Without Warning

by Joanne Fox Phillips

  Finally, Honey opens the Monsignor55 email, and I gasp. The only messages in this mailbox are conversations between Tina and Mauriello.

  “I’m starting with this one,” says Honey, smiling at me.

  While she goes through it, I take Tina’s phone and punch in the five-digit code from the notebook. There are twenty or so unread texts: mostly automated appointment notifications and texts to and from her sister Kathy, her ex-husband George, and her friends. There’s nothing to Mauriello, or at least nothing that looks as if it had been sent.

  “This is weird,” I say. “No texts to Mauriello. No phone calls, no messages.”

  “Well, there are plenty of emails,” Honey says, focusing on the screen in front of her. “I’m going from oldest to most recent.”

  I marvel at her restraint. Most rookies would start with the most recent stuff, but Honey’s approach exhibits the necessary discipline to understand context. I busy myself with exploring Tina’s phone, but there’s nothing I can find that ties her to Mauriello.

  I walk over to the bar, take a bottle of water from the fridge, and offer one to Honey, who declines.

  “Have you found anything so far?” I ask, having completed my phone review.

  Honey looks up slowly and bites her lip. “Yes, I have,” she says slowly. “I think the archbishop may have killed Tina—or at least he didn’t stop her from killing herself.”

  My blood runs cold at the thought, and I suddenly remember Mauriello crushing good old Doug’s ball in the trap on the eighth hole last Friday.

  “Why do you say that?” I ask. “That’s a pretty big ethical leap from embezzlement.”

  “For one, he’s the one who bought her the gun last month,” she says. “It was ‘for protection.’ He knew she was being treated for depression. Why would someone do that?

  “Second, the suicide note was sent to Mauriello on Tuesday at 2 p.m.,” she continues. “You said there were no calls or texts to him on Tina’s phone. That doesn’t make sense—if she emailed him the suicide note, wouldn’t calling her be the first thing he’d do? So, there are two possibilities: One is that he just never responded to her, letting her die. But that’s unlikely, because why wouldn’t she have called him? So, I think it’s the other possibility: that he was there when she shot herself. But instead of calling an ambulance, he took her phone and deleted all of her calls and texts so that there would be no evidence of a relationship.”

  “So, he just left her to die?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer right away. “Just from these emails, Tanzie, it’s so clear that Archbishop Mauriello is a manipulator. A complete psychopath, if you ask me.”

  From everything I know about Mauriello, Honey may be right.

  “Wouldn’t someone have seen him leaving the building after a gunshot, though?” I ask.

  “Why would the police have even looked for witnesses?” Honey says. “This was clearly a suicide. There’s been no investigation.”

  “So, here’s a question, Honey,” I say. “Why are the emails still there? Why didn’t he delete them from the phone?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe she didn’t have that account set up on her phone. The only email account is her personal one. And we had Tina’s laptop—he may not have known the password to that Gmail account.”

  I use my laptop to access her personal bank. The account is still open, but there are no large deposits or unusual payments. “You were right about Tina,” I tell my sister from across the table. “This girl was not stealing.”

  “So, what do we do now?” Honey asks.

  I think about it. “Honey, why don’t you pay a visit to Tina’s building tomorrow and ask around or see if they have any surveillance tapes? They may not let you see them, but maybe you’ll get lucky. It’s worth a try.”

  “Plus,” Honey adds, “someone called the police that night. Maybe that same person saw Mauriello.”

  Continuing to talk through our plans and theories, we keep working until just before I’ve got to get ready to meet Ted. As we work, I find myself asking for Honey’s opinion and advice more and more frequently; her leadership, once annoying to me, has shifted to a partnership. After less than a week, we are equals. Honey is amazing. Brilliant, in fact.

  “Honey,” I say as she gathers her things to head back to the convent. “You’re really getting pretty good at this.”

