “The O’Leary girls will take care of her. Except for Tanzie, that is. She lives in Houston.” Her voice is low. Scotch infused. “Tanzie, you need to move back here to San Francisco, and you need to start going to church again.”
Does she really expect me to pack up and move to the most expensive city in the world, just like that? I’m getting annoyed here, but I know she’s upset, and I was the one who poured her the scotch.
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