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Without Warning

Page 12

by Joanne Fox Phillips


  “Follow me,” commands Sister Ignatius, and I return my designer clothes to the rack. My suitcase is too small anyway, I rationalize. We enter the main part of the store.

  “Over there is casual sportswear,” she says. “You can see if there’s anything in your size.”

  I grab a white polo shirt in medium, but it has a slight stain under the logo, so I put it back and take the same shirt in navy. Sister Ignatius walks over with two pairs of brand-new white shorts with tags still on, one a size eight and the other a six. I take them both to try on, even though I’ll be lucky to squeeze into the eights after a week in San Francisco. Then Sister Ignatius arrives with the mother lode: an entire box of almost new ladies’ golf shoes in a variety of sizes. Apparently, there is no shortage of women who take up golf only to abandon it after spending hundreds on all the clothes and equipment. I find a pair of blue-and-white Foot Joys that are perfect, so I take them. The total bill comes to twenty-five bucks, and all I’ll need to buy is a glove and a sleeve of balls, which ironically will set me back almost the same amount.

  “This is great,” I say, fishing out two twenties from my wallet. “Thank you, Sister.”

  “Anything for Sister Marcella’s baby sister,” she says as she hands me my change. “I feel like I know you. That’s all Sister Marcella used to talk about—how smart and successful you were. Living the glamorous life in Texas.”

  The comment surprises me. I would have thought any conversations between Honey and Sister Ignatius concerning me would have been about how I moved away, married a Protestant, and abandoned the church. She married for money, not like us, Sister Ignatius, I’d imagined her saying. Now look at her: alone with a dog. Just reward for a selfish life. It’s nice to think that I might have been wrong.

  “It’s not so glamorous anymore, Sister Ignatius,” I say. “Did she tell you that?”

  Sister Ignatius ignores my remark. “Sister Marcella says you are a terrific golfer.”

  “Sometimes.” It’s never a good idea to brag before a golf match.

  “Sister Marcella also says you’ll be playing with Archbishop Mauriello,” she says in a low, serious voice.

  I nod.

  “Beat him like a drum, Tanzie,” she says, punching her fist into the air.

  The driver lets me off at the Olympic Club’s Lakeside clubhouse, and I head for the ladies’ locker room. The attendant is a tiny Asian woman who issues me a day locker and explains the basic layout. She is happy to clean my shoes, but I decline, as they have never been worn.

  The morning fog has burned off a bit, but it’s still chilly as I wander over to the pro shop to arrange for some loaner clubs. The pro is already ready for me.

  “Your clubs are on the cart, Mrs. Lewis, and Myron will be your forecaddie. The rest of your group is on the driving range.” The pro points out the window. “I’m afraid you won’t have much time to warm up, Mrs. Lewis. The starter is ready for your group.”

  “That’s all right,” I say, and I head out to the cart to get situated. I pick out my group from the throng on the practice range. Doug Minton, massive man that he is, stands out not just because of his size but because he’s a lefty and standing at the far end of the range. I wonder if Mauriello has recognized Doug from high school. I can’t imagine a more awkward moment for either party. Hello, Archbishop. You probably don’t remember me, but you used to use me for a punching bag when we were teenagers. So glad everything has worked out so well for you, now that you’ve found God. Then Mauriello might respond with a quizzical look. Well, thank you, Doug, is it? There were so many back then; forgive me for not remembering you right away.

  Marshall and Mauriello are using adjacent spots just to the left of the center of the range. The contrast between these men could not be more pronounced. Marshall, a fashion miss, looks like one of Santa’s elves, with red golf slacks and a matching sweater vest. The archbishop is, of course, impeccably dressed in black slacks, white polo, and tan wind vest. As I review the group from afar, it appears that Archbishop Mauriello is the lone golfer among hacks. His swing is smooth and effortless. I put him in the low single digits if he has a decent short game.

  My rented Callaways have been placed on the passenger side of Doug’s cart, so I take out three balls from the sleeve, putting two in my pocket and the third in the ball slot. Six white tees lined up like little soldiers have been placed in designated holes, and a cooler of bottled water and beer has been secured to the rear fender of the cart.

