The Black Tortoise Read online

  Even though I was technically self-employed, I was not free. None of us are. We are rarely even free to be ourselves on our own time. To survive, to make a living, we must care how others see us and act accordingly.

  So here it was, Saturday afternoon, and an exciting world-class city lay before me. Yet I would use the rest of the day and evening, as well as all day Sunday, to go over the disks Emelio had given me. I would examine the accounts—money received and paid—trying to understand the business. And looking for something that didn’t add up. I’m not really complaining. If I had free time, I wouldn’t know what to do with it.

  I used my laptop and my desktop computers. By Sunday afternoon I had isolated areas of big money, but I found nothing wrong. I reminded myself that the foundation had successfully gone through intense, highly professional outside audits. There was a trained team going over the numbers. I printed out some of what Emelio had given me. I was especially interested in the material on the foundation’s various managers. There was Vanessa, client liaison, Craig, the sales director, Marguerite, the architect and operations director, as well as Emelio. And, of course, the top dog, Madeline.

  I had resisted the call of the wine bottle while I looked at numbers, to prevent even the slightest blurring. However, I gave in before the sun went down. As I began to read the bios of the main staff and their job descriptions, I sipped some cool white wine. I read and sometimes reread the material until hunger refused to be ignored. I spent the evening hours googling the foundation staff. If I had a life, I missed it.

  Coffee at sunrise. Both of my outdoor decks faced east. Sometimes that meant a clear view of the silver San Francisco skyline. This morning it meant I would stare at a bank of impenetrable fog in the chilly wet air.

  I have a car, but I rarely use it unless I’m leaving the city. I took the twisty walking route down the hill. This eventually led to the Saturn Steps, a long, steep stairway leading to relatively flat earth and Market Street. At Market, I hopped on the MUNI, the underground train that would take me through and under the spiky, mountainous high-rises to the Embarcadero and eventually the Black Tortoise Foundation.

  A good walk clears the brain, I’ve found. I realized that Emelio had already introduced me, at his party, to the key players. The family-oriented sales guy Craig Anglim, the attractive events overseer Vanessa Medder and down-to-earth architect Marguerite Woodson. These were the people I most wanted to interview. These three—five including Madeline and Emelio—were in the best position to access substantial amounts of money. Had Emelio read my mind, or was this simply the way accountants’ minds work? A yes answer to either question would be scary. I didn’t find the idea of Emelio and I having similar characteristics encouraging.

  The doors to the foundation were locked. The hours of operation painted on the glass doors told me I was fifteen minutes early.

  I heard the water lapping at the pilings. I went to the edge and looked over. To my surprise there was a large tortoise—more likely a turtle, since it was at home in the sea. Its dark, shiny shell might have been five feet long. When our eyes met, it disappeared.

  What a strange creature. A living being with its own mobile home. The moment it is observed, it hides—in the ocean or in its shell. We can see it, but only as much as it wants us to see. As is the case with all of us, it cannot completely ignore reality. But it can withdraw from it more than most of us can.

  Farther out in the bay, beneath the low-hanging fog, was a cormorant. The long-necked bird floated—bobbed, really—on the slightly rough waters. Suddenly it dove under, disappeared. There I stood, inches from another world, yet always a little separate from it.

  “Aren’t you freezing to death?” Emelio asked. He was the first human I’d seen trudge down the pier. There were seagulls and pigeons walking before him, getting out of his way. He wore gloves and a thick scarf. It was wrapped around his neck several times. “You must come from Mongolia,” he said to me.

  “Hearty stock,” I said. “Will Madeline be in today?” I asked as he unlocked the door.

  “Hard to tell. She lives in her own world.” He flipped on the lights. A phone rang. “I’m so tired,” he said, drawing out the words to heighten the drama. “After the guests left, Patrick came home all apologetic and affectionate. No sleep. It was worth the spat. Know what I mean?”

  Once he stopped fidgeting with the lights, I gave him a list of the people I needed to see. He would arrange it as best he could, he said. I was given a small conference room in which to conduct business. I watched a news channel on my laptop until the first staff member arrived at 9:30 AM.

  Marge Woodson appeared not to have changed clothes since Emelio’s party on Saturday. The other possibility was that blue jeans, gray sweatshirt and sneakers were a kind of personal uniform. I saw her roll her bicycle into her office as I went for coffee in the kitchenette.

  I wasn’t surprised that she had pedaled in from way out at Ocean Beach. But I was surprised and deeply impressed to learn that she participated in an annual swim to Alcatraz. Her educational background was impressive too. Her work experience tended toward restoration and eco-friendly solutions to restoration problems.

  “Of all the people here, you spend the most money,” I said to her. I was intentionally abrupt. I wanted to see her reaction to a subtle accusation.

  “Yes,” she said, leaning forward in her chair, “but my spending preserves history and maintains safety. It’s not frivolous.”

  “Unlike?” I knew she was mad at someone.

