When people think of investigative work many inaccurate things come to mind. Digging through finances is not one of them.
"Finances?" I hear you wonder out loud. "That's accounting!"
Not when we do it. Then it's forensic accounting. Another investigative option to investigate.
People say its easy money. I say it's easier in a need-to-pay-the-bills-now frenzied panic, so its worth looking into.
http://www.daylightforensic.com/index.php
Think you've been a victim of financial fraud? Check this out:
www.acl.com/fraud_detection
Don't wait until it's too late.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Monday, June 16, 2008
I Hate Paper Work
I have a confession. I hate paper work
Not so much a confession as admitting I'm like every other shlub in the biz.
The question then: if I hate paper work, and I know I hate paperwork, what in Hades possessed me to start a blog?
It will be fun. (sometimes)
It would satisfy my inner journalist(so, so)
I'll get a following and be famous(ha, ha)
I'll get a following and beat the Luddites at leads(Ha, Ha!)
I'll be able to blog in my spare time( HA!HA!)
The truth: blogging is writing. Writing is work. To the point, writing is work I hate.
Hate is a strong word. Avoid unless completely necessary. Like being up past 2 am finishing a report I should have done before dinner. A report so boring I'm blogging about how I hate paperwork.
Readers will laugh themselves to death on hearing I planned to blog every day. Paperwork and journalism are different animals. But in the middle of the night they look the same. An animal that needs to be put down.
I'm going to bed.
Not so much a confession as admitting I'm like every other shlub in the biz.
The question then: if I hate paper work, and I know I hate paperwork, what in Hades possessed me to start a blog?
It will be fun. (sometimes)
It would satisfy my inner journalist(so, so)
I'll get a following and be famous(ha, ha)
I'll get a following and beat the Luddites at leads(Ha, Ha!)
I'll be able to blog in my spare time( HA!HA!)
The truth: blogging is writing. Writing is work. To the point, writing is work I hate.
Hate is a strong word. Avoid unless completely necessary. Like being up past 2 am finishing a report I should have done before dinner. A report so boring I'm blogging about how I hate paperwork.
Readers will laugh themselves to death on hearing I planned to blog every day. Paperwork and journalism are different animals. But in the middle of the night they look the same. An animal that needs to be put down.
I'm going to bed.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Just Say No To Favor Requests From Friends
Or friends of friends . Or neighbors. All you'll get is a black eye for your trouble. But I'm getting ahead.
It started with a cat. We'll call her "Muffin". Muffin was a troublemaker. For her humans. Birds in the yard. And, ultimately, me.
Not that she was a bad cat. She's friendly. Affectionate. Spayed. Everything you want in a female cat. But she had an appetite. And the froo-froo designer food she was fed wasn't enough. She was hardcore. She wanted junk. Specifically Friskies.
The only way to feed this habit was to steal neighbor cat's food. Back porch, garage, carport or cat flap, no place was safe from Muffin's scavaging. Most of her forays would be done in less than a day. But come spring she'd feel she needed to make up for the winter she was shut inside. She'd go missing days in March and April. Never mind come May she was back on schedule. "Dolores", Muffin's owner, still worried over her poor dear sweet Muffin when she was gone. This is the same cat I'd personally observe edge a twenty-five pound tom away from his own bowl. Poor Muffin was an aggressive addict.
This year some jerk(my cousin) blabbed that I was working with a private investigative team. Maybe Tammy could find Muffin, he volunteered. He also volunteered my cell number.
Me: Hello?
Dolores: Hi! Tam?
Me: Hi! What's up?
Dolores: It's Muffin. I think she's really lost this time.
Me: Dolores, you always think she's really lost this time of year.
Dolores: But it's dangerous out there.
Me: With Muffin on the loose, I agree.
Dolores: There are raccoons.
Me: Muffin sent your neighbor's pit bull yipping for a vet. A raccoon would barely make her sweat.
Dolores: Tam, it's been three days!
Me: The record's four.
Dolores: Please! (Jerk I'm related to) told me all about how you're learning to investigate things.
Me: Dolores, those things are humans who leave documentation wherever they go.
Dolores: Muffin's licensed.
