When we arrive back at the conference room, new file boxes have been stacked against the wall.
“Dang!” Sandy sighs, “How can there be this many files when their operation is so small? Typical stall tactic—give the auditor way too much to look through, and they’ll eventually just run out of time.”
I walk over and remove the top of one of the cardboard boxes labeled Westwind Invoices 2011. The invoices and contracts are all kept inside four-inch black binders and sorted by date, so there’s no easy way to find all the invoices for a particular vendor or project. They don’t have an automated procurement system that would allow for downloads, filters, or sorting. Instead, invoices are processed in groups, making it a complicated and manual process to identify relevant documents for our audit.
“This is a nightmare,” Sandy remarks. “I can’t believe this is all hard copy. This is San Francisco, for pity’s sake, not Bedrock.”
I move the top box over to the table, and Sandy starts to thumb through the files. We work silently for a few minutes, getting our spaces organized.
“It doesn’t matter how much hard copy they throw at us—Marshall Carter is going down,” Sandy announces, looking at me with a smile. “I’m gonna get him.”
“Sandy, just because the guy’s a sexist doesn’t mean he’s a criminal.” I think about what I’m saying here. I’m defending a man that ticked off my boss less than an hour ago. But I’m the one who set him up, and I’m the one who got Sandy involved. This whole audit could blow up if I’m not careful. “What if the helpline call was just one of his assistants getting even, someone like Connie or Phyllis? Maybe he dismisses them, too. So many of these calls turn out to be nothing. And I mean, he’s a bit on the boring side, but he seemed like a pretty nice guy to me.”
“You just think that because he was flirting with you.”
I’m startled by the comment and don’t know what to say. I stay quiet for a bit, picking up an invoice just to give me something to do.
“Oh shit, Tanzie. Did I hurt your feelings? I sure didn’t mean to.”
“No. No, it’s okay.” I shrug. “You think he was just buttering me up so I wouldn’t want to find anything. Got it. You might be right.”
“Hey, I’m sorry, Tanzie,” she says, and I can tell she means it, but the damage is done. In less than a day on the job, Sandy has achieved excellence in hurting my feelings and getting on my nerves.
I think about looking around the floor and offering to work out of a cube without power just to be alone. But Lord knows I’ve been trapped in conference rooms with worse partners: folks who tapped pens, cleared their throats constantly, or whistled. No, Sandy is not that bad, even if sharing a tight workspace is claustrophobic.
Will anyone remain in purgatory after four days of this audit?
Thirty minutes or so go by as I sort out paperwork and set up schedules in Excel. Sandy is busy on her end going over my audit program. I’ve sent out data requests for contract and bidding documents, and I have read-only access to the expense reporting and accounts payable systems. The frustration level makes me crave a smoke, but that’s not possible. I start tapping my pen.
Sandy looks up at me and sighs. “I have all this other work to do,” she says. “I have three other audits going on, and there were twenty emails waiting on me this morning. I have two conference calls this afternoon and another two tomorrow. I’m starting to get stressed about this.”
Now I really feel guilty. Sandy is a great boss, and I’m acting like a child. “Stress will only result in belly fat,” I say laughing. “It’s a fact. It was on Dr. Oz.” She looks down at her stomach and frowns. No doubt I’m getting on her nerves, too, and I start to wonder if she’s as anxious to get her own space as I am.
“I have an idea, Sandy,” I say. “Why don’t you go back to the hotel and work out of your room? That way, we won’t disturb each other, and you’ll probably get a lot more done. If I have any questions or find anything, I’ll send you a text.”
I can tell she likes this idea.
“Okay,” she says. “Maybe we can meet for dinner and go over how things went.”
“I sort of wanted to spend my evenings with my sister,” I say, “but if you need me to meet with you, I will.”
“No way, Tanzie,” she says. “Let’s just go over things at breakfast tomorrow. Is that better?”
“Perfect,” I say. “Thank you.”
She powers down her laptop and gathers her things before heading out. As soon as she’s gone, I take the opportunity to call Honey and ask that she and Spiro meet me around seven at the Hyatt. Then I get busy organizing the paper invoice files and corresponding contracts, change orders, and other documents, enjoying having a workspace all to myself.
