3 The Case of Tiffany's Epiphany (14 page)

“Did you make that up?”

“No, I read it in
People
Magazine,” Tiffany admits. “It might have been a quote from Lindsey Lohan.”

Tiffany takes a breath. This is hard for her. “Every time I think I can forget the vision, it comes to me in a recurring dream.”

“What?”

“The same dream, over and over, like a Seinfeld re-run. It’s a constant awful reminder of my failure to have a positive aura.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that Tiffany.”

“No-No” Noonan returns. We have to table our discussion.

“All right, Sherlock,” she says making me get up from the chair. “Tell me everything and no bullshit.”

“Wait.”

“Wait” Jack Wayt comes onto the patio deck.

“No, no. Not you too,” “No-No” says seeing Jack.

“Does anybody know what the symptoms of muscular dystrophy are?” Jack asks.

“Yeah,” a weakening of the commitment muscle,” “No-No” says.

Did I mention that “Wait” Jack Wayt and Neula “No-No” Noonan had a past and now have issues concerning their past?

“There always seems to be a little more Neula, every time I see you, Noonan,” Jack says taking a good-sized pinch of her upper arm fat.

“I’m surprised you could even remember with the onset of dementia you must be experiencing right now,” she shoots back at him.

I cut this off before it gets ugly. “As I was saying, Tiffany here …”

“That’s me,” Tiffany qualifies.

“… gets a roofie slipped to her last Friday night in the Zanadu Club.”

“I know that place,” “No-No” says.

“How?” Jack questions. “They don’t have a buffet there.”

“Don’t push me, “Wait” Jack Wayt.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not that strong.”

“In mind or body,” she qualifies for him.

I continue, “Bruno, the guy in the other room, was a bartender at Zanadu.”

“No, no, don’t tell me,” “No-No” interrupts. “You just happened to stop by today to pick up his recipe for
mojitos
.”

“No,” I say. “I haven’t been able to find him. I’ve been looking for him all week.”

“Mystery solved,” “No-No” says. “Case closed. Go home, Sherlock.”

“Tell her about the kidnapping and getting shot at,” Jack says.

I go through pretty much the rest of the sordid tale, leaving out the parts about my working for D’Wayne DeWitt and my problems with Mrs. Whiner and the girls’ basketball team. I end with, “It’s all connected somehow.”

“So were we,” “No-No” Noonan says looking over at “Wait” Jack Wayt.

One of the CSI techs comes out of the bedroom, lifts his breather, and yells out, “You can come in now.”

Three of us rise. Tiffany stays put. “I’m good,” she says.

The CSI techs are kind enough to delay covering the body so the three of us can feast our eyes upon the disgusting mess. A small amount of darkened blood escaped from the wounds when the techs turned the body over for a more intimate look, adding a brighter sheen to the remains. There was one blow to the back of the head, and one to his left side, just above the temple. By the craters in Bruno’s head, it seems obvious that whoever killed him was able to freely swing for the fences. There are no signs of a struggle. It was obviously wham, bam, and thank you, Bruno. There are pieces of skull on both wounds. What could be brain tissue, but probably isn’t, has oozed out. Rigor mortis has set in. Bruno is as stiff as the fireplace poker that killed him. The carpet is soaked with the blood from his head wound. If these floors are cheap, and gravity has its way, the unit beneath is going to have one revolting stain on its ceiling.

“He comes in first,” “No-No” says walking through a scenario, “gets whacked from behind, and gets spun around.” She points to the wall. “That’s the first splatter.”

Jack picks up the story. “He gets hit again before he goes down. Right here.” Jack steps over the blood puddle.

“Right handed batter,” I add.

“When?” “No-No” asks the CSI tech.

“A few days at least,” the CSI tech says. “For a bartender, he’s fermented quite well.”

“Wrap him up,” she says to the boys.

While the CSI techs are wrapping Bruno up for take out, I snag a pair of latex gloves, put them on, and start opening drawers. It doesn’t take long. “Bingo.”

The two detectives join me at Bruno’s chest of drawers. One of them pulls out two tins that used to hold crackers or cookies, but now hold an assortment of the most popular thrill pills.

“Zanax, Oxy, Roofie, Seconal, Depacote…” Jack knows his business. “I like the way he kept them in their own little sections.”

“There’s no stack of cash,” I point out.