  She smiles, and then she raises her eyes momentarily as if giving thanks. “We make a good team, dear sister,” she says as she exits the suite.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Sunday Night

  Boulevard, the restaurant, is on the ground floor of the Audiffred Building at the corner of Mission and Embarcadero. It was built in 1889 and is one of San Francisco’s oldest structures. I was told that during the 1906 earthquake and subsequent fire, the bartender at the saloon inside bribed the firemen with a keg of whiskey each for preferential service and was thus spared.

  I enter just past six and see Ted at a table for two looking out to the Embarcadero. He sees me and stands to pull out my chair. “Thank you for meeting me,” he says in his thick brogue.

  “Thank you for asking me,” I say, sitting down. The scotch in Ted’s glass is gone, and he swirls the ice around to pick up any residual liquid before taking a final swig. He signals the waiter for another and gestures toward me.

  “Aye, I’m a wee bit nervous,” he confesses. “Forgive me.”

  I’m unclear as to the rules in play here. Ted strikes me as an old-fashioned guy, so he probably will pick up the check. But this is San Francisco, so it is possible that such a gentlemanly gesture could be misinterpreted by some as sexist. I’m not comfortable having some sort of pre-date negotiation on this, so I elect to take the most conservative approach and assume I’m paying my way. If I must pick up my share of this evening, I don’t want to hand in an expense report that gets me in trouble with Sandy. Mark’s policy for such things is “one sensibly priced drink at dinner.”

  “Just a glass of the house white,” I tell the waiter.

  Ted still looks nervous, and I decide to ask him about something I know he can talk about easily.

  “So, tell me about wind farms,” I say.

  He looks confused. “What do you want to know?”

  “Whatever you can tell me,” I say. “How do they work, exactly? How long have they been around?”

  He thinks for a moment before he speaks.

  “Wind power is ancient,” he says. “From the first sailboats thousands of years ago to windmills in the Netherlands, which sprang up during the Middle Ages. Wind energy was primarily used to pump water at farms that needed an independent power source. The technology has evolved over time, but advances have been stalled or accelerated depending upon world government incentives, so the upward trajectory in design has been inconsistent.”

  “Like oil and gas,” I say.

  “Yea, just like oil and gas,” he says. “It’s subject to booms and busts. But in the end, my money is on wind energy. Once there’s affordable technology to store the energy produced by wind, oil and gas will only be a sliver in the world’s energy portfolio. As a Saudi oil minister once said, ‘The Stone Age didn’t end because we ran out of stones.’

  I laugh, and the waiter takes our dinner order. Ted orders the lamb T-bone, and I go vegetarian, as the risotto is the cheapest option.

  “I’ve been out to dinner many times in my long lifetime, but I cannot recall anyone as interested in wind turbines as you are, Tanzie,” he says.

  “Well,” I say, “you are the first person I’ve ever dated who knew anything about wind turbines.” I cringe after I say this. “I didn’t mean to suggest we’re dating. You know what I was trying to say?”

  Ted laughs. “Yes, I do. I don’t think you were being forward.” He takes a sip of dinner wine, which has now replaced the scotch. I am still on my original white wine.

  “You know, after my wife died,” he begins, “there was no shortage of dating opp
ortunities. It seemed as though every friend and relative had someone who would be perfect for me.”

  “Is that a bad thing?” I ask, a bit relieved at this new evidence that Ted may not be gay. Not entirely conclusive, but compelling nonetheless.

  “It is flattering, yes, but also very awkward. I generally declined such invitations. There’s just never a graceful way to tell someone that you are not interested in their sister, best friend, daughter, or mother. I’d prefer to find someone all on my own.” Ted smiles at me.

  “Iechyd da!” I say, and we clink glasses.

  I decide not to tell Ted about my dating fiascos and change the subject.

  “What do you think of Marshall?” I ask.

  “Oh, he’s a fine chap, I suppose,” he says. “A little long-winded,” he adds in a whisper.

  “Just a little,” I say sarcastically. “And you’ve met Doug Minton?”