Around one thirty, I start to get hungry, and I take the elevator down to the lobby. There’s a Peet’s Coffee down the street on Market, and I enter through a thick glass door. Even at this odd time, the place is packed. I grab a bottle of Pellegrino and an uninspired salad from the refrigerator case. I think about returning to the conference room but instead decide to take a break, even for just twenty minutes, so I grab an empty chair at a long community table. The group, an odd combination of business types and hipsters, sit together with no interaction. Each is in his or her own world—talking on their phones, studying, or typing out their screenplays.
“Mind if I sit here?” I ask a twenty-something kid in a hoodie.
No response, which I take as an okay and sit down. There are at least three phone conversations going on, and it feels uncomfortable overhearing people’s business. The young Asian woman across from me appears to be arguing with someone over the specifics of a reimbursement of some kind, while the fellow to her right is cold-calling IT executives and trying to arrange sales meetings. I take out my phone and start playing a game to pass the time.
“Fuck you, Boomer,” I hear.
No one but me even looks up. I am, it seems, the only patron without earbuds. The f-bomb is being launched from a fortyish Asian man in jeans, a black T-shirt, and a tan suede blazer two seats down from the Zuckerberg clone. “We had a fucking deal. Now what am I supposed to fucking do?” he shouts.
Call me old fashioned, but I’m astonished by the offensive language in a public place. My natural curiosity takes hold, and I find myself sucked into the drama. After his initial outburst, Mr. Pottymouth settles down, but I can still hear everything from two seats away. I stare down at my phone and pretend to text while eavesdropping.
“You said this contract was a slam dunk!” Pottymouth gets up and begins pacing about four feet in each direction. He sips his coffee while he listens to Boomer on the other end. “We agreed your cut was twenty percent.” His voice is lower, but he’s standing directly behind me now. I wonder if he thinks I’m listening and get nervous, but I relax when he walks back to his spot two seats down. “What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?”
There’s a long pause, presumably while Boomer is answering him.
“What kind of pressure?” Pottymouth asks.
There’s another long pause.
“We’ve been partners for a long time,” Pottymouth pleads. “I’ll lose three fucking million, you asshole.”
The man begins to pace again, this time across the table from me. Pottymouth is in his own world, holding the phone to his ear and shaking his head. I can tell he’s furious. “You give this contract to them, and we’re done, Boomer. You hear me? Fucking done!”
Though it’s difficult to be certain from a one-sided conversation, it sounds like a classic bid-rigging deal gone bad, and the auditor in me is riveted. Why on earth would this guy parade around Peet’s ranting about criminal activity? Maybe, like all the other patrons, he’s in his own world, or maybe his anger got the better of him. I’ll never know. One thing I do know is that this man has no idea that he is being overheard by someone well acquainted with the ins and outs of bid-rigging schemes.
I want to know more. I made up the whole Westwind thing, but I’ve just had the real deal dropped in my lap. This could even be a government contract, in which case there might be a reward for turning him in.
I look for clues for Pottymouth’s identity—an employee badge, a receipt—but find nothing. He gets up to leave, and impulsively I decide to follow him, grabbing his coffee cup from the communal table as I go out. He crosses Market and gets into a yellow cab. I consider hailing a cab for myself, but I stop myself—I know almost nothing about this situation, and I don’t have time to chase someone around the Bay Area for what could turn out to be hours—even if the only thing I’m doing is investigating a made-up fraud.
I check the coffee cup for his name, but it’s more like scribble. Don’t they teach anyone how to write legibly anymore? Discouraged, I return to Peet’s and walk over to the barista. Perhaps he can read his own writing.
“It’s Gerard,” he says.
“Do you know him?” I ask.
“Not really,” he says. “Comes in every once in a while, usually with another guy.”
“Boomer?” I’m kind of excited now.
“What?”
“Boomer. Is the other guy named Boomer?” I repeat.
“Boomer?” He looks at me like I’m crazy. “No. It’s, um, Don, I think. Or Dick, or John. You know, one of those old-man names.”
“Okay,” I say. That narrows it down—I’m not looking for someone named Justin, Skyler, or Zach. “Is the man Gerard comes in with an old man?”
“Uh huh,” the barista says. “Got to be at least forty.”
I leave Peet’s and head back to the office, throwing Gerard’s cup in a trash can as I go. Who am I kidding here? I don’t have time to hunt down Gerard or Boomer, or Don, Dick, or John. Catching my reflection in the windows along Market Street as I walk, I straighten up and suck in my stomach. If forty is old, fifty-five is ancient.