Sandy and I debate whether to call Mark now or wait until the morning. My vote is to wait, but Sandy is like a kid in a candy store.
“It’s after midnight in Houston,” I caution. “There’s nothing he can do about this right away. Let the poor man sleep.”
She finally acquiesces. The hallway lights went off hours ago, so we decide to photograph the contracts on our phones instead of hauling everything to a copy room. We may not get another opportunity to get back to the conference room over the weekend. Besides, Mark might want to look at these himself before he shells out for another plane ticket.
We decide to celebrate once we return to the hotel. It’s a little past midnight, but the Friday-night crowd is going strong. Moments like this make me realize that there isn’t enough Botox or lipo to transform me back into a person young enough to think that being in a bar on Friday past midnight is fun. I would much rather be in my lovely suite, cozy in my robe and watching from the balcony, as the city goes on without me. Sandy is in her element, though, bobbing her head to the strong beat of some music I’ve not heard before.
“I told you he was dirty,” Sandy shouts over the loud music. “I’m gonna get pro-mo-ted. You too, Tanzie.”
We clink our glasses.
“You think Marshall has his hand in the till?” I ask. “We haven’t found anything to link him.”
“Dang, Tanzie,” she says, cocking her head to one side to emphasize that I’m a complete idiot. “That helpline call was about Marshall, not Doug. Of course Marshall’s part of this.”
Ah yes, the helpline call. “So, how was dinner with Mauriello?” I ask, changing the subject. “He looked pretty tired this morning.”
Sandy starts laughing. “He is one weird dude, Tanzie.”
“Really? Like how? Kinky sex?” I immediately regret the question. It’s hard enough balancing a return to the church without knowing the details of one deviant archbishop, not to mention I essentially called my boss a slut.
“No. Actually, the sex was pretty good. It was afterward.” She takes a sip of scotch and chews on ice while she thinks for a minute. “You know, we have a lot in common. Turns out he grew up in foster care and then in some sort of orphanage, so we both grew up not knowing our parents. And we’ve both made something of our lives.”
“And you are two of the best-looking people on the planet,” I add.
“Well, thank you.” Sandy raises her glass in agreement and takes another sip of scotch. “So, he orders in dinner. Fine. Opens a bottle of wine. Fine. Then—” Sandy leans in for emphasis, “we move into his bedroom and get busy. Now, this is what’s weird. The whole time, and I mean the whole dang time, he’s calling me a pagan baby. Like, what the hell’s a pagan baby?”
I laugh and start to interrupt, but Sandy holds up her finger. This was a rhetorical question, apparently, so I don’t provide details. As any alum from parochial school in the sixties and seventies can tell you, a $5 donation, usually aggregated from small change left over from lunch money, allowed your class to “adopt” a pagan baby from developing countries. You never got to see the child, but you did get to name it. Generally, there were separate accounts for boys and girls so that the naming process could be kept civil, as well as to spur good-natured competition among the donors. I can’t control my laughter at Mauriello’s reference, and Sandy issues me an annoyed look.
“Anyway, we keep going, and it’s good,” she says. “This man knows what he’s doing, if you know what I mean.” That, too, is a rhetorical question, so I stay quiet. “So, afterward I say, kinda whisper, you know, ‘So, was it worth it, Joseph?’ That’s his real name. ‘Are you going to Hell now?’
“And I’m joking, obviously! But you should have seen him, Tanzie. He gets up and goes into the bathroom. I hear him hollering and carrying on. I’m getting scared, thinking I’d best call a cab or something, but then he comes back and apologizes. Real nice—gets us a glass of wine and puts his arm around me. I’m not scared anymore—just think the dude’s kinda weird. He explains he has some issues he’s working on. Like, no shit. I tell him ‘I’m just passing through, cowboy. Finished with my audit and heading back to Houston tomorrow.’ Then—and this is the weirdest part of all.”
“What?” I ask. This is already pretty weird, in my opinion.
“He gets real serious, you know, not lovey-dovey anymore. He asks me what I’m auditing. How I’m auditing. What kind of stuff I look at.”
“That’s weirder than having a breakdown after sex?”