Me: Unless that's driver's license, it won't help. Actually running plates are a pain. If she had a credit card..
Dolores: Tam, please! I'm really worried.
A few more rounds in the guilt ring, I was down for the count. Dolores walked away with the match. Like usual. I squeezed the search for Muffin into my already packed schedule. For free. Thing was, I play the odds and do nothing, Muffin would show up in 24 or less. I'd take the credit. Dolores would be grateful. But then I'd feel guilty. I decided to use my lunch to make some token rounds so I could tell Dolores I did something.
I walk around the neighborhood. It's quietly residential. Middleclass suburban but no hint of Stepford. I turn a corner and see a cat streak across the road. Another victim of "poor" Muffin? I speed up to the carport in time to see a bushy ginger tail disappear through a door into the back yard. Muffin's a long haired orange tabby. Hot damn! I thought. I might finish this job honestly.
Then I remembered I was doing it for free.
I pulled the camera out, zoomed and started walking through the carport. Anyone asked, I was looking for a cat. Because I was. I was so busy looking for the cat, focusing the zoom, I didn't see the door from the house open into my path until it was too late.
The camera was okay. The same could not be said about me. Or my eye. After exchanging apologies with the grandmotherly lady who tried to give me a shiner, I told her the tale of Muffin. She was familiar with the cat. Trouble, she said. I agreed.
She let me into the back yard to look. Crouching at the far side was the target, as if she'd been spooked by the racket. I took a pic then put the camera away. This should be easy. I'd just make nice kitty noises, get close, nab Muffin, job over.
Then I slipped on cat food Muffin had spilled in alarm. I went down. Luckily I went down on the grass.
By the time the nice lady finished treating my wounds, Muffin was gone. So was my lunch time. Time to head back to the office.
On the way people stared briefly then looked away. Did I really look that bad? I wondered. Ducking into the loo waiting for my skinny tall latte, I learned why. The minor scraps and abrasions weren't visible. But the sharp angular bruise under one eye was. Right where the door shoved the camera into my face. I suppose I was lucky it wasn't the binoculars. I'd really have a black eye then. Possibly two. This was nothing a little makeup couldn't fix. Once I walked the gauntlet of sympathy stares.
I emailed Dolores what I found. Promised I'd be checking in. She thanked me profusely. The next day Muffin showed up. Damn cat.
Today most of my wounds were gone except for the bruise. I showed up for Mother's Day with my patter worked out: "My boyfriend Thor beat me."
This attempt at humor was received with mixed reviews:
Dad: You have a boyfriend? Since when?
Mom: Domestic violence is not a joking matter to the real victims.
Me: Okay! Truce! You're right. Bad joke. I ran into a door. Happy Mother's Day. Has the Jerk arrived yet? I want to have a word with him about a cat.
Moral of the story: just say no to favor requests.
Especially when your cousin volunteers you.
It started with a cat. We'll call her "Muffin". Muffin was a troublemaker. For her humans. Birds in the yard. And, ultimately, me.
Not that she was a bad cat. She's friendly. Affectionate. Spayed. Everything you want in a female cat. But she had an appetite. And the froo-froo designer food she was fed wasn't enough. She was hardcore. She wanted junk. Specifically Friskies.
The only way to feed this habit was to steal neighbor cat's food. Back porch, garage, carport or cat flap, no place was safe from Muffin's scavaging. Most of her forays would be done in less than a day. But come spring she'd feel she needed to make up for the winter she was shut inside. She'd go missing days in March and April. Never mind come May she was back on schedule. "Dolores", Muffin's owner, still worried over her poor dear sweet Muffin when she was gone. This is the same cat I'd personally observe edge a twenty-five pound tom away from his own bowl. Poor Muffin was an aggressive addict.
This year some jerk(my cousin) blabbed that I was working with a private investigative team. Maybe Tammy could find Muffin, he volunteered. He also volunteered my cell number.
Me: Hello?
Dolores: Hi! Tam?
Me: Hi! What's up?
Dolores: It's Muffin. I think she's really lost this time.
Me: Dolores, you always think she's really lost this time of year.