  “I have,” he replies.

  “And …”

  “He is one large fellow,” Ted replies.

  “His nickname’s Boomer,” I tell him.

  He nods. “That seems quite appropriate.”

  Our dinner arrives, and Ted asks me about my risotto, which I tell him is very good. It’s clear that Ted is not one to gossip or say anything bad about anyone, and while this is an admirable quality in a person, it doesn’t help me get any inside skinny on Doug or Marshall.

  I would love to tell Ted about the bid rigging, but it would be a mammoth breach in corporate and professional ethics if I did. So, I change the subject and hear about Ted’s lovely home in Tenby, Wales, and how his house looks out to the sea. He has another home in Portugal and yet another in Switzerland. The dinner wine has loosened his lips, and he tells me about how he was on the forefront of blade and turbine engineering and has patents on some of the more recent designs that are used globally. He dabbles in consulting and took this engagement from Zurich not for the money but because he was interested in the project. It didn’t hurt that the engagement was primarily in San Francisco.

  By the third glass of dinner wine, Ted is noticeably tipsy. He takes a bite of lamb and asks about my risotto, which I tell him is still very good.

  Ted nods. “Now, what were we talking about before?” he muses.

  “Lots of things,” I say, not having quite given up hope on getting any information from him. “Doug and Marshall.”

  “Doug Minton,” he muses. He leans forward. “I bet you that Doug is not always forthcoming.”

  I perk up. “Why do you say that?”

  “I asked about using the B53 rotor blade of a wind turbine at the Mojave farm, and—”

  “You’re losing me, Ted,” I interrupt.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. It was a particular type of blade designed by Siemens—balsa wood with fiberglass overlay. I was actually on the original design team that made them. The blades were supposed to be able to withstand winds of up to fifty-three miles per hour for up to a ten-minute duration. And they worked very well at first, but over time, they lost integrity and became unable to perform reliably to spec. Back in 2010, they experienced some very public failures, and as a result, the design was scrapped. The blades were pulled from the existing units and replaced.”

  “These are the blades that had been used at the Mojave facility?” I ask.

  “Yes, and when I interviewed Doug, he told me that all of those turbines had been retrofitted with the new design. He showed me the paperwork from Siemens and the site engineers showing that the blades had been changed out; yet, the blades that were thrown were definitely B53s. They had a different model number, but trust me, I am well acquainted with these blades.”

  “So, why do you think Doug’s dishonest? It sounds like Siemens is the one sending the same blades out, only with a different model number,” I say.

  “Siemens wasn’t the firm that replaced the blades,” Ted says. “It was a different company. The plant engineers told me.”

  “Wind Fabricators?” I venture.

  Ted raises an eyebrow. “Yes. Wind Fabricators.”

  I try to speak very carefully so as not to give away exactly why I’m so interested in this. “Help me understand, Ted,” I say. “Why wouldn’t we just let Siemens replace the old blades? They were supposed to do that, right?”

  “Well, there would be a replacement cost—just very reduced by Siemens. The blades had been functioning fine for ten years or so. I would have thought that Siemens would have been the most cost-effective choice for the changeover.”

  “So, you think Doug manufactured false paperwork to make you think the blades had been replaced by Siemens and not Wind Fabricators?”

  “Yes, I do,” he says, taking another sip of wine.

  “But why wouldn’t he just give you the invoice from Wind Fabricators? Why would he lie about who made the replacement?”

  “Because, Tanzie, he knew that I would suspect some jiggery-pokery was going on. Siemens should have been the company to have made the replacement. It is simply not possible to have another company underbid them in these circumstances.”

  “Unless they were using Siemens rejects and putting on a different model number.”

  “You are a smart one, Tanzie,” he says, taking a bite of lamb. “I’ve requested all the Siemens and Wind Fabricators contracts and invoices, but so far I haven’t received anything.”

