3 The Case of Tiffany's Epiphany Read online

  Blacks share their bottles of the bubbly. Whites order individual drinks. The Hispanics drink imported Mexican beer, a show of loyalty no doubt. No White guys have Black girls on their arms, but a number of Black guys hang with White girls. It’s quite obvious that Black girls don’t like White girls with Black guys. America has come a long way in solving its racial problems in the past fifty years, but watching how we now self-segregate ourselves is interesting. Maybe I should go back to school and become a sociologist. Anything would be better than being an on-call private eye.

  Before tinnitus sets in, a malady I’m sure “Wait” Jack Wayt has endured, I end my sociology study. Plus, I can no longer endure one more misogynistic song from Bobo Bling. I go outside and stand across from the line of idiots waiting to get past Arson and Sterno. A few minutes pass and the Non-Brink’s Brink’s truck drives up and parks at the loading dock area of the club. The passenger, the same guy as before, exits the vehicle and waits by its rear doors. A minute or two goes by and Mr. DeWitt, the Behemoth, and the cart full of two-foot high metal boxes arrive via the Employee Only door. Slimy guy is nowhere to be seen. I guess he’s manning the front door to keep out the riffraff. I walk quickly in their direction to get a better view. I’m just past the valet, when a familiar Lexus pulls up.

  “Tiffany, what are you doing here?” I ask as she exits her car and flips her car keys to the attendant. “You’re supposed to be home recuperating.”

  “I took your advice, Mr. Sherlock,” she tells me. “I got a massage, a facial, a trim, and a mini-wax. And I was looking so hot I didn’t want to waste it by going home. So I came here, where I figured guys would trip all over themselves to hit on me. And, you know, nothing makes me feel better than that.”

  I look over at the Non-Brink’s truck. The cash boxes are loaded. DeWitt signs the manifest sheet and I make a decision. “Tiffany, get your keys back from the valet. We need to tail someone.”

  “Oh, boy! I love this stuff.”

  I make Tiffany lay off the gas pedal and stay at least a block behind the much slower truck. We follow it east for three blocks. Thankfully, it’s nighttime, and there’s very little traffic; tailing a vehicle downtown during the day would be near impossible. The Non-Brink’s armored truck makes its way over to Wacker Drive, heading into the Loop. It takes a circuitous route to Lower Wacker Drive and proceeds southwest.

  If you didn’t know, the downtown area of Chicago, known as the Loop, is built on stilts. Back in the 1800’s, after numerous floods and typhoid outbreaks, the city fathers decided to reverse the flow of the Chicago River to send its sewage, industrial waste, and other disgusting filth down to their neighbors in St. Louis. The feat was an architectural marvel of engineering. And while they were reversing the river, they also raised all the buildings above the waterline to assure a flood-free city. Not a bad idea. Today, Chicago is the envy of many cities because the skyscrapers in the Loop all have one full floor on a level below ground for loading, unloading, trash pickups, and countless other necessary uses. No wonder Chicago is still called the City that Works.

  “Turn right,” I order Tiffany, as the truck drives down a building ramp and disappears into an underground garage.

  “Want me to drive in?” Tiffany asks.

  “No.” I see the address and memorize it. “Go up top.”

  We have to take a few turns to find a ramp that gets us back to street level. We backtrack to South Wacker Drive. “That’s the building,” I say, seeing the address.

  There’s a Northern Trust on the first floor and at least thirty stories above it. Tiffany pulls up and parks in a taxi zone. “I didn’t know banks took deposits this late at night,” I say, knowing something is really wrong with this picture.

  “Maybe there is a huge ATM in the basement and you have to use real long pin numbers to access your account,” Tiffany suggests.

  “No, I don’t think that’s it.”

  “I could ask Monroe,” Tiffany says. “He’d know.”

  “Why would he know?”

  “Because he works here,” Tiffany answers as if I already knew this fact.

  “He does?”

  “We were here the other day,” she tells me.

  She’s right. I didn’t recognize the building.

  “And I thought I was losing it, Mr. Sherlock.”