  “Our dear leader,” she said. I waited for her to continue. “Madeline had her office soundproofed. She took one of my workmen without asking. She had him put in all new studs, insulation and drywall to make sure no one could hear what was going on in her office. What is this, the CIA? She took him off an important job. She didn’t talk to me about it. She had him install security cameras in and outside the office and put a buzzer release on the door. Why? Nobody hates us. We’re not controversial. We do good work here. Well, we did.”

  She took a deep breath and shook her head.

  “Then suddenly, after the cameras were installed, she changed her mind about them. She may have realized she was the only person who had something to hide.”

  “They’ve never been turned on?”

  She shook her head again. “The foundation also paid for her move from the east coast when they hired her. The city is full of qualified people—more qualified people.”

  Marguerite had to have learned this from Emelio, I thought. He enjoyed stirring things up.

  “Does anyone like her?”

  “No. She’s a uniting force in that regard. We may have problems with one another from time to time, but we all hate her.”

  “Don’t hold back,” I said.

  She laughed. It was deep and hearty. “I don’t know who you are or what your game is, so I may be committing professional suicide, but I’m beyond caring. Someone is going to get killed by falling concrete, or they’ll fall in the bay and drown. And she’s frittering away the budget on whatever little whim crosses her tiny brain.”

  “What about the board?”

  “What about them? The previous director was doing fine. The board let him go. We don’t know why. They hired a search firm, paid them a fortune. They spent I don’t know how many months looking for an executive director and ended up with…”

  “Mad Madeline.”

  “Off With Their Heads Madeline. We’re all one temper tantrum away from the streets.”

  “Maybe that’s why she wants soundproofing and a security system.”

  “Maybe. What’s your interest in all this?” she asked.

  “I think maybe some members of the board want to know what’s going on.”

  “They’re not the only ones.”

  FOUR

  It was clear Craig Anglim didn’t want to make waves. He squirmed in his seat even before the questions about his co-workers began, especially about Mad Madeline. He wouldn’t touc
h the subject. Instead, he suggested a tour of the two piers—the rental space.

  It was a good idea. Revenue from the space was substantial. The two theaters could be used in conjunction with the vast open spaces or separately. The same with the piers. Both or just one. Each pier could be customized for specific purposes. They had had art shows, product launches, association conventions, wine tastings, Craig explained.

  “And you rent to anyone?” I asked as we entered the larger of the two theaters.

  “The philosophy used to be ‘to anyone or anything, as long as it’s legal.’ ”

  “Now?” I asked.

  “Well,” he said, looking around as if someone might save him, “the new executive director has to okay it.”

  “Madeline?”

  “Yes. She wants to raise the quality of the clientele.”

  “You’ve lost business?”

  “Some,” he said.

  “Are you and your salespeople paid a commission?”

  “A bonus based on how much we exceed expectations.” He looked down for a moment, then hurried ahead, into a theater.

  “Now this theater has three hundred seats. It’s perfect for independent dance companies,” he said, clearly trying to change the subject. “And sometimes we can help small companies get grants to help them pay the rent.”

  “Everyone handles their own ticket sales?”

  “Oh no,” he said. “We handle the box office for all events having an admission price. It’s a requirement.”

  “And you take a cut?”

  “The foundation does, yes. A straight fee to do it and a percentage of the gate. We set it up in the contract. The events-management people look after it.”

  “Vanessa?”

  “Yes.”

  I still had Vanessa, Emelio and Madeline to interview before my day and perhaps my job was done. Emelio suggested a lunch interview with him after I’d talked to Vanessa. Madeline was scheduled for two o’clock.

  Vanessa’s staff were on call. “Big event, lots of staff,” she explained. “Small event, minimal staff.

  “During big art shows, we have thousands of people come through here. There are hundreds of booths, food and wine. We have to keep it clean and safe. For example, we have to make sure that exits aren’t blocked, trash bins are emptied, computers work, the lighting is right. It goes on,” she said, flipping her long blond hair. “And we watch our suppliers—caterers, equipment and furniture providers—if applicable.”

  “Is there a markup?”

  “Yes, but sales sets all of that up. Once we get close to an event, we take over from sales. In the end, we provide the info for billing.”

  “You also handle the box office.”

  “Yes, but that’s pretty automatic. It’s a program. A full reconciliation is provided to the client and to our own finance department. The report is computer generated. It’s a breeze. Actually, our clients like it when they realize how much it simplifies their events.”

  “How have you been affected by your new boss, Madeline?”

  She looked at me warily. “She’s interested in the theater. That’s her background. Unless we expect famous attendees, she leaves us alone.”

  “She doesn’t show up?

  “She’s busy. She’s a very busy person.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Sometimes work is boring. I’m not a people person. I prefer it when the numbers tell the story. That’s my training. But the numbers weren’t saying much. As I kept reminding myself, the foundation was audited by a reputable firm. And they had seen nothing even remotely questionable. In fact, the foundation had passed its audits with flying colors for the past five years. The firm’s letter to the foundation’s audit and finance committee was uncharacteristically enthusiastic. Emelio was doing an impeccable job, it seemed. But I still had some serious questions.

