3 The Case of Tiffany's Epiphany Page 6

  “Do you remember seeing anyone who saw you when you were in the car?”

  Damn. He got me again.

  “You keep the half of the phone clean, so we can lift a print from the big guy?”

  “Whoops.”

  Jack turns to me, “Sherlock I was going to say that I missed having you on the force, but I’ve decided to hold off on that comment.”

  “I was being kidnapped,” I retort. “I was under a lot of stress.”

  “You were under a lot of stress?” he barks back. “Did I ever tell you about the time I came down with Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome?”

  “No, but I’m sure you will.”

  ---

  Jack drops me off at a nearby ‘L’ station and I finally make it through my front door, five hours since I last arrived. I take a long shower, soak my wrists, put a can of soup on the stove to warm, and figure I better return a phone call.

  “Mr. Sherlock, I’ve been calling you forever,” Tiffany shrieks into the phone. “I get this weird, annoying noise, then it cuts out, and I can’t even leave a message. You’ve got to get a smart phone.”

  “I’m not sure I’m smart enough to use a smart phone, Tiffany.”

  “Well, you got to get rid of that antique thing you use.”

  “It’s already gone,” I tell her. “It broke in two.”

  “See, I told you. It pays to buy quality,” she schools me. She pauses for a moment or two. I can almost hear the wheels inside her brain turning. “If your phone broke, how are you calling me?”

  “On my landline.”

  “Get with it, Mr. Sherlock. The only people who have landlines anymore are AARP Members.”

  I am two years shy of forty and this is the respect I’ve earned so far in life. Pathetic, truly pathetic.

  “Tiffany, what did you call me about the first time you called?”

  “I’ve found a possible break in the case.”

  “Great. What’s broken?”

  “I’m not sure,” she says. “We have to go see Alix Fromound. I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

  “No. I’m beat. I just got home. I’m hungry. My wrists are killing me. I want to go to bed. I had a horrible day.”

  “Oh, Mr. Sherlock, it couldn’t have been that bad.”

  “I got kidnapped, shot at, almost run over by a trash dumpster, held at gunpoint, handcuffed, and roughed up by a couple of cops.”

  “Okay, if you need a little extra time, fine,” she says. I’ll pick you up in an hour and a half.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Gibson’s is a Rush Street steakhouse which was once, and maybe still is, the most profitable restaurant in the country--if you figured it on the basis of square footage. We’re at the bar. Tiffany sips a martini, I, a Shirley Temple, and Alix, a Maker’s Mark.

  “There was some major, bad mojo workin’ that night in Zanadu,” Alix says. “Seriously bad.”

  “I know,” Tiffany agrees. “It tossed me right on the carpet.”

  “I wasn’t talkin’ about you,” Alix qualifies her statement. “That was like the saving grace of the evening.”

  “Thanks, bioché.”

  “You’re welcome--bitch.”

  “You two always been close?” I ask.

  “Too close,” Alix says.

  “Way too close,” Tiffany ups her one.

  “Tell me what was so weird about the evening,” I continue in my search for facts instead of insults.

  “I’m sittin’ at the bar, Monroe Chevelier chattin’ me up--” Alix begins.

  Tiffany interrupts, “Chevelier was chatting you up? Yeah, right.”

  “Ahh, yeah.”

  “As if.”

  “Tiffany,” I interrupt, “would you let her tell me what happened.”

  Tiffany crosses her arms, gives me a nasty stare, and shuts up.

  “As I was saying,” Alix brushes back her long, mid-back, jet-black hair with a sweep of her hand and a slight push back of her head. “Chevelier’s chattin’me up and this guy I’ve never seen before comes right up and cock blocks him.”

  “What?” I say hoping I heard that wrong.

  “He puts this major cock block on Monroe Chevelier.”

  “No way,” Tiffany says. “Monroe’s daddy’s got more money than my daddy.”

  “Not mine,” Alix says.

  “Can we rewind,” I plead. “What did he do?”

  “He cock blocked him.”

  I heard it right the first time.

  “That’s when you’re talking with some guy and some other guy juts right in between, with his butt to him and his face to you, and starts chattin’ you up,” Alix explains.