  Myron, our caddy, comes over to shake my hand and introduce himself just as the three masters of the universe exit the practice range. Mauriello appears to be dragging a bit. Not much sleep, I think, and I wonder if it’s the result of Sandy snoring like a freight train or the two of them going at it like rabbits all night.

  “I was wondering if you were going to make it, Tanzie,” says Marshall.

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” I say, with a smile.

  Marshall begins to put his practice clubs back in his bag. In keeping with his engineer sensibilities, his clubs are in perfect numerical order. He seems less attentive to me today. This isn’t surprising, considering that Sandy and I finished our audit yesterday; actually, I was half expecting him to cancel. Maybe he’s hoping to run this through his expense report. I’ll be sure to keep a lookout.

  When Mauriello comes over to the cart, he gives my hand a quick shake but diverts his eyes momentarily. I become uneasy but can’t put my finger on why. I shake off my misgivings and attribute it to the most likely cause: sexism. Like many men, particularly athletes, Mauriello may not like to play golf with women. I’ve been through this before. Winston took some convincing before realizing I wouldn’t slow him down or cramp his style on the course.

  “If you prefer, Tanzie,” he says, “we can move to the Cliffs Course. It’s a par 3 and might be easier for you.”

  Doug Minton looks disappointed at not being able to showcase his big drives.

  “That won’t be necessary, Archbishop Mauriello. I’ve played a few times before; I’ll make sure not to slow anyone down.”

  Doug looks relieved and hands out cigars to his group. He offers me one, and I politely decline, saying I’m trying to quit.

  “So, did Mauriello recognize you?” I ask Doug as we drive to the first tee.

  My question doesn’t register immediately, and I wonder if Doug forgot that he’d told me about his past with Mauriello. Finally, he shakes his head, but he doesn’t elaborate. I can sense that he’s miffed at having to share a cart with me—riding with the only woman is the golf equivalent of sitting at the kids’ table at Thanksgiving.

  We get to the first tee, and the three alphas get out and take broad swings in the air.

  “What’s the bet today?” asks Doug.

  “Skins,” suggests Mauriello. “No handicap.”

  “I already laid out twenty-five grand for this,” pleads Marshall.

  “You can play from the middle tees if you want,” Doug says. He and Mauriello share a laugh, bonding momentarily over teasing tiny Marshall.

  “Can I get in?” I ask.

  “Of course.” The archbishop laughs. “Tanzie, you can have a stroke on every hole.”

  This guy has no idea how well or poorly I play, yet he’s already given up eighteen strokes.

  “Thank you, Archbishop,” I say. “Very generous of you.” I think about seeing if I can add a Spiro transfer to the betting but decide not to take on that kind of pressure. Something about the way Mauriello looked at me earlier makes me not want to bring Spiro’s name up.

  I head back to the cart and watch the big dogs throw their tees in the air to see who will tee off first. The first tee is a 500-yard par 4, and not much advantage is given to the women. I watch as Marshall tees up his ball and launches into an exhaustive pre-swing ritual. He hits a respectable shot down the middle and grins as he exits the tee box. Doug follows with a long drive that misses badly to the right, and Mauriello places his ball nicely in the fairway ju
st short of the second set of fairway bunkers, about 170 yards from the green. I place my conservative drive squarely down the center, a few yards past Marshall’s ball.

  I remember reading somewhere that golf, like bike shorts, can reveal a lot about a man. A round of golf can bring to the surface character traits often kept under wraps in typical business relationships. After the first nine holes, I know that Doug is a first-class SOB. He makes excuses for every missed putt and has Myron retrieve his wedge from a shallow ravine after Doug chili-dipped his pitch on hole number four and sent his club flying. He’s a caveman, launching massive drives that end up hooking or slicing into the Ocean Course’s unforgiving rough. Never a safe punch back to fairway for this guy. Instead, he hopes for a miracle by using a 3-iron approach out of the cypress trees, and then becomes consumed by disbelief and rage when he winds up in water or, worse, only advances his ball three yards. He apologizes constantly for his liberal use of f-bombs.

