I wished I’d had a chance to look at Maddie’s data before now, but what was done was done. I wondered if I were strong enough to reduce the size of Maddie’s ice cream portion as an incentive never to do something like this again.
As usual, Skip won the silence contest. I cleared my throat and answered a non-question. “I think there was some competition between Callahan and Savage and the Mellace Construction Company, and I was checking it out.”
“What’s the connection with Bridges? Because I know you wouldn’t have been looking into this unless there was one.”
“You don’t think I might just have been browsing, getting familiar with the World Wide Web?”
Skip rolled his eyes. “Can’t we do this the easy way for once?”
I took a breath. The easy way for Skip was the hard way for me. “Let’s look at the printout,” I said.
“I guess the answer is no, we’re not taking the easy route.”
“Bear with me,” I said, not knowing what that meant, other than a major stall tactic.
The printout had a list of recent contract awards for major facilities, including several hotels and office buildings in San Francisco and in the East Bay. I scanned page after page titled Request For Proposals, with the project name, such as a remodel or an equipment overhaul. The forms gave the names of the primary companies bidding for the job, a reference to what the companies had offered by way of promised work and expected compensation, and a score for each company. The winning contractors and the dates of the awards were also indicated.
“I did a quick review of these RFPs,” Skip said. “All of these are for works completed. Nothing newer than last spring.”
“Where did Maddie get these?” I wondered aloud.
“I’m guessing she went into the building commission’s site. Some of this has to be public information.”
“She’s a whiz, isn’t she?”
“Yeah, I’m glad I’m not dealing with her right now.”
I gave him an I’m-offended look. No need to prolong that topic, however.
Skip had highlighted the Duns Scotus jobs in yellow. Some were small, for repairs and remodeling, others were large, like a complete overhaul of the hotel’s several dining facilities.
I scanned the information on the highlighted jobs. “It looks like Mellace has received all the contracts for the Duns Scotus in the last five years, including all the refrigeration contracts that Callahan and Savage bid on.”
“Right. We don’t know that these were all the projects, however.”
“But even so, Callahan and Savage bid lower on the ones we have here and they still didn’t get the contracts,” I said. “I thought the low bidder always won.”
“Not necessarily. First, not all corporations have the requirement for competitive bidding. Second, even if they do, the winning award has to do with the reputation of the company, the timeline, the staffing, what side benefits they’re offering. A lot of things.”
“Which is what these scores are all about.” I may not have been a whiz, but I could be a fast learner.
“There’s a cycle for this kind of thing. Sometimes RFPs go out to third parties, like brokers. The broker will solicit proposals from companies, then sift through all the applicants and try to match the needs of the buyer with the needs of the seller.”
My head was dizzy. I wished I’d paid more attention when Ken talked about this part of his business. Not that he was a builder or an expert at trades himself, but as an architect he’d dealt with this network of people and forms over the years.
It seemed that lately I’d been paying the consequences of inattention to things that would turn out to be useful. Like Rosie’s ramblings during crafts night and Ken’s humble opinions on contracts and subcontracts and sub-subcontracts.
This printout said one thing-either Mellace was the absolute best contractor around, especially for the Duns Scotus, or the Duns Scotus would have no other. It was as fishy as the grading procedures of some ALHS teachers I knew during my career.
“Who decides all this?”
“Good question,” Skip said. “Might not hurt to find out.”
And I had a good idea where to start. With Walter Mellace, if anyone could get to him. And with Rosie Norman, the daughter of a Callahan and Savage employee, if she would just show up.
It was almost an hour since I’d left the Mary Todd. I expected Skip to get a call from the duty cop downstairs any minute, telling him one Rosie Norman wanted to see him.
The phone in the conference room rang at that moment.
Good timing, except I could tell from Skip’s end of the conversation that it wasn’t a Rosie alert.
“Okay, I guess I know where I stand,” Skip said in a light tone. “Do I have to serve them ice tea?”
A soft laugh and Skip hung up.
“We have to move,” he said.
“I’m not through with you,” I said.
“Back at you. Can you wait for me in my office? It seems some bigwigs want the conference room. I’ll clean this up and be right there.”
“No problem.”
In truth, it had been my greatest wish to be alone in Skip’s office. Even as I walked past the empty cubicles I reached into my tote and pulled out the key card to David Bridges’s room. I fingered it all the way down the row of offices, my heart racing in time with my quick steps.
I entered the dull orange-and-brown-felt cubicle, relieved to find Skip’s desk and extra chair cluttered as usual. I immediately knocked a stack of folders from his visitor’s chair. I made sure papers didn’t fly too far, just enough distance for me to have to gather them and place them on the corner of the desk, amid other stacks. And in pulling them together, I managed to slip the key card between who knew what case and who knew what other case.
By the time Skip returned, I was settled on the chair. I’d taken out my notebook and pen and was making notes on the RFP review we’d just been through. Calm as can be.
“Turns out the meeting’s not just for bigwigs. I need to be at it, Aunt Gerry. We’ll have to continue this later.”
Another plus. Rosie hadn’t shown up yet and I was running out of delay tactics.
I got up to leave. I tapped the stack of folders I’d knocked over and replaced on his desk. “Oh, I dropped some stuff when I moved things from the chair,” I said. “So this pile might be a little mixed up. Sorry.”
I felt my homicide detective nephew could see right through me. But not directly, because I kept my eyes cast down the whole time I was talking.
I expected repercussions at some time, but for now, he let me off the hook.
Chapter 12
My thin towels, with their faded blue stripes, some from the earliest years of our marriage, looked pitiful after the plush vanilla bath sheets at the Duns Scotus. Two nights at a San Francisco hotel made my house, and most of my belongings, look equally shabby. I wasn’t usually interested in flowery scents, but I rummaged for the fragrant soap I’d taken (not pilfered, as I do in cops’ offices) from room five sixty-eight and put it on my cosmetics shelf. A definite upgrade.
I reminded myself of the trade-off for the hotel amenities: I’d been accosted in an elegantly appointed hallway and had had my purse stolen in their thickly verdant lobby. I resolved to go back someday when I wasn’t hanging out with murder suspects.
I was in desperate need of some time at home, mediocre though it was, and of time with my family. I also needed to get to a miniature project soon to help me relax and gain perspective. Very often I solved a problem only when I stopped thinking hard about it and escaped to a different world for a while-a world where a small suction cup could be turned into a bathroom plunger or a bead from a broken necklace could be the base of a tiny lamp.