  “I think they’re all in our conference room,” I tell him. “We were looking at those ourselves.” Then I stop, wondering if I’ve said too much here. Auditors work under a code of ethics that has strict confidentiality requirements. And while it’s possibly true that I haven’t acted ethically every single moment of my life, I’m nervous about any action that could result in me losing my job. Mark and Sandy are sticklers about audit ethics.

  “Ted,” I say. “Would you mind talking to my boss about this? This isn’t confidential, is it?”

  Ted is immediately uncomfortable. “It is confidential, Tanzie. I’m under a confidentiality agreement with Zurich. I will ask for your discretion on this.”

  Ted calls the waiter over and orders coffee for us. I can tell he’s upset with this breach.

  “I don’t normally drink this much,” he confesses. “It’s just that I was so nervous about our date.”

  I’m really flattered now. Marshall Carter can kiss my fat patootie, rod and all.

  “But the CA would preclude you from discussing this with people outside the company, and I’m a CoGenCo employee.”

  “Still, I’m not sure exactly what applies in these circumstances, so please don’t say anything to your boss.”

  “Okay,” I say. “But maybe I’ll just happen to find the same thing you found.”

  “Iechyd da!” he says, and we clink our coffee cups.

  The check comes, and Ted takes care of it without hesitation. We make plans to have dinner again tomorrow night at a small spot he discovered in North Beach.

  The coffee has kicked in, and there’s not even a hint of unsteadiness in Ted’s walk as we head down the Embarcadero back to the hotel. In the darkness, I catch a glimpse of a man in a Giants cap sitting on a bench in front of the Ferry Building. It may be the man I saw at Fisherman’s Wharf this afternoon, who may be the man Sandy saw from the balcony. I can’t be sure. The last thing I want to do is undermine this budding romance by coming across as some sort of paranoid nutcase. I decide it’s nothing and stay silent.

  When we arrive back at the Hyatt, Ted takes my hand. He’s too much of a gentleman to even venture a kiss goodnight, but I can tell things have gone well.

  “Until tomorrow,” he says, and he walks back toward the Ferry Building.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Monday Morning

  One of the clear signs of old age is that a dinner date ends before eight o’clock, and you’re happy about it. I think about that on Monday morning as I have my cigarette. I like Ted, and he likes me, but we have the wisdom to enjoy the lovely period that comes with getting to know another person
deeply before proceeding to trailer rocking. For the first time in several years, I’m feeling good about myself and my future.

  Sandy’s already in the breakfast area, with a short stack of blueberry pancakes and her Diet Coke. The waitress knows me by now and brings me my coffee without asking.

  “I got an email from Mark late last night,” Sandy says, reaching into her briefcase and handing me the papers. “Looks like our caller gave us more information.”

  I read the email containing the information from the helpline, even though I’m already familiar with the contents, having placed my second helpline call last night.

  “This is a pretty good roadmap,” I say. “So, Mark wants us to find the invoice for the blade-replacement project from Wind Fabricators? Then what?”

  “Then we should look at the emails for something that might reference that blade replacement,” she says.

  “How did Mark explain to Marshall and Doug that we’d be staying longer?” I ask.

  “SOX.” Sandy laughs, and I join her. The Sarbanes–Oxley Act is the post–Enron legislation that requires public companies to report on their internal controls over financial reporting. It’s a bane to all parties involved, as it requires extensive and detailed testing performed annually. It’s expensive and time consuming without providing much tangible benefit, except (of course) to the external independent auditors who get to bill clients for all the additional work. Still, it provides all auditors with a one-word explanation for which no further elaboration is necessary. “Mark had me email a data request last night for bank reconciliations, vendor change documentation, and (of course) all the Siemens and Wind Fabricators bids, contracts, and invoices.”

  Soon, we head over to the Westwind offices and sign in with Connie at the front desk.

  “We’re putting you in this conference room on forty this time,” she says, and Sandy and I exchange looks. It’s the same floor as Marshall and Doug.

  “Closer to the Coke machine,” I tell her.