The new working space is exactly between Marshall and Doug’s offices. It’s also much nicer than the one on thirty-seven, and there are no broken chairs or discarded blueprints lying around. A cart with the binders and files from our room on thirty-seven is parked neatly by one end of the massive conference table. There is a huge window looking out to the Bay Bridge and AT&T Park. If the Giants were playing, we could watch the action from right here.
When Connie leaves, Sandy waves me over. “Something’s not right here,” she whispers in my ear. “Don’t say anything about them blades out loud. If you find something, keep it to yourself or send me an email.”
I nod.
“Tanzie, why don’t you get busy putting schedules together, and I’ll go over the SOX testing program,” Sandy says for the benefit of anyone listening in from the surrounding offices.
“Okay,” I say.
“Hope we can get through this quick,” she says. “I like San Francisco, but I’m anxious to get back home.” She smiles at me.
With that, she takes the bids and contracts, while I start searching for the Wind Fabricators invoices. After thirty minutes, I haven’t found anything, so I walk over to the window to take in the view. I’m watching a tanker in the Bay when a thought crosses my mind. I remember Marshall telling me about Westwind’s donation to St. Benedict’s. He said it was “sizable,” yet I don’t remember having seen anything like that in the deposits.
I look through the bank statements. Check 1178659 cleared two months ago and is made out to St Benedict’s for a whopping $50,000. I look at the back side of the check facsimile and see that it was endorsed with a stamp:
For Deposit Only. Saint Benedict’s Homeless Shelter Building Fund.
There wasn’t any reference to a building fund that I saw in any of the St. Benedict’s files. I take a picture of the check facsimile for later, when I get back to the Hyatt. With that, my email pings. It’s from Sandy.
Nothing. The documentation says that Siemens did the blade replacement, and it matches the bid. There’s nothing from Wind Fabricators. They didn’t even bid on the project.
She gets up and walks to the window to figure out what to do next, while I continue studying the photo of the St. Benedict’s check. How is it possible that the document we have conflicts so sharply with Ted’s story and everything else we’ve determined? Was Ted trying to mislead me? Why would he do that? No, I trust Ted and his story—there must be something else going on, but how can I prove it?
Then I remember the files and contracts we photographed here on Friday night, when Marshall and Doug thought that our work was done. I still have them on my phone.
I upload the photos from my phone to my laptop. It doesn’t take long to find what I’m looking for. I wave Sandy over to my spot without saying a word. I know she sees it immediately. There are two contracts for the same project: There’s the one approved by G. Senen from Wind Fabricators that we had on Friday, and then there’s the one from Siemens that we’ve been given today. Both contracts can’t be legitimate.
Sandy’s leaning over me and comparing the paperwork when the loud clack of the conference room door opening interrupts our focus. It’s Marshall, coffee mug in hand, grinning as he walks over to join us at the conference table. I click away from my screen, and Sandy nonchalantly shuffles the printed contract into a stack of bank statements.
“Good morning, ladies,” Marshall twangs. He sits down in the chair next to mine and takes a hard look at my screen. “Imagine my delight when I heard you were returning this morning.” The sarcasm is not lost on us; yes, we certainly can imagine your delight. Marshall looks at Sandy, who has now resumed her position across the conference table. “Getting everything you need?” he asks.
“Yes, thank you, Marshall,” Sandy says. “We definitely have everything we need.”
His body language from the neck up is controlled and calm, but he picks his fingernails, suggesting some anxiety looming below. I wonder if he understands the double meaning of Sandy’s statement.
“Do you ladies have lunch plans?” Marshall asks, picking up one of the bank statements. “I can have Phyllis make reservations somewhere over near Union Square. Have you even had a chance to shop during your visit?” He puts the bank statement back on the stack and then diverts his gaze over to Sandy’s side of the table.
“We plan to work through lunch,” Sandy says matter-of-factly.
“Let me take you out for happy hour, then,” he suggests. “Martinis at the Top of the Mark, say four o’clock? We can discuss how things are going. You know—mix business and pleasure.” He issues a suggestive wink my way.
