Tradeshow Services before
then?
I toss the pile of paper onto my desk, pick up my phone. I dial David Paris’s extension.
He must see my name on his Caller ID, for he answers with a delighted tone. ‘Hello, Jim!’ he says. He sounds like a pining teenage boy who is finally called by the girl he longs for.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘You can come to my office,’ I say, all trace of civility drained from my voice. ‘
Now
.’
He appears at the entrance to my office mere seconds after I hang up the phone. He must have bounded over desks and cubicles, like some sort of office Superman, to reach me so quickly. I swivel
in my seat and glare at him.
‘Yes, Jim?’ David says.
‘International Tradeshow Services,’ I say.
He looks at me blankly.
I drill him with my gaze, remaining silent.
‘I’m sorry?’ he says.
I repeat: ‘International Tradeshow Services.’ I try to keep my voice flat, emotionless. But I can feel it: a rush of triumph. Could it really be this easy? Could Tao’s problems
really boil down to one rogue VP of Marketing who is embezzling corporate funds?
It’s called a sham vendor. I have found one in nearly every company I’ve ever been hired to turn around. Here’s how it works. A criminal rents a post office box, prints up a
professional invoice from, say, ‘Acme Office Supplies’, and sends the bill to ‘Accounts Payable’ at some random company. Most small companies – those without full-time
accounting staffs – simply pay any bill presented to them. Sally in Accounting always assumes that someone in the company, somewhere, has bought something. The bills are typically for small
amounts – $100 here, $250 there. But carried over long enough periods of time, across hundreds of companies, a criminal can make a nice living at it.
But the sham vendor scam I’ve just uncovered is more ambitious than that. This is an inside job. Someone at Tao is presenting invoices to the Accounting Department, pretending that they
are for services rendered to the company. This criminal probably has an outside accomplice, someone who rents a post office box under the name International Tradeshow Services, and who answers the
telephone if someone at Tao gets suspicious and decides to call the mysterious company.
Now David Paris is staring at me, waiting for me to say more. When he decides I will say nothing further, he squints quizzically. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand you,
Jim.’
‘International Tradeshow Services,’ I say. ‘They’re a vendor. The marketing department – that’s your department, isn’t it? – is spending a lot of
money on their services. Who are they? What do they do for us?’
David looks puzzled. He glances down at his feet, wrinkles his brow. He has a look of quiet desperation, the look of a man who wants to please, but has no idea how. Finally, he admits softly:
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know the name.’
‘International Tradeshow Services,’ I repeat, for the fourth time. ‘Marketing has spent three million dollars on them over the past twelve months.’
David’s face shows a glimmer of understanding. He realizes now – perhaps for the first time – that he is being accused of corporate larceny.
‘No!’ he shouts, too loudly. He’s standing at the entrance to my office, on the edge of the bullpen, and his voice carries. From my perspective, I can’t see many people
in the office, but I sense the background noise grow mute. Conversations stop; people listen to the excitement emanating from the boss’s room. David must sense the change, too. He takes a
step closer and lowers his voice. Softer now, but still insistent: ‘Jim, I have never heard of that company.’
I hand him Joan’s report. He stares at the first page. He’s a marketing executive, and not very au fait with accounting statements. I watch his eyes flutter over the endless rows of
numbers, as he tries to figure out exactly what I want him to look at. Finally, he
then?
I toss the pile of paper onto my desk, pick up my phone. I dial David Paris’s extension.
He must see my name on his Caller ID, for he answers with a delighted tone. ‘Hello, Jim!’ he says. He sounds like a pining teenage boy who is finally called by the girl he longs for.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘You can come to my office,’ I say, all trace of civility drained from my voice. ‘
Now
.’
He appears at the entrance to my office mere seconds after I hang up the phone. He must have bounded over desks and cubicles, like some sort of office Superman, to reach me so quickly. I swivel
in my seat and glare at him.
‘Yes, Jim?’ David says.
‘International Tradeshow Services,’ I say.
He looks at me blankly.
I drill him with my gaze, remaining silent.
‘I’m sorry?’ he says.
I repeat: ‘International Tradeshow Services.’ I try to keep my voice flat, emotionless. But I can feel it: a rush of triumph. Could it really be this easy? Could Tao’s problems
really boil down to one rogue VP of Marketing who is embezzling corporate funds?
It’s called a sham vendor. I have found one in nearly every company I’ve ever been hired to turn around. Here’s how it works. A criminal rents a post office box, prints up a
professional invoice from, say, ‘Acme Office Supplies’, and sends the bill to ‘Accounts Payable’ at some random company. Most small companies – those without full-time
accounting staffs – simply pay any bill presented to them. Sally in Accounting always assumes that someone in the company, somewhere, has bought something. The bills are typically for small
amounts – $100 here, $250 there. But carried over long enough periods of time, across hundreds of companies, a criminal can make a nice living at it.
But the sham vendor scam I’ve just uncovered is more ambitious than that. This is an inside job. Someone at Tao is presenting invoices to the Accounting Department, pretending that they
are for services rendered to the company. This criminal probably has an outside accomplice, someone who rents a post office box under the name International Tradeshow Services, and who answers the
telephone if someone at Tao gets suspicious and decides to call the mysterious company.
Now David Paris is staring at me, waiting for me to say more. When he decides I will say nothing further, he squints quizzically. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand you,
Jim.’
‘International Tradeshow Services,’ I say. ‘They’re a vendor. The marketing department – that’s your department, isn’t it? – is spending a lot of
money on their services. Who are they? What do they do for us?’
David looks puzzled. He glances down at his feet, wrinkles his brow. He has a look of quiet desperation, the look of a man who wants to please, but has no idea how. Finally, he admits softly:
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know the name.’
‘International Tradeshow Services,’ I repeat, for the fourth time. ‘Marketing has spent three million dollars on them over the past twelve months.’
David’s face shows a glimmer of understanding. He realizes now – perhaps for the first time – that he is being accused of corporate larceny.
‘No!’ he shouts, too loudly. He’s standing at the entrance to my office, on the edge of the bullpen, and his voice carries. From my perspective, I can’t see many people
in the office, but I sense the background noise grow mute. Conversations stop; people listen to the excitement emanating from the boss’s room. David must sense the change, too. He takes a
step closer and lowers his voice. Softer now, but still insistent: ‘Jim, I have never heard of that company.’
I hand him Joan’s report. He stares at the first page. He’s a marketing executive, and not very au fait with accounting statements. I watch his eyes flutter over the endless rows of
numbers, as he tries to figure out exactly what I want him to look at. Finally, he
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