  CHAPTER 11

  “What were you doing in Bruno’s condo?” Neula “No-No” Noonan asks me.

  But before I have a chance to lie, answer truthfully, or even be horribly evasive, the waitress takes our orders. “I’ll have the Reuben on rye, potato salad, chips, and a diet Dr. Pepper.”

  “Turkey on wheat, no mayo, no mustard.”

  Guess which one of us is watching their weight.

  “I’m totally getting off those sugary sodas,” “No-No” tells me proudly.

  “The longest diet starts with the first bite, or the first sip in your case, Neula.”

  The waitress marks her pad and leaves us alone.

  “So, Sherlock, what were you doing there?” “No-No” asks. “You do know I can put you in some serious trouble, right?”

  Threats to my well-being are never appreciated, but they do tend to work quite well eliminating any lies or evasions from my explanations. “Bruno was the bartender the night my associate, Tiffany Richmond, had a Mickey slipped into her drink at the Zanadu Club.”

  “The Tiffany Richmond of Richmond Insurance?”

  “She be the one.”

  “Bad choice,” “No-No” concludes correctly.

  “Quite.”

  “No-No” returns to topic. “You sure Bruno did the slipping?”

  “No, but he’s the logical choice.”

  “Logic and murder do not always make good bedfellows,” “No-No” tells me.

  “Nobody uses the term ‘bedfellows’ anymore, Neula.”

  “I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I like it.” “No-No” seems to be in a particularly bad mood.

  “I’ve been on Bruno’s tail all week, but when he didn’t show up for work, I figured something wasn’t quite kosher.”

  “You’re not Jewish,” she reminds me.

  “It’s personal flair, just like you using ‘bedfellows.’” Touché.

  “So, you broke into his apartment?” She says more than she asks.

  “Only after I smelled the unmistakable odor or rotting flesh coming out from under his door,” I explain.

  “No-No” happily discovers she’s sitting upon a pack of old crackers in the back of her booth seat. She retrieves the small square, tears the plastic open with her teeth, pours the cracked cracker crumbs into her hand, and pops it all into her mouth. “There were prints all over the place.” Little bits of Saltine shoot out onto the table as she speaks. “Nobody in the system came up as a match.”

  “Bruno knew the person who killed him,” I say without a doubt.

  "No-No” searches for another pack of stray sustenance, but comes up empty. “By the angle and the force of the blow, it was a guy.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Could be a buffed up, lady basketball player.”

  “No, no.” She ignores my thought. “It was a guy.”

  “Assume nothing,” I tell her. “That’s my first rule of life.”

  “Let’s consider motive,” she says. “If it was a drug deal gone wrong, they would have taken the pills in the drawer.”

  “It could have been a robbery,” I suggest. “I’m sure there had to be a stack of cash in that drawer. Bruno was a bartender.”

  “No, no,” “No-No” says. “I checked that out. All the tips go into a pot and are divided up among the servers, the bartenders and the barbacks. They each get a check every two weeks for their share.”

  “That still doesn’t mean he couldn’t have been skimming a few bills off the top of the pile,” I make my point. “We are talking about the bar business.”

  “No, no, we’re
talking about a lot more than what you can make in tips,” ”No-No” says. “We found another ten grand in the condo.”

  “Behind the phony fireplace?” As soon as I utter the words, I regret I said them.

  “How would you know the money was hidden behind the mantel in the fireplace?”

  I’ve just given “No-No” the goods for another threat against my well-being. “Come on, Sherlock, out with it.”

  “I’m a real good guesser.” A lousy answer, but the best I can come up with at the moment.

  “No,” she says.

  “It came to me in a dream.”

  “No, no.”

  “I went to a psychic and she read it off her Tarot cards?” My excuses started poorly and I’ve gone downhill ever since.

  “I don’t buy that either.”

  I come clean. “I saw that phony fireplace and said, to myself why would anyone want something so big, that doesn’t work, and serves no purpose, junking up their apartment. So, I reached inside and felt around.”

  “No-No” shoots me a stern look of disapproval.