Dolores: But it's dangerous out there.
Me: With Muffin on the loose, I agree.
Dolores: There are raccoons.
Me: Muffin sent your neighbor's pit bull yipping for a vet. A raccoon would barely make her sweat.
Dolores: Tam, it's been three days!
Me: The record's four.
Dolores: Please! (Jerk I'm related to) told me all about how you're learning to investigate things.
Me: Dolores, those things are humans who leave documentation wherever they go.
Dolores: Muffin's licensed.
Me: Unless that's driver's license, it won't help. Actually running plates are a pain. If she had a credit card..
Dolores: Tam, please! I'm really worried.
A few more rounds in the guilt ring, I was down for the count. Dolores walked away with the match. Like usual. I squeezed the search for Muffin into my already packed schedule. For free. Thing was, I play the odds and do nothing, Muffin would show up in 24 or less. I'd take the credit. Dolores would be grateful. But then I'd feel guilty. I decided to use my lunch to make some token rounds so I could tell Dolores I did something.
I walk around the neighborhood. It's quietly residential. Middleclass suburban but no hint of Stepford. I turn a corner and see a cat streak across the road. Another victim of "poor" Muffin? I speed up to the carport in time to see a bushy ginger tail disappear through a door into the back yard. Muffin's a long haired orange tabby. Hot damn! I thought. I might finish this job honestly.
Then I remembered I was doing it for free.
I pulled the camera out, zoomed and started walking through the carport. Anyone asked, I was looking for a cat. Because I was. I was so busy looking for the cat, focusing the zoom, I didn't see the door from the house open into my path until it was too late.
The camera was okay. The same could not be said about me. Or my eye. After exchanging apologies with the grandmotherly lady who tried to give me a shiner, I told her the tale of Muffin. She was familiar with the cat. Trouble, she said. I agreed.
She let me into the back yard to look. Crouching at the far side was the target, as if she'd been spooked by the racket. I took a pic then put the camera away. This should be easy. I'd just make nice kitty noises, get close, nab Muffin, job over.
Then I slipped on cat food Muffin had spilled in alarm. I went down. Luckily I went down on the grass.
By the time the nice lady finished treating my wounds, Muffin was gone. So was my lunch time. Time to head back to the office.
On the way people stared briefly then looked away. Did I really look that bad? I wondered. Ducking into the loo waiting for my skinny tall latte, I learned why. The minor scraps and abrasions weren't visible. But the sharp angular bruise under one eye was. Right where the door shoved the camera into my face. I suppose I was lucky it wasn't the binoculars. I'd really have a black eye then. Possibly two. This was nothing a little makeup couldn't fix. Once I walked the gauntlet of sympathy stares.
I emailed Dolores what I found. Promised I'd be checking in. She thanked me profusely. The next day Muffin showed up. Damn cat.
Today most of my wounds were gone except for the bruise. I showed up for Mother's Day with my patter worked out: "My boyfriend Thor beat me."
This attempt at humor was received with mixed reviews:
Dad: You have a boyfriend? Since when?
Mom: Domestic violence is not a joking matter to the real victims.
Me: Okay! Truce! You're right. Bad joke. I ran into a door. Happy Mother's Day. Has the Jerk arrived yet? I want to have a word with him about a cat.
Moral of the story: just say no to favor requests.
Especially when your cousin volunteers you.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Process Serving: Check Your Dignity At The Door
Process serving is as unglamorous as it sounds:
1: Find person X being sued by person Y.
2: Give person X papers.
3: Get out in one piece. Dignity is optional.
Sounds simple. And boring.
It is. Except when its not:
"Fun" is one way of putting it. "Nice doggie" is another. Evasiveness is directly proportional to number and/or viciousness of dogs owned. There's nothing like standing on a strangers porch, knowing you're not wanted, listening to three baying dogs rattle the door wanting to have you for lunch.
Forget every self-defense course or weapon. Even pepper spray. If the defendant gets injured, the judge might rule the service "ineffective".
Just smile while you're quaking in your stylish sneakers. If it goes bad, be ready to run. You won't have your dignity, but the service won't be ruined.
In process serving that's all that counts.
