3 The Case of Tiffany's Epiphany (13 page)

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I fix a new turkey meatloaf recipe that I found on the back of the ground turkey package for dinner. The kids hate it, so I boil some water, toss in some pasta, and serve it up with butter and parmesan cheese. I eat the meatloaf, sans real meat. It’s not bad, but it does need a little kick.

“Don’t you have any Ragu?” Care asks.

“Mom always has Ragu,” Kelly adds.

“Those bottled sauces are filled with preservatives. They’re not good for you,” I tell them.

“Couldn’t be any worse than this turkey meatloaf,” Kelly says stabbing my gourmet delicacy with her fork as if she’s Tony Perkins in
Psycho
.

After dinner, after homework, and after showers, we usually sit in the front room and argue about what to watch on TV. I always lose.

“What’s going on with Tiffany, Dad,” Care asks. “Is she better?”

“I am happy to say that Tiffany is back to normal.”

“Tiffany’s not normal, Dad,” Kelly says. “Tiffany’s rich.”

“Well, whatever she is, she’s back to it.”

“What happened to her?” Care asks.

“Somebody slipped something into her drink.”

“What?” Kelly asks.

“Something that made her sick,” I answer.

“One time at lunch Ricky Starr blew a load of snot into Billy Merrit’s Mountain Dew can when he wasn’t looking,” Care informs us.

“That happens all the time in my school,” Kelly adds.

“Well, let that be a lesson to you,” I tell them.

“What?”

“Don’t drink Mountain Dew or anything else out of a can.”

“What happens if we’re out in the desert and the only thing we have to drink is out of a can?” Care asks.

“It’ll be on your conscious, Dad, if we drop dead of thirst,” Kelly warns me.

“I’ll drown myself in guilt with a 12-pack of Mountain Dew. Would that make you happy, Kelly?”

“No, but a Diet Coke right now would.”

“Did you find the guy who did that to Tiffany?” Care asks.

“I’m working on it.”

“We’re available if you need some help.”

“I’ll call if I need back-up.”

They go to bed. I go to bed. In the morning, I get up. They get up. I take them to school. Kiss them goodbye. End of joint custody for another week.

---

I’m across the street, in front of Bruno’s condo building, when Tiffany shows up her usual half-hour late. She doesn’t look too chipper.

“You okay, Tiffany?”

“I’m not sleeping well.”

“Is that your fault or someone else’s?”

“Are you asking me if I’m doing someone and
they’re
keeping me up all night?”

“Not in so many words,” I answer.

“The answer is ‘No,’ but I do wish that was the reason.”

“How about you and Monroe?”

“I got him hooked,” Tiffany says, “but I’m waiting to reel him in.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure, that’s why I’d better wait.”

“Good choice, Tiffany.”

We have a few seconds of silence before Tiffany asks, “What are we doing here, anyway?”

“We have to go see Bruno. This is where he lives.”

“His parents must have money,” Tiffany says, reviewing the building.

“See that doorman?” I ask pointing out my buddy.

“How could I miss him? That outfit is atrocious,” Tiffany critiques. “Nobody wears epaulets anymore.”

“Doormen do.”

“Why do you think doormen wear uniforms, Mr. Sherlock?”

“Because they’re in the service,” I answer.

“You go in the army to be a doorman?” Tiffany continues her line of questioning.

“No, they’re in the service business.”

“I think it would be a good idea if all people in service businesses wore uniforms,” she says. “It would take the guess work out of who I could order around.”

Tiffany’s comments of this nature should never be responded to and die a very sudden death.

“Right now, Tiffany, all we have to be concerned about is getting past that doorman and into the building.”

“That’s easy,” she says nonchalantly.

“Really?”

“In the back there has to be a ramp to the underground parking. Go down to the first floor door there and wait for me to open it up.”

“Really?”

“No problem.”

I make my way to the back of the building, find the ramp, head down one level, and find the door which requires an electronic pass card to open. I do my best to stay on the back side of the mounted security camera while I wait. Three minutes later Tiffany opens the door.

“How’d you do that?”

“When you grow up in a penthouse condo, you learn all the tricks.”

We find the elevator and take it to the 41
st
floor. As soon as the doors open, my senses tell me something isn’t right.

