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 opportunities. 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.