  Marshall is painfully slow, taking numerous practice swings and then having to repeat his pre-swing ritual after the most minor distraction. He is not a long hitter, and he didn’t take the archbishop’s offer of the middle tees, although he really should. He doesn’t get into much trouble, however, and he manages a basic pathetic double-bogey game. He takes his mediocrity in stride, and so far he hasn’t become ruffled, although the foursome behind us shows some frustration with the slow pace. They stand on the tee box, hands on hips, rather than just waiting in their cart until we get on the green.

  The archbishop has game, and unlike Doug, he holds his emotions in check, even after he hits his drive into a cypress grove on number three. Lee Trevino once said that not even God can hit a 1-iron, but Mauriello can. His drive on the tight par 4 downwind demonstrates his formidable skill using a club with a sweet spot smaller than a rosary bead. I’m not on my A game, particularly with loaner clubs, but I can still tie with Mauriello, utilizing my stroke on every hole.

  Number eight is a long par 3 with a sloping green that requires fairly good ball placement to putt in regulation. All three men hit over the green, with Doug and Mauriello both landing in a deep bunker. My shot lands just on the fringe about twenty feet from the hole. Doug, class act that he is, has headed off to a grove of trees to relieve himself.

  I stand at the cart, debating whether to chip or bump and run, when I notice Mauriello. He doesn’t see me, so I watch him. He nudges his fried-egg ball to a slight rise in the bunker, improving his lie. Then he buries Doug’s ball by crushing it with his foot. Two things are clear: He must have recognized Doug, and he has not been completely reformed from his high school ways. I decide not to call him out on it, but I learn something about his character. He cheats—and he’s prone to petty vindictiveness.

  I give Myron a wink as I walk over to address my ball. I decide to go for a chip. Any beginner can launch a decent bump and run with a 7-iron. It takes true skill to chip effectively. Mauriello pulls off a par, but Doug and Marshall both lay three on the green and wait for me to chip. My ball lands beautifully and with perfect spin, and it rolls gently into the hole for a birdie.

  “I believe that’s eight skins,” I say, with a smile.

  Mauriello looks at Marshall with a fixed smile. “You didn’t tell me Tanzie was such a good golfer,” he says.

  The back nine is even worse for the boys. Having their collective asses kicked by the one female in the group has made their games come undone. Between the beers and the bogeys, they are not even apologizing for their profanity at this point. Water is truly under the bridge; whatever animosity existed before between Doug and Mauriello has evaporated in their common humiliation. They are now brothers, joined together in their desire to not get skunked.

  I don’t think I’ve ever won all eighteen skins before, but then, no one’s ever given me eighteen strokes.

  We get to sixteen, the longest hole on the course, and Doug storms to the tee. He launches his drive of the day, nearly 300 yards to the middle on the fairway. Delighted, he raises his driver to the heavens.

  “They don’t call me Boomer for nothing!” he shouts, and he issues high fives to the other two.

  Doug is Boomer!

  I walk up to the ladies’ tee, but my mind is racing as I process this. My concentration is shot, and my drive is a shank into deep rough. The boys are elated, and the final two holes are just as abysmal for me. But I’m happy when the round is done. As soon as we get back to the clubhouse, I send a text to Sandy, telling her what I’ve learned. Our investigation is suddenly back on.

  I forgo the after-golf drinks, telling them that I have some family business to tend to and to donate my winnings to St. Benedict’s. There’s nothing but relief on the faces of the remaining threesome. They can now lick their wounds in the men’s locker room instead of in the mixed grill with me tagging along.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Friday Afternoon

  Sandy and I meet in the Hyatt lobby in the very same techno pod where I had met with Spiro and Honey a couple nights before.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Tanzie,” Sandy says. “What if there’s more than one Boomer?”