  “Hey, I was born curious.”

  “Take any for yourself?”

  “No,” I state emphatically. And repeat it just to make sure “No-No” gets the message.

  “Motive, Sherlock, motive?” she asks.

  “We only have six,” I remind her. “And we’ve already eliminated one.”

  Most people believe that there are hundreds of reasons to murder somebody, but in actuality there are only six: Anger, Fear, Greed, Jealousy, Desire, and Revenge. There is no such thing as a motiveless, first-degree murder.

  The waitress brings the food and “No-No” attacks it like a starving wildebeest. Her Reuben squeals from the hurt she’s putting on it.

  “No, no Sherlock,” she says while she bites. “We’re working a combination here. This is more than just greed or anger. Whoever did the deed didn’t walk into the place planning to kill Bruno. Something went down that touched him off.”

  “I’m not sure I buy that, Neula.”

  “There’s something else I don’t understand,” she says.

  “What’s that?”

  “What are you getting out of this, Sherlock?”

  “I can assure you my motive isn’t greed because I’m not even sure I’m getting paid,” I admit. “You want me out of the picture?”

  “Nope,” she says. “I need you to do something for me.”

  “What?”

  “Find out if “Wait” Jack Wayt still has any feelings for me.”

  “Oh, my God, Neula, do I have to?”

  “Yes, or I’m going to come down on you like stink on a rotting corpse.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Sure I would.”

  “No-No” orders a slice of “lo-cal” apple pie â la Mode for dessert. I pass. When her dessert arrives, she asks for a slice of cheddar cheese. I don’t know how putting cheese on apple pie ever got started, but it makes absolutely no taste bud sense to me.

  Thankfully, my new phone rings just as “No-No” inhales the low calories in front of her. I would normally look on the phone’s screen to see who is calling, but I haven’t figured out how to get that feature to work. “Hello.”

  “We have to talk, Mr. Sherlock.”

  “Meet me outside the Zanadu Club.”

  I bid Neula “No-No” Noonan a sincere goodbye and she returns my cordiality with a burp.

  ---

  It takes me fifteen minutes to walk through the Loop and across the river. It takes Tiffany a half hour to drive half that same distance. She parks illegally. Tiffany doesn’t need parking karma; her Daddy pays her parking tickets. She gets out of her car, dressed in a breezy floral print shift; her hair and face are perfect. She walks up to me with an “I’ve got a new lease on life” attitude.

  “What got into you?” I ask in a very positive tone.

  “Mr. Sherlock, I’ve decided to make a major change in my life,” she announces as if she’s a repentant sinner seeing a celestial light from above.

  “That’s great, Tiffany. What?”

  “I’ve decided to hire a life coach.”

  “A what?”

  “A life coach, Mr. Sherlock. It’s the latest thing.”

  “What’s a life coach?”

  “That’s a person that tells you how to make you life better,” Tiffany informs me.

  “Tiffany, you’re life can’t get any better.”

  “I’m having my first session with her today,” she tells me. “And I’m feeling really great about it already.”

  I’m skeptical, to say the least. “Who is this person?”

  “Dr. R. Bosley Radcliff.”

  “How did you find her?”

  “The Internet.”

  “And how do you know she’s any good?”

  “She’s certified.”

  “Certified in what?” I question. She could be a certified nut case.

  “No, Dr. R. Bosley has a CLCC after her name.”

  “What’s CLCC stand for?”

  “Certified Life Coach Counselor.”

  “Who certified her?”

  My question stumps my young assistant. “I don’t know. Maybe the Head Certified Life Coach Coach’s Counselor?”

  “Tiffany, I don’t know if this is a good idea. How much is she charging?”

  “Three hundred an hour.”

  “Three hundred dollars?” I can’t believe this. “Tiffany, I’ll give you advice for half that.”

  “You mean that same stuff you unload on Kelly and Care?” Tiffany says. “Nobody listens to that kind of advice.”

  She’s correct there.

  “Just promise me one thing.” I pause for her to nod. “If she asks you to invest any money, in any business, just smile and say in your politest voice: ‘I’ll have to get back to you on that.’ Can you do that? Please.”