  “It’s called cock blocking, Mr. Sherlock.”

  I’m in shock. What has the dating world become?

  “It’s not so weird when you’re getting hit on by some wimp and a good-lookin’ stud puts a block on,” Alix explains. “But when a dude does it to Monroe, who like wears Armani to the gym and benches presses 400, that’s totally bogus.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “Yeah,” Tiffany says. “What happened?”

  “Monroe’s pissed. He gets off the stool, and I think he’s gonna go like Jackie Chan on him, when the blocker faces Monroe and all this swearin’, and posin’, and pushin’ goes down.”

  “And?”

  “Little bitch Tiffany goes fallin’ off a barstool, and everybody goes scramblin’ her way like they’re givin’ away free Crystal.”

  “What did you do?” I ask Alix.

  “I grab Monroe and pull him towards me.”

  “Aw, wasn’t that nice,” Tiffany comments in a sing-song voice.

  “Like you wouldn’t have done the same?” Alix snaps back at Tiffany.

  “Stop, you two,” I order. “What did this blocker guy look like?” I can’t bring myself to repeat the other word.

  “He looked like he knew his way around the gym,” Alix says.

  “What happened to him?”

  “I look up, “Alix says. “And he, like, disappeared.”

  “And what happened with you and Monroe?” Tiffany asks.

  “None of your business.”

  “I’ll find out,” Tiffany says.

  “Good,” Alix says with a devious smile. She takes another sip of her Maker’s Mark.

  I put the whole scenario into my head, cross reference it with the DVD of Tiffany passing out, and ask, “Alix, how far away from Tiffany were you when all this happened?”

  “Few feet.”

  “What were you drinking?”

  “Martini.”

  “Kumquat?”

  “Kettle One, on the rocks.”

  I throw it all into my head. It makes no sense. I’m not sure the two instances are even related. I try to think it all through while I finish my Shirley Temple, but I can’t. My brain is filling up with a pile of loose jigsaw pieces and I don’t even have the picture on the box to give me a clue on where to begin.

  “Was I right?” Alix asks me.

  “About what?”

  “About there being some seriously bad mojo hangin’ in the Zanadu that night?”

  “Correct on all counts,” I say.

  Alix gives Tiffany an “I’m smarter than you” grin.

  Tiffany turns up her nose at Alix, and gives her head a snarky shake.

  If I don’t nip this now, it could get ugly. “It was nice meeting you, Alix.”

  “I’m sure it was,” she tells me.

  “Can you take me home now, Tiffany?”

  “You don’t want to party anymore?”

  “I didn’t want to party to begin with.”

  Tiffany and Alix air kiss goodbye, their method of acknowledging mutual enemy admiration. I doubt if these two will ever paint each other’s toenails at a sleepover.

  ---

  I’m lost in thought most of the way up the Drive. Tiffany can’t take the silence. “What are you thinking, Mr. S
herlock?”

  “I don’t know. What are you thinking?”

  “Alix and Monroe would never be an item.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s an Aries. He’s a Scorpio. Fire and water don’t mix.”

  I’m not into astrology. I let her answer suffice. I’m silent again for a mile or two. “Tiffany, why do you think somebody would roofie you?”

  “To have sex with me.”

  “And who would want to do that?”

  “Everybody. I’m totally hot.”

  “I mean, who would stoop so low as to drug you to do it?”

  “Some total psycho dweeb.”

  I pause. “I’m not so sure.”

  “No way would a stud muffin do it.”

  “I’m not so sure,” I repeat.

  We reach my building. I’m exhausted. “Good night, Tiffany. Be careful driving home.”

  Before I can get out of the Lexus, she says, “Mr. Sherlock, can I ask you something?”

  “You’re asking a question to ask a question?”

  “Well, you’re answering my question with a question,” she says. “You told me you hate that.”

  “Touché, Tiffany. Ask away.”

  “Mr. Sherlock, you don’t think I’m as self-centered, egotistical, spoiled-rotten, and conceited as Alix, do you?”