  I remind her that this is San Francisco and not Oklahoma, where Boomers are as common as pickup trucks. “But it’s possible,” I concede. “We need something else to corroborate it.”

  We debate whether or not to call Mark. Technically, we ended the audit yesterday, and it would be considered rude to go back unannounced, especially with Marshall and Doug gone for the day.

  “I’m not even sure they’d let us in, now that we’ve turned in our badges,” I say.

  “Actually, I still have a badge,” Sandy says, fishing it out of her purse. “One of the ones I lost before. I found it in my other purse this morning.”

  I don’t comment on her having a badge, even though I’m grateful that her habit of losing them and having to get replacements has surprisingly paid off. “Then let’s go over and see if anyone’s around,” I suggest. “If they are, we can just say we forgot something—maybe we got a review note or had some last-minute detail to follow up.”

  Sandy thinks about this. Showing up unannounced after pulling off a job, while not forbidden, is certainly considered poor form. If nothing else, it reinforces people’s misconception that auditors are unprofessional sneaks. Still, Sandy desperately wants to get the goods on Marshall, and eventually she nods. So, we head over to Westwind to see if we can find any corroborating information among the files.

  After four on a Friday, the Westwind offices are a ghost town. There’s no one even at the reception desk, so we use Sandy’s badge to let ourselves in directly to the conference room. Our binders and files haven’t been touched since we pulled out of the offices yesterday morning. I go immediately to the expense reports and look at Doug’s. Most company policies require the names of attendees at expensed meals. I don’t recall seeing anything with Gerard on it, though—surely I would have noticed the name.

  “Here it is!” Sandy shouts, and she slides a contract over the table to me. I pick up the folder, and there I see it: Gerard Senen, Vice President of Engineering and Construction, Wind Fabricators.

  This is unbelievable, I think. I made the whole bid-rigging scheme up, but it turns out it was true. Maybe there’s some divine intervention going on here, but I’ll take it.

  Something about the last name, Senen, seems familiar. I flip back through the expense reports.

  “He’s all over the place,” I tell Sandy. “It’s just that it always says G. Senen. That’s why I never connected it before. Are you going to call Mark?” I ask.

  “Not yet. Let’s circle the wagons here and get as much evidence put together as we can. I don’t want to bother Mark on a Friday night unless we have something more than an overheard conversation. After I told him we thought we were done yesterday, I think he suspects this whole thing was just me trying to get a free vacation.”

  “Some vacation,” I say.

  We start gathering evi
dence. It’s long and hard work: Even though we know just what we’re looking for now, we still have to go back over many of the invoices, expense reports, and contracts that we’ve already cleared. I’m thinking about brewing a pot of coffee when I remember what Ted Cardiff told me about mechanical failures.

  “Sandy, do you remember who built the Mojave wind farm?” I ask.

  “I think that was a Siemens contract.” She walks over to one of the cardboard boxes and removes a black binder. “It was ginormous. I didn’t realize they were having so many problems.”

  She finds the contract and slides it over to me. I begin to go through it, and then I feel my face drop as I reach the signatory page.

  “Oh God, Sandy,” I say. “You might want to call Mark after all.”

  Gerard Senen is the signatory on the Mojave project. It is a Siemens contract. Gerard must have worked for Siemens before he moved over to Wind Fabricators. For a guy that knows everybody, Doug seems to migrate to a single counterparty when it comes to awarding major contracts. While it is not uncommon for tight business relationships to exist among people like Doug and Gerard, it is an enormous red flag to see a consistent stream of business awarded to a single salesman who changes engineering firms. Couple that with the scene at Peet’s and the mechanical failures that brought Ted to San Francisco, and there’s compelling evidence that something’s not on the up and up.

  Unlike most other areas in business—where crises are part of everyday life in the form of lawsuits, catastrophic events, cyber breaches, and the like—one of the great things about my job is that there are very few internal audit emergencies. Internal audit tends to be work that can be scheduled and rarely requires immediate action by anyone. The lone exception, however, is a major fraud by a business executive. It suddenly looks like that’s what we’re facing.

 

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