Sandy cocks her head. Once again, my boss has relegated me to the dunce chair.
“Tanzie, has anyone ever asked you to elaborate on auditing? Ever?”
I think for a minute. There’s my sister, and then there’s Spiro, but the circumstances were certainly different.
“The phrase ‘I am an internal auditor’ generally results in total silence, a change of subject, or just plain walking away, depending upon how polite the person is,” Sandy says. “Hell, I’ve gotten out of jury duty just by saying, ‘I’m an internal auditor.’ Boom! Reject right there. Nobody wants to hear more about it, Tanzie. I usually just say I’m an accountant.”
We laugh at that, but this latest account gives me pause. Is it possible that Mauriello might be mentally unstable or some sort of psychopath? The street thug who wins the golden ticket into private school but still beats up his classmates. The popular archbishop who establishes a wonderful program like St. Benedict’s and then seduces and berates young nuns until they leave the convent. I consider bringing this up to Sandy, but I decide against it, remembering that the pre-date warning I issued was rebuffed. There’s no second date in the works, so I just let it go, grateful that Sandy made it out all right.
“You didn’t tell him about the helpline call, did you?” I ask.
“Do I look stupid? Of course not. Marshall sits on that charity’s board, remember. I just say it’s all routine; we’ve gotta audit everything every five years, something like that.” Sandy takes another sip of scotch. “Then—” again she leans toward me, “he asks me how I would know if someone was stealing money. And it wasn’t just that he asked—it was how he asked. I just tell him that we’d look at the bank activity first. And I’m like, it’s 2 a.m., dude; let’s either get back to what we were doing before or go to sleep. Well, he’s not interested in either of those options. He gets nervous as a cat and starts pacing. He pours himself a tall scotch, like three fingers, and doesn’t even ask if I want any. He just sort of shuts down. In his own world, you know what I mean?”
I nod.
“It’s clear, though, that he wants me outta his place pronto. Calls a cab, makes up this lame excuse that he doesn’t feel well. Really awkward twenty minutes waiting for that cab. He’s back in the bathroom, hollering again. Weird dude, Tanzie. That is one weird dude. You can have the Catholic Church. Give me rattlesnake handling any old day.”
I chuckle at the reference, but there’s a part of me that’s worried. The fact that Mauriello wants more information about auditing signals that he may be our embezzler after all. So, how does the bookkeeper figure in all of this? I need to talk to Honey. I signal the waitress for another round.
“What are you planning on doing tomorrow, Tanzie?” Sandy asks.
“I haven’t had much time to help my sister with her project,” I say. “She’s been working all alone on this all week, and I feel sort of bad.” The waitress delivers our drinks.
“That reminds me,” Sandy adds. “Do you think your nun sister would mind returning a sweater I borrowed from our dear archbishop?”
“What sweater?” I ask.
“While I was waiting on the cab, I grabbed a sweater out of Joseph’s hall closet. I was damn near freezing to death, and I didn’t want to interrupt his hissy fit, so I borrowed this green sweater for the ride home. I have it in my room.”
“It may be a bit awkward for Honey to return the sweater, don’t you think? What’s she supposed to say, Sandy? ‘Archbisho
p Mauriello, the young woman you were banging the other night borrowed this and asked me to return it to you’?”
“I don’t want to see him again, Tanzie,” she says, frowning. “And I don’t want to steal it, either.”
“How about you give it to Honey to donate to St. Vincent de Paul?” I suggest.
Sandy shrugs, indicating we have met an ethical compromise. “I’ll get the sweater to you to give to Sister Honey, and what she does with it is up to her.”
“Okay,” I agree, taking a sip of my cocktail.
With that, I bring Sandy up to speed on Honey’s idea that Mauriello’s embezzling from St. Benedict’s. I tell her about Spiro’s transfer and Mrs. McCrery’s suicide, and how we’ve been working out of a luxury suite on the top floor all week.
“See? I do have a sixth sense about these things,” Sandy says. “My vote is that Joseph Mauriello has got something to hide, and it ain’t got nothing to do with rockin’ the trailer every now and again.”