“He’s a bartender, he’d have cash,” “No-No” says. “But this doesn’t scream robbery to me.”

“A crime of passion?” Jack wonders out loud.

“What would you know about passion?” “No-No” asks Jack.

“I know it takes two to have some,” Jack replies.

Tiffany’s voice interrupts the verbal post-relationship tête-à-tête. “Mr. Sherlock, I’m going downstairs. This is all, like, making me sick.”

The comments or the situation? I wonder.

“I’ll meet you at the Starbucks,” she says.

“Which one?” There’s a Starbucks on every corner in downtown Chicago.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Just keep Starbucking along until you find me.”

“Okay,” I yell back. “And don’t look this way when you leave the condo.

I wait a few seconds, and hear, “Oh, gross!”

Nobody listens to me.

CHAPTER 10

I find Tiffany in the third Starbucks I visit.

“Tiffany, why don’t you go home and take a beauty rest?” I suggest. “Or whatever will make you feel better.”

“My vision was a life-changing event, Mr. Sherlock.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“My entire existence passed before my eyes,” she reminds me.

“Maybe not, Tiffany. Drugs can do funny things to your system. They could have flipped some switch in your brain and caused a hallucination.”

“No way,” she says, “The powers of the universe are telling me I have to change.”

“How?”

“I’m not sure.”

I try to think this through, although there’s not much here to think through. “So, you might want to become less selfish and self-centered?”

Her face snaps toward me, as she asks, “You think I’m selfish and self-centered?”

“No.”

“Then what made you say that?”

“I was just repeating what you told me before, Tiffany.”

“That’s not what it sounded like to me,” she quips quickly. “You think I’m as bad as Alix Fromound.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do,” she says. “You just said it.”

“No, I didn’t.” I can’t win here. I should quit while I’m only this far behind.

“You’re not helping, Mr. Sherlock.”

“But I’m trying.”

Tiffany grips her head with both hands, gives a poor rendition of Edvard Munch’s
The Scream
, and cries out, “The pain, the pain in my brain is almost unbearable.”

“Calm down,” I plead with her. “You have to calm down.”

Tiffany is almost in tears. “Mr. Sherlock, this is awful. Every time I look in a full-length mirror I see myself in red. I hate that color!”

“Tiffany, relax.”

“I can’t.”

“Have another latte,” I suggest. A truly stupid suggestion once I think about it.

Tiffany takes a deep breath.

“Why don’t you go visit your spa? You can get a massage, have your nails done, your hair cut, get a facial, order a nice dinner, see a movie, take two aspirin, and call me in the morning.”

“I don’t get up in the morning,” she reminds me.

“Call me whenever. I just want you to feel better,” I assure her.

“Well, okay,” she says. “You talked me into it.”

---

I walk over to the Zanadu Club. I figure I better start earning my keep.

Gibby Fearn, who is busy supervising the added decorations being put up over the dance floor, sees me enter. “What do you want?” he calls out. He’s a little surlier than the last time we met.

“Big night tonight?” I ask coming up to where he stands directing traffic.

“Record release party.”

“Hip-Hop, rap, or regular?” I ask.

“Who cares, as long as they drink a lot of booze,” Gibby tells me.

Two workers are hoisting a banner with a picture of some SRW (singer/rapper/whatever), I’ve never heard of. The guy flashes an ear-to-ear smile with a set of diamond-encrusted braces on his teeth.

“Is Mr. DeWitt in?” I ask.

“No.”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“No.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“No.”

This is the longest string of responses from Gibby that aren’t questions in return to my questions.

“You don’t know where your boss lives?” I repeat, in case he didn’t hear me the first time.

“Who said he was my boss?” Damn, he breaks his streak.

“Then what is he?”

“Who knows?”

“Are you always this helpful?”

“What difference would it make?”

I’d hate to see Gibby when he’s being evasive.

Before I can come up with my next query, Gibby asks me, “What have you learned so far?”

“That people are their own worst enemies,” I answer without hesitation.

“I meant about Mr. DeWitt,” he says, but the way he says it, I get the idea he’s fishing.

“He seems like a nice enough fellow who has lots of friends, is a good dancer, and cleans the lint trap after each load in the dryer.”

Gibby stares me down with his cold, beady eyes. “What about his problem?” he clarifies.

“That’s what I need to discuss with him,” I tell the VP of Operations.

“I know,” Gibby says. “What?”

