Sometimes, I think I must have the best job in the world. As part of my work, I met a girl a few weeks ago. Not a girl, really. A woman. A truly fascinating woman. Her name is Sarah.
I’m a private investigator for a boutique divorce law firm. It’s not as glamorous as it may sound. I do rack up the frequent-flier points, and yes, I went to Las Vegas last Christmas, but it was for work. I was trying to get video of a suspected cheating husband. To a degree, I understood when I spied on him. After all, his wife was a shrew, and he was a typical guy. The young lady he took to his room while his wife finished her shopping did a Tahitian hula/reverse cowgirl thing that I had never seen before.
A lot of my work involves researching hidden assets. Sometimes, I’m looking for real estate holdings or off-shore bank accounts. Sometimes, it’s artwork or jewels. Often, I’m at a desk, and when I do go out on field-work, there’s no Indiana Jones or Mission Impossible stuff.
The senior partner (known among the staff as The Ice Queen) called me to her office. “Don,” she asked, “if I told you I wanted you on a red-eye flight Sunday night, what would it do to your other cases?”
“For how long?”
“I wouldn’t normally ask you to do this, but …”
“Bullshit, Marian,” I interrupted. “How long do I have to be away?”
“You have all the budget you need on this one to hire whoever you want to help you. If you get yourself a good forensic accountant, you should be on the plane back home Friday night.”
“Some clients will argue, but nobody’s world will come to an end if I’m not here for a week,” I said. “It’s a good thing we love each other.”
“Just remember who pays whom, and why. Clean up your loose ends and go home. Pack for a week in Virginia, near DC. A car will pick you up and take you to the airport. Be ready Sunday morning at ten.” Marian handed me some file folders and a small bundle of discs, and motioned me away. “Go, before we do something stupid.”
My new job was to dig up the dirt on a business. The estranged wife has a large block of shares in her husband’s enterprise, and she feels he’s siphoning off money, lowering the value of her holdings, which would be beneficial to him when he is ordered to buy her out.
Even though I probably have learned enough over the years to take the exams, I’m not an accountant. This job needed one. From an assignment several years ago, I know a gentleman who is a senior partner in a successful accounting firm in the area. I gave him a call. He agreed to “rent out” his best forensic accountant, a Mrs. Sarah Blevins. Her schedule would be clear late Monday morning.
Her curriculum vitae had me hoping for a dynamic, no-nonsense woman with a sharp mind and a bit of cynicism, all business, and hopefully, a stickler for details. I wanted someone who could find evidence of fiduciary mistakes by the company’s own financial people, or signs that the books had been “cooked.”
I’ve teamed with this kind of specialist before. They’re often the nerds of the accounting world. Based on the people I had worked with in the past, I anticipated a plain looking woman.
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