“Rocking what?” It takes a while for it to sink in. “Oh, never mind,” I say. “Do you want to help us with the St. Benedict’s investigation?”
“Hell no. I’m fixin’ to spend the weekend on a double-decker bus and shoe shopping, thank you very much.” She drains her glass and gives a quizzical expression. “You’ve been in a dang suite all week?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Saturday Morning
We decide to meet for a late breakfast in my suite, mostly to satisfy Sandy’s curiosity but also to have some privacy when we call Mark to tell him what we’ve found. It’s noon, Houston time, when we call, and Mark tells us he’s just come in from the golf course.
“So, let me get this straight,” Mark says after Sandy brings him up to speed. Sandy puts him on speaker so I can hear the conversation. “You ladies are telling me that our wind energy leadership is involved in a kickback scheme?”
“We don’t have anything but the helpline call on Marshall and this Gerard’s name on all the contracts,” Sandy says, and I shrink back in my chair, “but I know he’s dirty.”
“She can tell,” I add.
“And this is all based upon information gathered in a Starbucks and on the golf course.”
“Peet’s,” I correct. “Not Starbucks.”
“Oh, well then,” he says dryly.
Sandy and I look at each other. “What about Gerard being on all the contracts?” she asks.
“It’s a red flag,” he concedes, “but far from conclusive. We need to exercise a great deal of caution when dealing with executives. These things can become very political. I can’t believe you two went back to the Westwind offices without permission. Thank God no one saw you.”
Sandy cringes, and I mouth I’m sorry. Our victory has been short-lived. We are now in trouble with the boss. Mark schools us on this for a little longer but concedes in the end to have IT pull emails on Doug and Marshall. Sandy and I can remain in San Francisco. Mark will call Marshall personally on Monday and make up some excuse for our extension. In the meantime, we can take the weekend off.
Sandy inspects the bar and grabs a Diet Coke out of the mini fridge. “Well, another week in San Francisco,” she says, walking out to the balcony overlooking the Embarcadero. I grab my coffee cup and join her.
“I don’t believe it—again.” Sandy points to a tiny figure standing by the cab line. “See that guy down there?” The man has on a red long-sleeved shirt and a black baseball cap, but I can’t see his face, since we’re so high up.
“What about him?” I ask.
“I keep seeing him,” Sandy says.
“Maybe he works at the hotel.”
“No. He was outside Mauriello’s place the other night. I’m sure of it.”
“You think he’s stalking you?” It seems possible that someone as gorgeous as Sandy might attract a stalker or two.
Sandy shrugs. She doesn’t seem very concerned about this, but I am. Is Mauriello having Sandy followed? I think about making this suggestion but refrain. Sandy’s prolific love life comes with risks, and she doesn’t seem interested in discussing them with me. It’s a delicate balance when you are friendly with your boss. We are friendly, not friends. Boundaries must be respected.
After Sandy leaves, I decide to take a walk down to the Ferry Building, which is only a block from the Hyatt. There’s a farmers’ market with craft booths on the front plaza, and I wander among the throng of tourists and locals. I’m looking through a stack of watercolors, trying to find something both memorable and affordable, when I feel a tap on my arm.
“Hello, Tanzie.” It’s Ted Cardiff. He has on a flat tweed cap and a fine blue cashmere sweater. “I thought you’d left by now.”
I tell him that we’ll be staying a bit longer but don’t elaborate, and he doesn’t press the issue. We decide to grab a sandwich and sit on the eastern deck of the Ferry Building on a wooden bench looking out to the Bay. I find myself enjoying the second chance with Ted. His mood is light. Perhaps he’s relieved that I decided not to leap to my death.
“So, what do you do exactly for Zurich?” I ask Ted.
“This and that.” The answer is intentionally vague, but I don’t mind, since the question was just meant as an icebreaker.
“Do you have a family in Wales?” I wait to see if his answer is equally vague, but Ted reaches into his pocket, retrieves his phone, and hands it to me. I expect to see strapping grown sons or grandchildren, and I prepare myself for the oohs and aahs to follow. Instead, the picture is of a dog, a border collie.