Down the hall we stop at 4112. I knock. No answer. I knock harder. Again, no answer. My senses are kicking in big time. “You smell that?”

Tiffany sniffs the air. “Public restroom?”

I get down on my hands and knees and smell the space between the door and the carpet. Not good.

“I hope you don’t expect me to do that,” Tiffany says.

I try the door. It’s locked.

A couple of years ago, one of the better second-story jewel thieves in town by the name of Shervy Reckless passed along to me his favorite lock pick set in an attempt to convince me he’d given up the business. Two weeks later a diamond the size of my little toe was stolen from a woman who lived on the sixty-fourth floor of a building on Lakeshore Drive. I couldn’t bust Shervy for the theft, but I did get a nice lock pick set out of the experience.

I go to work on the door. It takes less than a minute to unlock the knob lock. It takes me about five to get the deadbolt open. I open the door a crack, but stop Tiffany as she moves forward to enter. “Wait,” I pull my handkerchief out of my back pocket and hand it to her, “you’re going to need this.”

“Are you going to give me a cold and I’m going to start sniffling?” she asks.

“No, but trust me, you’re going to need it.”

I open the door, we step inside, and the stench almost dyes our hair.

No matter what any cop, criminal, soldier, hit man, or mass murderer tells you, nobody likes the odor of a decomposing corpse. The stench is unimaginable and extremely unbearable. Combine the worst farts of a cow, a rhinoceros, an elephant, a family dog, and fat Uncle Louie, and you won’t match the noxious aroma of a decaying body.

“Don’t touch anything, Tiffany,” I order her as I make my way to the patio door and open it all the way. Windy City air blows in and we get a bit of relief.

Tiffany follows my path and meets me on the patio. “That smells worse than three dollar perfume.”

I retrieve my handkerchief. “I’m going back in,” I tell her.

“I’ll wait out here. I don’t want the smell to get on my new exfoliated skin.”

I find Bruno, or what was once Bruno, face down on the floor of the bedroom. I’m going to break my rule never to assume and assume that someone took an iron rod to his head because his skull is bashed in and a fireplace poker covered in dried blood is lying not too far away. There’s also a large splatter pattern on the wall behind the bed, hardly artistic. I don’t get too close.

And to add to my last bit of murder trivia facts, it’s also true, no matter what anyone says, nobody likes discovering the body of a murder victim. It's disgusting. The image stays with you forever. Your stomach churns, your teeth clench, and your sphincter tightens. Today is no exception.

I back out of the room, return to the outside deck, and call “Wait” Jack Wayt.

Before I can say a word, Jack says “Wait.”

“What?”

“Sherlock, do you know if you can get shingles if you haven’t had chicken pox?” he asks.

“I don’t know, Jack,” I confess. “You’ll have to ask your doctor.”

“It’s hard to get a hold of that guy. They always tell me he’s in surgery when I call.”

“Is he a surgeon?”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Jack, I don’t want to tell you how I found this, but I got something for you.”

“A cure for my psoriasis?”

“No, a murder.”

“Sherlock, I’m on drugs,” he snaps back in an exasperated tone, “not murder.”

“This one may be related.”

“In my condition, I really don’t need any more aggravation,” Jack tells me. “I could have a bipolar relapse.”

“What do you want me to do, Jack?”

“I’ll take care of it, but if my stress level gets any higher and that tick I used to have over my left eye kicks back in, you’re to blame.”

I give him the address, the floor, the condo number, and tell him the doorman on duty is a jerk.

Tiffany sits on one of the four outdoor dining chairs close to the state of the art barbeque. I don’t understand why people spend so much money on gas-fired, outdoor cooking extravaganzas. It’s the same gas that the kitchen stove uses when you broil indoors. The only difference I can see is one grill you clean, the other you don’t. So, people shell out thousands of dollars for gas-fired outdoor grills for the sheer taste that a filthy grill gives their steaks and burgers.

I look over at Tiffany; she seems lost in thought, which is a pretty tough thing for her. “Are you okay?”

“Not really.”

“The smell still getting to you?”

“That and my current state of mental health.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” she says. “It’s hard to talk about stuff when there’s a dead body close by.”

“Good point.”