“Gibby, has anyone ever mentioned you can be difficult to converse with?”

“Who’d want to do that?”

“Well, let me tell you,” I tell him. “In any good conversation, you have to give a little to get a little back.”

“That goes for you, too?” he asks.

This is a perfect example of what I’m complaining about. “Yes,” I say exasperated.

“Fine,” he says.

“Bruno the bartender.”

“What about Bruno the bartender?” Gibby throws it right back to me.

“No, now it’s your turn, Gibby. Tell me about Bruno.”

“I fired him.”

“Why?”
“He quit showing up.”

“When?”

“Week ago.”

“Did you fire him in person?” I ask.

“No.”

“You fired him over the phone?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say when you fired him?”

“Nothing.”

I want to interject into our conversation what an excellent job he’s doing answering my questions, but I figure I better not risk it.

“You said, ‘You’re fired,’ and he just hung up?” I ask

“I didn’t
talk
to him,” Gibby says. “I texted him.”

“What?” I’m aghast at even the thought of it. “You can’t fire somebody with a text.”

“Why not?”

“Because you just can’t,” I argue. “Getting fired is personal. You have to bring him in, sit him down, and ‘let him go,’ face to face. It’s the American way.”

“No,” Gibby says. “Texting’s much easier.”

I can’t believe this. What is the business world coming to?

“Okay,” Gibby says, “I answered a lot of questions. Now, it’s your turn. What’s Bruno got to do with Mr. DeWitt?”

“Bruno didn’t take his firing very well.” I’m making good on my half of the bargain.

“How do you know?”

“Because he’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“Yes, dead.”

“He’s dead because he got fired?”

“I’m not sure about that,” I admit.

Gibby is quiet for a few moments while he processes what I hope is new information. “I wonder if I have to still pay him two week’s severance?” Gibby’s a consummate manager.

“I can assure you he won’t be lining up at the bank to cash his check.”

The workers hoist a huge, overflowing treasure chest of what I suspect is fake bling onto the temporary stage set up for tonight’s event. The chest will be a good place to put the SRW’s diamond braces after his teeth straighten out.

“How’d he die?” Gibby asks, as if he’s now making small talk.

“A headache,” I tell him. “A really bad headache.”

“Too bad,” Gibby says. “He brought in a lot of business.” Gibby offers his suggestion for the epitaph on Bruno's tombstone.

A new set of workers come in, wheeling two carts filled with hundreds of small gift bags, Gibby directs them to a table adjacent to the stage.

“What’s in the bags?” I ask.

“Swag,” Gibby answers.

I have no clue. “They’re bags of swag?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s swag?”

“Stuff.”

“Swag stuff?”

“Yeah.”

I’ll ask Tiffany. She’ll know.

Gibby gets busier, as more and more people show up to put on the finishing touches for the upcoming festivities.

“You like your job?” I ask him.

“Most of it,” he says. “The Zanadu wouldn’t be the Zanadu if it wasn’t for me.”

“What would it be without you?” I ask.

“Certainly not as profitable.” Gibby directs a few more workers then turns back towards me. “You like your job?”

“No, I hate it.”

“So, you’re one of the mass of men who leads a quiet life of desperation?” Henry David Thoreau. Apparently Gibby is well-read.

“No, I tell everyone I hate my job,” I say. “The problem is nobody ever listens.”

As I speak, a group of party set-up people comes over for more direction and I doubt if Gibby hears my final sentence.

As Gibby is engulfed with management duties, I get lost in the shuffle and make myself scarce. I wander over to the back of the bar, find the hallway behind it, and make my way to the stairwell door. For some reason, it’s propped open. This must be a sign. Fate tells me to go right on through. I do so, down a couple of flights of stairs to the floor with the old light bulbs. I listen carefully for a
whoosh/plop
sound, but nothing. I proceed down the same dusty hallway to the speakeasy door. I very carefully grip the knob, but it won’t move. I listen for sounds from inside then take out my lock pick set and have the door open in two minutes.

The room is maybe 15x15, with a long table, three chairs, and a small refrigerator off to the left side. On the table are two, top-of-the-line adding machines, the ones a CPA would use. Running above my head is the metal tube that I saw out in the hallway. It ends in this room. There is a slide opening at the cap end of the pipe. I open it and see two round six-inch containers. I reach in and pull one of them out. It screws open, just like a thermos.