  “Mr. Sherlock, I didn’t just fall off a Brink’s truck.”

  Speaking of Brink’s trucks, one passes by us, turns into the service driveway of the Zanadu, and parks at the loading dock.

  “This is odd,” I mention.

  “Are we going to tail this one, too?” Tiffany asks.

  “I’m not sure.” I watch a guy exit the passenger side of the truck and wait at the edge of the loading dock. A few minutes pass, then Gibby, the Behemoth, and the money cart come out the Employee Only door. Slimy Guy is conspicuously absent. The exact same exchange takes place as the other ones that I saw before at night with the Non-Brink’s Brink’s truck, except this time Gibby’s in charge and not Mr. DeWitt.

  “Get in the car, Tiffany. We’re going for a re-run.”

  We follow the Brink’s truck to three more stops, one drugstore, one market, and one OTB parlor. “This is boring, Mr. Sherlock.”

  “I know,” I tell Tiffany. “But it should be.”

  “Can we go now?” she asks. “I don’t want to be late for my first appointment with my new Life Coach.”

  “What time is your appointment?”

  “Three.”

  “It’s three-fifteen now,” I tell her.

  “So?”

  ---

  My ears can’t take another night at the Zanadu. I’m heading home.

  I took the ‘L’ downtown, so I take the ‘L’ back. Once in my apartment, I get both my girls on the phone. “Kelly, you don’t have to come with us to the game tomorrow, if you don’t want to,” I tell my oldest.

  “I’ll go,” she says. “It’s kinda fun watching Care and the Bailout Bunglers get humiliated.”

  “I’m so glad you enjoy it so much.”

  I talk to my youngest next. “I got a new idea for approaching the game tomorrow, Care.”

  “Does it have anything to do with Mrs. Whiner?” she asks.

  “No, our transition game is not our major problem,” I say. “It’s more of an attitude adjustment we have to make.”

/>   “Whatever you say, coach.”

  We talk for a few more minutes, say a lot, but provide little information, news, or anything of substance. Kids are like that. Actually, most adults are too.

  I conclude with, “Love, ya, kids. Love ya.”

  I eat the leftover turkey meatloaf for dinner. Some meals are better the second time around. My turkey meatloaf isn’t one of them. The rest of the night I sit at the computer.

  In four hours of Googling, clicking, searching, and surfing, here is what I learn:

  After you finish reading a section, don’t click on the “X” in the upper right-hand corner because you’ll cancel out of the stuff you were reading and have to start your search all over again. It took me six or seven times to figure this out.

  Bruno Buttaras was once a promising high school varsity baseball pitcher who registered 93 mph on the radar gun. He rejected a college scholarship in favor of the minor leagues, but he lasted only two seasons; the reasons for his departure were not given.

  Although privately held, with no public records to back up the stories, the company Monroe Chevelier’s daddy started, Chevelier Environmental Investments, is said to be one of the fastest growing hedge funds in the country. It’s rumored that its assets top the billion-dollar mark.

  The pneumatic tube, the whoosh/plop thing, which I found in the room at the Zanadu with the speakeasy door, reached its peak use as an in-factory communication device in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. The US Postal Service was one of the biggest users of the invention.

  There’s no medical listing for a Dr. R. Bosley Radcliff. There’s also no address, regular or Internet, for an Association of Life Coaching Counselors. There are a number of schools, institutions, and Internet sites where you can become a certified life coach by taking a stay at home study course that can “enrich your life and the lives of others.”

  The Internet has surpassed the local tavern as the place where a man 35-40 years of age will most likely find a wife.

  The first five searches concerned the case: the last one was personal.

  I turn the computer off and find my very non-tech pocket notebook and a pen. Since it’s not my weekend with the kids, once the game is over on Saturday I will have plenty of time to burn shoe leather on the case. I open the notebook to a clean page and begin to make a list of all I have to do. After the first page is filled in, I stop listing. I know I’m never even going to accomplish all the items listed, so why bother to list any more?