1: Find person X being sued by person Y.
2: Give person X papers.
3: Get out in one piece. Dignity is optional.
Sounds simple. And boring.
It is. Except when its not:
What happens when the defendant is evasive?
This is where it gets fun. It becomes a sophisticated game of tag with high stakes. The stakes being that the plaintiff could lose the case based on improper service. The defendant may skip town with all his or her assets and leave the plaintiff little chance of recovery, which may happen anyway. The defendant's stakes are that he may have his or her whole life turned upside-down. The attorneys may lose clients. The process server may get beaten up, bitten by a dog, lose clients, or get sued. Aside from the stakes, the techniques for effective process serving are all common sense.
"Fun" is one way of putting it. "Nice doggie" is another. Evasiveness is directly proportional to number and/or viciousness of dogs owned. There's nothing like standing on a strangers porch, knowing you're not wanted, listening to three baying dogs rattle the door wanting to have you for lunch.
Forget every self-defense course or weapon. Even pepper spray. If the defendant gets injured, the judge might rule the service "ineffective".
Just smile while you're quaking in your stylish sneakers. If it goes bad, be ready to run. You won't have your dignity, but the service won't be ruined.
In process serving that's all that counts.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
A message to "Don Juan" and "Mrs. Robinson"
"Don Juan" is the married man paying for a new beemer, a weekly hotel rental and a mistress.
"Mrs. Robinson" is the married woman doing the same thing. Substitute "boy toy" for "mistress".
Message reads:
Your spouse suspects. You know that. Stop being a coward. File for divorce. Or separation. Or marriage counseling.
You are not an international super spy. You will not get away with it. Avoid looking like the bad guy. Come clean with the spouse. Or stop before you're caught.
Separate and be free to screw whoever you want.
Duh.
Message ends.
I never get it. Must be the risk factor. Getting caught is the least of it. Ready to risk getting stuck with massive alimony and loosing the kids?
You aren't terrible people. You're just confused and unhappy. But there are choices: fix the marriage or leave the marriage.
Or act like a jerk, have an affair and loose the marriage and everything else.
Why do so many people chose door number three?
"Mrs. Robinson" is the married woman doing the same thing. Substitute "boy toy" for "mistress".
Message reads:
Your spouse suspects. You know that. Stop being a coward. File for divorce. Or separation. Or marriage counseling.
You are not an international super spy. You will not get away with it. Avoid looking like the bad guy. Come clean with the spouse. Or stop before you're caught.
Separate and be free to screw whoever you want.
Duh.
Message ends.
I never get it. Must be the risk factor. Getting caught is the least of it. Ready to risk getting stuck with massive alimony and loosing the kids?
You aren't terrible people. You're just confused and unhappy. But there are choices: fix the marriage or leave the marriage.
Or act like a jerk, have an affair and loose the marriage and everything else.
Why do so many people chose door number three?
Thursday, April 17, 2008
You Think A Law Degree Makes Them Smart
You'd be wrong.
Lawyer 1: spreads rumors a member misappropriated funds. Not true; when checked, backs down, but doesn't apologize.
Lawyer 2: listens with approval when someone in their club regales members with adventures in political vandalism.
Lawyer 3: doesn't read his/her email very carefully and decides he/she's been deceived. When pointed out they're mistaken, they try to change the subject and insist they're right.
Whoever passes out law degrees doesn't check listening or reading skills. (Don't know what
"Lawyer 1" 's excuse is.)
Just because they have a degree doesn't make them smart.
For the record:
I'm not licensed, yet. I never said I was. But anyone unclear can ask. A lowly site administrator was able to. It's a reasonable question. Should be easy for people with law degrees.
Lawyer 1: spreads rumors a member misappropriated funds. Not true; when checked, backs down, but doesn't apologize.
Lawyer 2: listens with approval when someone in their club regales members with adventures in political vandalism.
Lawyer 3: doesn't read his/her email very carefully and decides he/she's been deceived. When pointed out they're mistaken, they try to change the subject and insist they're right.
Whoever passes out law degrees doesn't check listening or reading skills. (Don't know what
"Lawyer 1" 's excuse is.)