I’d love to, Marshall, but you see, I have this rather large rod up my fat ass.
“Marshall,” Sandy says, reading my expression and taking charge before I give into my emotions. “We’re under the gun here to finish up. We really want to see if we can get everything done today so that we can head to the airport and get home. I’m sure you understand.” She pauses. “Or is that too complicated?”
All gentility dissolves from Marshall’s expression. He gets up without a word and heads toward the door. “Suit yourself,” he says as he walks out, leaving the door open.
We spend the rest of the morning in total silence, photographing files, culling through cash disbursement details, and putting our information in order. While auditing can be mind-numbingly tedious most of the time, there is no finer moment than when you find conclusive documentation that someone has been lying to you.
Finally, Sandy mouths, Let’s get out of here, to me, and we pack up our things and head to the hotel.
The maid is in the suite cleaning up, but we put our things on the dining table and decide to stay anyway. I make a cup of coffee, while Sandy leaves a voicemail for Mark. She’s using my computer to review again the images taken at Westwind. I’m flipping through one of the room’s many magazines highlighting San Francisco tourist spots.
“What’s this?” Sandy asks. I walk over from the living area and stand behind her, looking at my laptop screen. It’s the CoGenCo check to St. Benedict’s.
“I found it among CoGenCo’s bank statements.”
Sandy gives a quizzical look. “Are you splitting time with us and your sister here?” There’s annoyance in her voice. “Are Marshall and Doug involved in this too?” I can see the wheels turning under that heavily sprayed mop, and I wonder whether Sandy is figuring out that there’s a clear connection between these investigations—and what else she may figure out about the reason we started investigating Westwind in the first place.
“It’s complicated,” I say, with a sheepish smile.
The sound of the lock releasing on the door makes us both look up. It’s Honey in her formal black nun habit, the same one she was wearing when we arrived at the Hyatt exactly one week ago. She seems surprised to see Sandy here but is excited to tell me about her morning at Tina’s building. I call Ryan and ask if he can bring us lunch, Hyatt policy notwithstanding. He’s fine with it.
“Do we like dim sum?” I call out, my hand over the receiver.
“Do what?” asks Sandy. “That’s not that raw-fish thing, is it?”
I explain that it’s little Chinese appetizers like dumplings, and Sandy agrees to give it a try. Honey takes a bottle of sparkling water out of the bar refrigerator and settles down in the living room.
“Those are fabulous shoes,” Honey says to Sandy. “Are they Jimmy Choo? I prefer Italian, myself.” She lifts her black hem, revealing Ferragamo pumps with a low heel and delicate bow. “They last forever, and they’re very comfortable.”
Whatever annoyance Sandy feels about me splitting my time on the St. Benedict’s gig has disappeared with that single comment. They sit side by side on the low couch, sipping water and comparing fashion insights. I watch passively as the two tall skinny women talk shoes, waiting for Honey to suggest a quick trip to St. Vincent de Paul, but she suggests Arthur Beren on Union Square instead. I find myself becoming
jealous of their instantaneous bond, but I keep my distance. If Honey can charm Sandy, then perhaps my boss will go easier on me for moonlighting.
The conversation shifts to Sandy’s night with Mauriello, and Honey hangs on to every word. If Honey’s embarrassed by the details, she doesn’t show it. I think part of her is delighted that Sandy can take or leave Mauriello and certainly doesn’t moon over him like the young nuns she’s seen over the years. Honey has clearly never met someone like Sandy before—someone who regards frequent hookups with all the intimacy of a wave at the traffic stop.
I cringe as Honey begins to lecture my boss about Mauriello: how she suspects he is involved in Tina’s death, among other things. I wait for Sandy to recoil, but she doesn’t. She is wide-eyed, captivated. And she nods in agreement as Honey, in her mother superior tone, counsels the younger woman about becoming involved with a dangerous man like Mauriello.
“I think he may be capable of anything,” Honey tells Sandy. “The Lord was looking out for you, little lamb.”