  She catches me off guard. I hesitate. I better be very careful or I’ll cause hours of useless, and very expensive, therapy, “Of course not, Tiffany.”

  “Sure?”

  “It’s all relative, since your good qualities far outweigh your bad qualities,” I say sincerely.

  “Thank you, Mr. Sherlock,” she says. “That’s what I think, too.”

  ---

  “The transition game needs work, Sherlock.”

  “And I really appreciate your interest in the team, Mrs. Whiner, but what we need to do is get back to basics.”

  Mrs. Whiner is the only parent who comes to all the games and all the practices. “Exactly right,” she yells at me from her seat in the bleachers. “The basics of your transition game.”

  I smile at the obnoxious woman. She doesn’t smile back.

  I bring the Bailouts to the center court and have the players sit. Kelly, my oldest daughter, has offered her services as an assistant coach, even though she has never played basketball herself. I accept her offer, any activity that will get her off her cell phone is a plus.

  “Team, we’re going to go back and start at the beginning.” I stand on the center line, ball in hand and my players around me. I present the ball. “This is a basketball.”

  Kelly stops texting and says, “Slow down, Dad, you’re going too fast.”

  “That’s an old joke, Kelly.”

  “Yeah, but I’m a young kid, so I can use it.”

  Back to the team. “I want you all to listen up, and remember one word, today, just one,” I pause. “Beef. B-E-E-F. Beef.”

  “My mother won’t let me eat meat, Coach,” Allison, a mediocre player on a team of less-than-mediocre players, informs me of her dietary restrictions.

  “No, it’s not about eating beef,” I tell her.

  “What do you order when you go to McDonald’s?” Kaylyn asks Allison.

  “We don’t go to McDonald’s,” Allison answers.

  “Do you go to Burger King?” Care asks.

  “McDonald’s is better than Burger King, because it has better fries,” Annie, our point guard points out.

  “Girls,” I attempt to get the conversation back on the game of basketball. “We’re not here to talk about fast food.”

  “Then, why’d you bring it up?” Kelly asks.

  “My Mom says we should be working on our transition game,” Wilma Whiner, a chip off the old computer motherboard, tells the team.

  “Beef. B stands for Balance. The first E for eyes. The second E for elbows. And F is for feet,” I explain. “Got that?”

  No response, except for Kelly’s phone ringing. “Sorry, Dad, I have to take this.”

  “Stand up everybody.” I line up the players across from each other. I pass out balls to the ones on the left, position myself in the middle, and demonstrate. “Whenever you shoot, pass, dribble or whatever, your eyes, elbows and feet have to be in balance. Watch.” I use two hands and pass the ball to Kelly, who jumps aside to avoid any contact with the ball.

  “Hey, that could hurt,” she yelps, as she pulls her precious cell phone close to her torso to protect it.

  I might have made a big mistake in my selection of an assistant coach.

  Back to the team, “Now, you people try it.”

  Dribble, dribble, pass, pass, shoot, shoot. The players are a little better than Kelly, but not much. We dribble, pass, shoot; dribble, pass, and shoot some more. I can’t remember too many baskets being made in the hour we have the court.

  “Okay, on Saturday, I want everyone to think BEEF.”

  “McDonald’s or basketball?” Wilma asks.

  Is it any wonder why we haven’t won a game?

  CHAPTER 6

  “Wait.”

  He says before I have a chance to say “Hello.”

  “And who are you?”

  “Tiffany.”

  “Tiffany who?”

  “Tiffany Richmond, investigator in training.”

  “Wait” Jack Wayt looks over to me, then back to Tiffany, and asks her, “Do I look a little gaunt to you?”

  Tiffany gives him a once over. “You could definitely lose twenty pounds, get a better suit, dye your hair, and get rid of those awful shoes.”

  “But do I look peaked?”

  “I’m not sure, because I don’t know what that word means,” Tiffany answers and admits.

  “I might be coming down with pancreatitis,” Jack informs us of his latest self-diagnosis. “I’m almost positive my pancreatic juices aren’t flowing properly.”

  “I have no problem with my flow,” Tiffany tells him.

  Yet again, too much information.

  “Jack, what did you find out about this place?” I ask.