Just because they have a degree doesn't make them smart.
For the record:
I'm not licensed, yet. I never said I was. But anyone unclear can ask. A lowly site administrator was able to. It's a reasonable question. Should be easy for people with law degrees.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
The Trouble With Nice People
They get in the way.
Anyone who says people aren't observant or nice, try surreptitiously casing a place the suspected unfaithful spouse hangs out . You left the stylish heels at home, got on your "jane doe" nondescript look, and are trying to blend in with the trashy scenery. And where these people go, its trashy indeed.
All you want is to hang out, pretending to read that book or magazine you brought along when you're reading the walk-bys. Maybe grab a cup of espresso. Give the block a walk around, see if anything jumps out. But no matter how reserved or unavailable you look, everyone wants to help. Your "jane doe" getup backfired. You've become a magnet for every would be good Samaritan within a mile radius:
"Can I help you?" (I'm looking at a building)
[Thinking: No, go away.] "Oh hi! Yeah, I was looking for (BS name)? He/she was supposed to meet me here."
"I don't know them. You have an appointment with a client?"
[Thinking: mental note: dress down next time] "No, no! Just a social call. We're meeting for coffee. This is (BS address, same business), right? [look around confused]
"Oh, no. I think that one's up the street."
[Look mildly shocked] "Oh! Really?" [Check notebook]
Nice person makes sympathetic noises. I sign with frustration, look lost, then walk off.
And hope I didn't miss anything.
I drive around the block, sit tight reading the weekly for five, figure the neighborhood girl scout has moved on and get out again. In the middle of looking at a roof line I'm accosted by a lady walking her dog who starts to tell me the history of the building. I nod politely hoping she'll finish soon. Before she's done "Don Juan" appears (Don Juan = any male target suspected of infidelity). Its not too bad. He walks by none the wiser and I've confirmed this location. Main drawback is, thanks to the history lesson, I can't get a photo.
By the time she's done, "Don Juan" is long gone (Got the plate, though). Figuring that's it for the day I go back to the car where some random guy wants to talk about how nice the whether is. Whatever. I'm tired and outta there.
Most people are happy to live in a town full of nice people. Most of the time I am. When they don't get in the way.
Anyone who says people aren't observant or nice, try surreptitiously casing a place the suspected unfaithful spouse hangs out . You left the stylish heels at home, got on your "jane doe" nondescript look, and are trying to blend in with the trashy scenery. And where these people go, its trashy indeed.
All you want is to hang out, pretending to read that book or magazine you brought along when you're reading the walk-bys. Maybe grab a cup of espresso. Give the block a walk around, see if anything jumps out. But no matter how reserved or unavailable you look, everyone wants to help. Your "jane doe" getup backfired. You've become a magnet for every would be good Samaritan within a mile radius:
"Can I help you?" (I'm looking at a building)
[Thinking: No, go away.] "Oh hi! Yeah, I was looking for (BS name)? He/she was supposed to meet me here."
"I don't know them. You have an appointment with a client?"
[Thinking: mental note: dress down next time] "No, no! Just a social call. We're meeting for coffee. This is (BS address, same business), right? [look around confused]
"Oh, no. I think that one's up the street."
[Look mildly shocked] "Oh! Really?" [Check notebook]
Nice person makes sympathetic noises. I sign with frustration, look lost, then walk off.
And hope I didn't miss anything.
I drive around the block, sit tight reading the weekly for five, figure the neighborhood girl scout has moved on and get out again. In the middle of looking at a roof line I'm accosted by a lady walking her dog who starts to tell me the history of the building. I nod politely hoping she'll finish soon. Before she's done "Don Juan" appears (Don Juan = any male target suspected of infidelity). Its not too bad. He walks by none the wiser and I've confirmed this location. Main drawback is, thanks to the history lesson, I can't get a photo.
By the time she's done, "Don Juan" is long gone (Got the plate, though). Figuring that's it for the day I go back to the car where some random guy wants to talk about how nice the whether is. Whatever. I'm tired and outta there.
Most people are happy to live in a town full of nice people. Most of the time I am. When they don't get in the way.
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