With that, Honey changes the subject to her visit to Tina’s building.
“So, let me tell you what I found out this morning. I went door-to-door and asked everyone if they had seen anyone visiting Tina last Tuesday. Of course, a lot of people weren’t home, but the tenant across the hallway, an old Hispanic woman, said that she had heard the shot and called the police. She didn’t speak English, so I had to speak to her in Spanish. She saw a tall, good-looking man leave about five minutes later. She’d seen him before at Tina’s, so she thought it must be her boyfriend. When she saw him leave, she assumed that everything must be all right. Maybe it wasn’t a gunshot after all, she thought. But about thirty minutes later, she saw Kathy who she thought was Tina, and then she saw the paramedics and police. She was very confused.”
“Why didn’t the police talk to her?” I ask.
“Nobody asked her about any of this until this morning, when I knocked on her door,” Honey says. “She doesn’t want to talk to the police—I don’t think she’s legal. She said she only spoke to me because I’m a nun.”
“Were there any surveillance cameras?” I ask.
“There are,” Honey says, smiling. “I spoke to the building manager, and he agreed to call the security company and see if he can get me a copy of the tape. I’m supposed to call him later today.” “Dang, Sister, you are a total badass, you know that?” Sandy grins, brightening up.
“Why, yes I am,” Honey says. “Thank you, Sandy.”
I decide it’s a good time to bring up the CoGenCo contribution to St. Benedict’s, the suspicious endorsement, and the fact that I never saw it deposited into the St. Benedict’s account.
“I can tell you what’s going on there,” Sandy interjects. “That’s an old scam, if ever there was one.”
“What scam?” Honey asks.
“I’ll bet you Mauriello set up that building-fund account, only it’s not really a building fund for the homeless shelter. It’s a personal slush fund that he uses for himself. He skims checks meant for the charity and deposits them into the building-fund account. The names are so similar on the checks that probably most of them are just made out to St. Benedict’s, so when the donors get them back, it all looks legit.”
“I think you’re right,” I say. “There were no sizable corporate donations in the St. Benedict’s accounts other than for the gala and golf tournament. So, how do we prove it?” I ask. “Do you have any former students who work at Wells Fargo, Sister Mary Badass?” I kid.
Honey laughs. “Even if I did, could they just give us information about someone’s account?” she asks. “I didn’t think they could do that without a subpoena or official request.”
“They can’t,” Sandy agrees, “but what they can do is take a look at the activity and then tell you if you should ask authorities to look into it. Not that they’re even supposed to do that, but in my experience, it seems to be a position they can live with. So, do you have any contacts at the bank?”
Honey thinks for a moment. “No,” she says, “but you know who does? Sister Ignatius—her nephew is one of the branch managers. I remember, because the St. Vincent de Paul Society had him help with some issue, I forget now what it was, but he came and took us out to lunch. Very nice man. I will text Sister Ignatius right now and ask her.”
Honey gets up and goes over to her purse to retrieve her phone just as the suite doorbell rings and Ryan arrives from Yank Sing, a Chinese restaurant a few blocks away. He arranges a variety of sumptuous items on the end of the dining table that isn’t cluttered with laptops and file boxes, and then he fixes us each a plate and delivers them to us in the living room. Sandy makes a face when she sees her food, but when Honey takes a bite of dumpling, she decides to take the epicurean leap.
“Dang,” she remarks, after biting into a steamed pork bun. “This tastes just like barbeque.”
She takes little bites of each item, either nodding and consuming it or frowning and returning it to her plate. When she has finished, she hands her plate to Ryan and then wanders out to the balcony to get some air, pacing back and forth along the narrow space.