  The three of us are standing in the same spot where I was almost killed the other day.

  “It’s owned by some dummy corporation,” Jack says.

  “My daddy says a lot of companies are owned by idiots,” Tiffany informs us. “That’s why they’re underinsured.”

  Tiffany is at the very beginning of her family business’ learning curve.

  We pace around the outside of the building and try to see something that we didn’t see the first time around.

  Tiffany would obviously rather be at Saks. She sashays around doing her best not to dirty her fancy shoes in the oil stains, grease, and “yucky” potholes. “Why are we here again?” Tiffany asks. “Because I don’t like being in these neighborhoods, especially in this disgusting alley.”

  “This is where the kidnappers dropped me off and somebody started shooting at me,” I tell her.

  “You didn’t tell me that, Mr. Sherlock.”

  “Yes, I did. I told you about me getting kidnapped, shot at, almost crushed, and roughed up, the other night when you picked me up.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t listening,” Tiffany says.

  Why do I bother?

  Jack leads us into the back door of the building. “So far we’ve got zilch.”

  Inside, the CSI techs are unpacking their hand-held vacuum cleaners. “Don’t touch anything, Tiffany,” I say as we walk through the junked-up, two room area that’s as filthy as a third world slum.

  “You might want to tell those guys,” Tiffany says pointing to the techs, “they’d be better off hiring a cleaning crew.”

  Jack leads us to a window facing the rear alley. “This is where someone tried to pop you,” he says. “There’s powder residue all over.”

  I move to a chair which sits all alone, no doubt where the shooter took aim.

  “Tell you anything?” Jack asks.


  “Plenty,” I lie.

  “Good.” Jack knows I’m lying.

  We move to the center of the bigger of the two rooms where there’s an old table, which was once part of someone’s kitchen years ago. It has less dust and grime on its top than the rest of the junk in the place. A CSI tech waits for us before he vacuums. “This the office?” I ask.

  “I bet,” Jack says.

  “What are you two talking about?” Tiffany asks, not wanting to miss out.

  “Economics,” I answer.

  “I hate that,” Tiffany says. “The only thing I like about economics is the money.”

  No surprise there.

  We keep searching for clues. Jack points out some things he sees, and I do the same. Tiffany gets real bored--real quick. “Excuse me,” she says to get our attention, “but what does all this have to do with me getting ‘roofied’?”

  “Maybe nothing,” I tell her. “Maybe everything.”

  “Bad answer, Mr. Sherlock. Really bad answer.”

  In the far back of the building, tucked away around a corner are two doors, both closed. Tiffany moves to the first one and tells us, “I’m gonna hate myself, but two Latte Grandes are calling me home.” She opens the first door, steps inside, and yells out, “Oh my God. This is disgusting.”

  What did she expect, the Ladies Room at the Ritz?

  “Help!”

  Jack and I immediately run to her aid. She stands in a pool of sticky, dark-red glop. With her right hand she braces herself against the door and lifts her left foot to inspect the effect her “Wrong Way” Corrigan maneuver has had on the sole of her very expensive footwear. The stuff oozes on it like marinara sauce made with too much tomato paste. I look at Jack. Jack looks at me.

  “Sure does kill that Kevlar theory,” I surmise.

  “What is this cruddy gunk?” Tiffany asks.

  “You’re standing in a pool of blood,” Jack tells her

  “Blood!” Tiffany screams. “I’m standing in someone’s blood?”

  “Afraid so, Tiffany.”

  “In my eight-hundred dollar Steve Maddens!? Oh my God!”

  ---

  The cheapest cell phones, with the cheapest cell phone plans in the entire Chicagoland area, are found at More4LesMobile. The store, which used to be the Meaner Wiener hot dog stand, and could still be a hot dog stand since More4LesMobile did absolutely no remodeling before setting up shop, is located way west on Belmont Avenue. The More4Les Mobile name implies that you will save big money on your communication needs, but it’s more a play on words. The guy who owns the place is named Lester, so every purchase will mean “more for Les." He must be raking it in because every time I drop by, he brags about driving a bigger and fancier car than the one he owned before.