I cover my face and go back through the unit to the front door. Once there, I notice the dead bolt on the side of the inner door. It’s new, but the door is old. I turn back to rejoin Tiffany and see that one fireplace piece is missing from the set in front of the fake marble fireplace. Why anyone would want a fake fireplace in their home is beyond me. A fireplace without wood burning capability is like a car with no engine, a snake without fangs, or a daughter of mine without an attitude.

I pause as I pass by the decorative unit and give the mantel an odd glance; something’s not kosher. The bottom edge of the wood mantle is worn in a weird way. With one hand holding the handkerchief against my face, I use my other hand to reach up inside the opening at the weird spot and feel around. If I were a physician, this is where I’d say “Cough.” Satisfied with my diagnosis, I hurry back to the deck, hang my head over the railing to get the freshest air, and breathe deeply.

Three minutes later, the first person to come through the door is detective Neula “No-No” Noonan. What did I do to deserve this?

“No, no,” is her reaction to seeing me. “What are you doing here, Sherlock?”

“I just happened to be in the neighborhood …”

“No, no, save it Sherlock,” she cuts me off. “I’ve been lied to by enough men in my life, don’t add yourself to the total.”

“The body is in the bedroom.”

“No-No" Noonan reaches into her purse and takes out a pair of latex gloves and mesh booties. She pulls the gloves on first and has to hold onto a chair to balance to get the booties over her shoes. Considering her size, this isn’t the easiest of tasks. Before she heads into the bedroom, she gives me one final order, “Don’t move.” She disappears into the room and dashes out three minutes later with a face that’s a lighter shade of pale.

“No-No” joins Tiffany and me on the deck. “No, no,” she says between gasps of breath. “This is not my idea of a good way to start my day.” She hits one number on her cell phone and says, “Come on up, we got a ripe one.”

“No-No” sits down in the chair next to Tiffany. “What are you, about ninety pounds?”

“One-oh-two this morning,” Tiffany tells her.

“I got thighs that weigh more than that,” she admits.

“No-No” relaxes a bit to catch her breath, as much from the stench as from the sight.

“You want to know how much I weigh?” I ask.

“No, no, I don’t.”

Neula “No-No” Noonan has been a CPD detective for over twenty years, each year of service adds to her pension--and her girth; it’s a toss-up which addition is greater. Svelte she’s not, but she has become somewhat of a legend and not entirely due to her size. “No-No” Noonan one time figured out, after three previous detectives had failed, that the body of a man found dead in the middle of a field with absolutely no discernible clues (no footprints, no tire tracks, no nothing) was not a murder victim at all but a guy stowed away in the belly of a jetliner who fell out when the landing gear opened up coming into O’Hare. Another time, she deduced that a jealous wife had used a turkey baster to extract her husband’s man juice from her own female parts and inject it into her husband’s mistress’ female portal, after she bludgeoned the much younger woman to death with a tire iron. Neula “No-No” Noonan has a knack for the bizarre; to be a great murder detective, it helps.

The homicide team enters the condo wearing gloves, hairnets, booties, and breathing apparatus; some people really know how to dress for the occasion. “Let me get them going, Sherlock, then I’ll be back,” she informs me.

Tiffany and I wait on the patio.

“I’m worried about my life, Mr. Sherlock,” Tiffany tells me right out of the blue.

“Why?”

“Because I no longer see my life as being positive.”

“Really?”
“Afraid so.”

The next question is quite obvious. “When did you last see your life as positive?”

“I’m not sure, but it was sometime before last Friday night,” she tells me in a somewhat concerned voice.

I’m about to ask another question, but she beats me to the punch. “I had a vision.”

“A vision?”

“When I was roofied and passed out on the floor of the bar,” she says in all seriousness. “I had a vision.”

“What did you see?”

“My life flashed before my eyes.”

“Really?”

“I was in an old pair of ratty jeans, Keds, and a red T-shirt that had
Bioche and Proud of It
written on the front in big purple letters.”

I’m not really sure how to respond, “Okay.”

“The jeans and the Keds were bad enough, but the worst part was the T-shirt,” she pauses. “I never wear red. Red is for losers. And red with purple is a real fashion fox pac.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“The vision was telling me, my whole life, my whole fashion sense, has been an ultimate failure. A sham, a shame; squandered in a sea of senseless senselessness.”