Sandy looks at her watch impatiently again and again. I can tell it’s killing Sandy to wait for Mark, who’s in his Monday-afternoon staff meeting now, to call her back. She’s sent him all the documentation necessary to convince even the most skeptical person about Marshall and Doug’s involvement in, if nothing else, falsifying the documents given to the auditors, a major no-no in any public company. Mark is a calm and thoughtful guy, though, and I can envision him pondering over the details of Sandy’s email before settling on an action plan. If we are right, and Doug and Marshall are engaged in a kickback scheme, then CoGenCo’s audit committee and our external auditors will need to be notified. We’ll also be required to disclose our dirty laundry in public filings. All of this is nothing that a chief audit executive like Mark wants to deal with. There’s no good outcome; if you’re right, why didn’t you find evidence of wrongdoing before? If you’re wrong, you can kiss your career goodbye. Brian Wilkinson, our CEO, will also not be pleased that such nefarious behavior occurred during his watch. There will certainly be a part of him that wishes he had less-capable auditors and was never burdened with knowing the truth about members of his leadership team. There is no real winner in any of this.
I walk over to the dining table and make another plate of dim sum, a sign that I—in direct contrast to Sandy—deal with stress by overeating. What I really want is a cigarette, but with my boss out on my balcony, I elect to calm myself with Peking duck instead.
I’m on my way back for a third plate when Sandy comes in from the balcony.
“Mark’s at the Houston airport,” she says. “He’ll be here around seven. He wants us to walk through everything tonight when he gets here—and then he’s got a meeting with Marshall tomorrow morning, first thing.”
I nod, and then I grab my phone to ask Ted to reschedule our dinner for tomorrow night—assuming I’m not shipped back to Houston.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Monday Evening
After Honey returns to the convent to wait for Sister Ignatius to call, Sandy and I go to the techno pod. We’re there, sipping soft drinks, when Mark enters the Hyatt lobby. He’s carrying an overnight bag and his briefcase, requiring no help from the bellman and consequently not obligated to tip. He nods at us as he makes his way to the registration desk and then joins us when he’s finished with the paperwork.
Mark is around six feet tall, with a mop of brown hair that he finds difficult to control at times—he’s cultivated a habit of combing it back with his fingers. He has a thick moustache, black-framed glasses, and a wardrobe with all the panache of a Best Buy floor clerk. When Sandy suggests we go up to my room to work, Mark gives an inquisitive look but says nothing. When we enter the luxury suite, however, his face turns bright red. I can sense him fuming as he sees his departmental budget being torpedoed by a couple of his auditors living large on th
eir expense accounts.
“It’s all right,” I tell him. “This is all complimentary from a friend of my sister’s. I’m helping my sister after hours with a project.”
Mark nods and then raises his eyebrows, taking in a level of luxury he is clearly not used to, being the La Quinta man that he is. Still, he makes the adjustment by pulling a Heineken from the minibar and then settling in a chair in the living area.
“Have you eaten?” I ask. “I can have Ryan bring you something.”
“Ryan?” Mark asks.
“He’s her manservant,” Sandy volunteers.
“My valet,” I correct.
Mark rolls his eyes. “I ate on the plane. I’m good.”
Sandy escorts Mark over to our work setup in the dining room, and she walks him through the documents on her screen related to the Mojave wind farm: the contract and invoice from Siemens that we were given this morning, and the photo from my camera of the Wind Fabricators bid we saw on Friday.
“So, you’re saying they manufactured the Siemens contract and invoices over the weekend,” Mark challenges. “Why?”
Sandy doesn’t have an immediate answer, so I chime in. “Mark, I think they had the Siemens documents already made up. There’s a consultant here from Zurich looking into some blade malfunctions. I think they put the documents together for him and then just made a copy for us once they got suspicious that we were onto something.”
“Why didn’t they give you these originally?” he asks, taking a sip of beer.
“Because we were looking at bid rigging,” I say. “The Wind Fabricators bid is under Siemens by two million. They probably figured it would raise red flags if they didn’t take the lowest bid,” I explain.
“They know we’re not engineers, so we would never have figured out that the blades had been recalled by Siemens,” Sandy adds.
“And we wouldn’t have figured it out if the helpline caller hadn’t told us,” I say.
“And one more thing. Looky here.” Sandy brings up the cash disbursement details and points to the payment detail.
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