“His name is Witt,” Ted says.
Not to be outdone, I take out my phone.
“Rocky,” I say, showing him the picture.
We spend the next few minutes talking about dogs. Ted and I are equally shameless when it comes to bragging and one-upmanship. I no longer find Ted to be dull—or if he is, I’m just as bad. I like this guy, and I think he likes me. Yes, I think, there’s some definite flirting going on. Well, maybe there is—he’s a middle-aged man with no wife or kids, just a dog. Perhaps Ted is gay. That would be my luck. Still, I don’t care. I’m having a blast at the moment, and so is he.
Ted wakes me out of my daydream. “I think you have a phone message?”
The text is from Honey: MEET ME AT 233 CERVANTES. NOW!!!!! I show it to Ted. “My sister the Sister has summoned me.”
“Lovely part of the city. That’s the Marina District, correct?”
It is a lovely part of the city, but who knows what Honey’s up to. I think of the stolen laptop. Lord knows what she has in mind now.
“I need to go, Ted. I promised my sister that I would help her with a project she’s got going on.”
“Could I ask you to join me for dinner tomorrow, then?”
“I’d love to.”
I give Ted my number and tell him to text me the specifics.
“Aye,” he says, with a smile. There’s a spring in my step as I dash to the front of the Ferry Building to hail a cab.
The address turns out to be a $4 million fixer-upper in the Marina District with a stunning view of the Golden Gate Bridge. I ring the bell, and an exhausted-looking woman opens the door.
“You must be Tanzie,” she says. “Thanks so much for coming.”
Honey’s already there. “This is the sister I was telling you about,” she says. “Tanzie, this is Kathy Westmoreland—Tina McCrery’s twin sister.”
I immediately wonder what Honey’s said about me. I’m also surprised that Kathy, Tina’s twin, is so young. I’d envisioned Mrs. McCrery as some little old lady, with her gray hair in a bun and a pencil behind her ear, but Kathy can’t be more than forty-five. She has the trim build of a runner with the tanned skin that comes from spending a great deal of time outdoors. Her black hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, and she’s wearing a black sheath and Birkenstocks, probably having ditched the funeral pumps.
She gestures toward the parlor, and Honey and I sit on matching worn green brocade wingback chairs in a bay w
indow nook. Two members of the catering team are still cleaning up from the post-funeral gathering.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” she asks. “I’m going to have some.” We accept the offer, and Kathy disappears into the kitchen.
“How was the funeral?” I whisper to Honey after Kathy leaves.
“Sad.” She nods. “And it was a bit unnerving to have a eulogy delivered by an exact replica of the deceased.”
Before I can react, Kathy reappears with three wine glasses and an uncorked bottle of Zinfandel. She pours us glasses and then takes a sip. “What a day. What a week,” she says in sorrowful exhaustion. “Tanzie, are you a detective?”
“No. I’m a corporate auditor for a company in Houston,” I say. “I’m more accountant than policeman.”
“Tina was a CPA,” she says wistfully. “Me, I’m horrible with numbers. She took the math portion of the SAT for me back in high school so I could get into Berkeley. Isn’t that funny?” She bites her lip. “I’m all cried out,” she says, looking up at me. I just give a slight smile. I really don’t know what to say here: It’s amazing that identical twins have different abilities, or So, you cheated your way into a selective school?
“Honey told me that the two of you are looking into St. Benedict’s,” Kathy says. “You think there might be some sort of fraud. Is that right?”
“There’s no hard evidence yet that suggests fraud,” I say, looking at Honey, who is giving me a glare.
“But there’s certainly a crime,” Kathy interrupts. “Tina told me there was.”
“Mauriello?” asks Honey.
“Yes. Mauriello,” Kathy says, emphatically draining her wine glass and then pouring another. One of the caterers comes into the living room with a plate of finger sandwiches and a bowl of chips and places them on the coffee table. “I hope this is all right,” Kathy says apologetically.
“It’s perfect,” I tell her. Honey nods, picking up a paper napkin and taking something that looks like chicken salad on sourdough. I take two of the watercress on wheat. “So, what did Tina tell you about Mauriello?”
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