  FIVE

  Emelio and I had lunch at the Ferry Building. The huge building, also on the bay, has been spectacularly restored. There are still ferries that carry tourists and commuters to and from places on the vast San Francisco Bay. But the Ferry Building has been reconfigured to house shops and restaurants. The world-famous Vietnamese restaurant Slanted Door occupies one end. Another restaurant with a large outdoor space for dining occupies the other end. In between, there are specialty food shops. If you want mushrooms, there is a shop with all sorts of the fungi. Whether you want bread, cheese, crab, gelato, wine, tea, kitchen stuff, chocolate, flowers or coffee, the choices are unlimited. There is a Japanese delicatessen, a Mexican restaurant and a joint specializing in fresh seafood.

  We ended up at the big outdoor restaurant, with two glasses of chilled white wine. There was a calmer-than-usual sea breeze and blue skies. To the right of us was a line of fresh produce stands. In front of us, across the wide Embarcadero, was the financial district. It is a large gathering of high-rises housing international corporations, especially those connected to the Pacific Rim economy.

  After the waiter took our order I began my questions.

  “You said you were a certified public accountant…?”

  He didn’t need the whole question. He was ready to answer it. He wasn’t the least bit unnerved.

  “It’s easier that way,” Emelio said, smiling. “I received my accountancy training in London. I’m a qualified accountant through the CCAB—the Consultative Committee of Accountancy Bodies. I’m also a chartered accountant. To explain it is confusing and boring. So I just say I’m a CPA.”

  Technically he wasn’t a CPA, but he had gained a license in Europe with similar requirements. It wasn’t confusing, but it was boring, so I moved on.

  “Older records show that you were once the executive director of the Black Tortoise Foundation.”

  He took a sip of wine. “A little more than a year ago. I was the acting executive director. The board couldn’t find anyone. They formed a search committee. After many months they narrowed it to three candidates. By that time I was already out of the race. One withdrew, and it became a choice between two crazy ladies. They chose one.”

  “Were you considered?”

  “Not seriously.”

  “Why not?”

  “One member of the board told me in private that they were looking for someone who presented well. Someone with authority, someone people took seriously.”

  “You did apply?”

  “I did. I was here—I had a proven record. While I was in charge, everything ran like a top. But what they saw was this short, obviously gay man who appears uncomfortable in a public setting.”

  “Surely a gay executive director for an arts center in San Francisco wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “No,” he said softly. He seemed to freeze and his eyes darted about. “But some gay guys are impressive, very successful. Many have a knack for commanding respect. I guess I’m a behind-the-scenes kind of guy.

  “So Madeline takes over,” I said, to change the focus.

  “They paid big-time to find her. Paid even more to move her,” he said, obviously relieved to move on. “They paid her for three months before she got here. They put her up in a fancy hotel for three more months, until she found a home. I know. I wrote the checks. She’s cost us a fortune. Her management skills? Expenses are up, revenue is down. She actually turns away clients.”

  “I heard. Yet Craig had nothing bad to say about her.”

  Emelio leaned forward across the table. It was the intimate gossip pose. He was at home now. “Craig is having an affair. A divorce is imminent. Three children. That means child support, a mortgage and rent. He can’t afford to lose his job. And Madeline demonstrated early on that she will fire people on the spot. She’s usually locked away in her office. But when the door opens, people scatter like cockroaches when someone hits the light switch. They go out of their way to avoid her.”

  “Weren’t Craig and his wife at your house for the party?”

  “That was his girlfriend. And I’m s
ure that in her own way, she probably costs a pretty penny too.”

  “What does Madeline think about her employees avoiding her?”

  “She may not notice. She’s very self-absorbed.” He smiled coyly, understanding that he was also viewed that way. “On the other hand, she may like that she doesn’t have to deal with the little people.”

  “Marge doesn’t like her, I take it,” I said.

  “Marge and I didn’t get along until Madeline showed up. She told me she’d like to take Madeline out for a little swim. She’s convinced that the heavy, gaudy charm bracelets would take Madeline to the bottom of the bay.”

  “She took over one of Marge’s staff members as her own,” I said. A private investigator knows the value of gossip too.

  “She did,” Emelio said. “Mine too. She’s made my IT guy her personal assistant. I mean, the woman couldn’t dial a rotary phone. She’s constantly having him solve her problems with her personal cell, both her laptops and God knows what else.”

  “Both her laptops?” I asked.

  “One is for foundation business, and one is personal.”

  The food arrived, and I glanced up. On the median between the traffic lanes of the Embarcadero was a drummer and several skateboarders. Ancient trolleys, one made of wood and restored from past service in Milan, stopped to pick up riders heading to Fisherman’s Wharf. People walked by, people who came from all sorts of places around the world, engaged in lives I could not imagine. Another day in paradise, I thought, even though I was now caught up in tawdry, petty gossip. Yes, Emelio and I were more alike than I cared to admit.

  It has happened before. I am to do some minor investigation, and suddenly I find myself separated from simple, honest, motiveless accounting. I am drawn into the battle of egos, obsessions and emotions.

  “What’s the story with Vanessa?”