3 The Case of Tiffany's Epiphany

by Jim Stevens

  I hobble into Tiffany’s penthouse a little after 10 a.m.

  “Tiffany, you don’t look good,” I tell her on first sight.

  “I don’t?” she questions. “I should. I’m supposed to always look good. It’s my mantra.”

  “Isn’t a mantra something you repeat over and over?”

  “No, that’s something you say to convince yourself of something you’re not sure of, like ‘Blondes aren’t dumb, blondes aren’t dumb.’”

  “Tiffany, we have to go over these tapes.”

  “Do I really have to look at them again?”

  “Yes, because I need your help,” I say as we go into her media room.

  I ignore the first disc and place the second one in the machine, return to the couch, and sit next to Tiffany, who shields her eyes with her hands. “Mr. Sherlock, I hope you realize how hard it is watching the moment in time that my life changed forever.”

  “Bear with me. I promise this won’t take long.”

  I fast-forward to the spot on the disc where Monroe Chevelier is chatting up Alix, Tiffany sits warding off the two overly-moussed guys, and Bruno is mixing drinks and placing the finished products on the bar already filled with cocktails. I hit Pause and the picture freezes in place. “Tiffany, look.”

  Tiffany slightly parts the fingers covering her eyes. I zoom in. “Is that a kumquat martini or a regular martini you’re drinking?”

  “It can’t be a kumquat. Kumquats only come in martini glasses.”

  “Your drink has ice and olives in it.”

  “It must be Grey Goose or Kettle One. I drink those, too.”

  I hit the Play button and the scene continues. Tiffany covers her eyes again. I find the spot and slow the shot into slow motion. “Look at this, Tiffany.”

  “I don’t want to see myself drop.”

  “No, just look way to the left. Watch the guy come between Alix and Monroe.”

  She parts fingers again. “Hey, that’s the cock blocker.”

  It’s too bad we can’t see the guy’s face, but what we can see is the guy step right between the two. “See anything weird about this?” I ask my protégé.

  “No, the guy’s doing Monroe a big favor.”

  I back up the disc and we watch it again. “See, he never faces Alix. He never speaks to her.”

  Tiffany drops her hands from her face. “So, you’re saying this was a no-cock, cock block?” she asks, incredulous at the thought.

  I hate that term.

  “Play it again,” Tiffany says, now intrigued.

  “The guy didn’t have any interest in Alix …” I say as the scene slo-mo’s past.

  “Can you blame him?” Tiffany interrupts. “Alix is a total bitch.”

  “He’s got something going on with Monroe.”

  Unfortunately, the two men go out of frame, and we see Tiffany take one more sip of the martini, start to sway, and …

  “Stop the tape! Stop the tape!” Tiffany yells as she throws her hands over her eyes.

  I hit the Power button and the TV goes black. I wait a moment. “Tiffany, you can come out now.”

  Tiffany slowly lowers her hands, making sure the screen is dark.

  “You may have been a victim of circumstances,” I tell her.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure, but I am sure your drink didn’t get spiked because someone wanted to have sex with you.”

  “That’s hard to believe because just about every guy I meet wants to deposit my dollar sign in his checking account.”

  “Can you blame them?”

  “No,” she says. “If I were a guy, I’d want to jump my bones too.”

  I let that comment pass—without comment. I sit for a few seconds, adjust my back into a different position, and picture in my head one more recipe card on The Original Carlo falling into place. I come up with a plan. I’m not sure it’s a good plan, but any plan is better than the plan I had before, which was no plan.

  “Tiffany, I know you’re feeling a bit down today, but I have a problem only a person of your rank and status can help me with.”

  “You need a sponsor to get into the University Club?”

  “No.”

  “Kemper Lakes?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a relief because with your wardrobe it wouldn’t be easy getting you into the parking lot of those clubs.”

  “I don’t dress that badly, Tiffany.”

  “That is a matter of opinion, Mr. Sherlock.”

  “Whose opinion?”

  “Mine.”

  I better move on. “What I need you to do is …”

  “Fix you up with a rich woman who doesn’t care that you have kids and wear Member’s Only jackets?”

  “That isn’t a Member’s Only jacket.”

  “Then it’s gotta be a Member’s Only knockoff.”

  “Tiffany, I need you to help me throw a very exclusive private party this evening.”

  “Mr. Sherlock, you’ve got the right girl for the job.”

  ---

  Like a warrior smells the blood on his weakening opponent, I sense the end of the case is near. Things are in position to fall into place. I just have to make sure that the right square pegs land in the right square holes.

  Our first stop of the day is at the Northern Trust Building on South Wacker Drive. While she’s driving in her usual “pedal to the metal” fashion, I give Tiffany specific directions. “Go in, surprise Monroe, and tell him he’s invited to the party you’re giving tonight at the Zanadu.”

  “Does the party have a theme, Mr. Sherlock?” Tiffany questions. “A good party needs a good theme.”

  “How about one of those murder mystery things?”

  “Oh, yeah. Those are totally fun.”

  “Just don’t tell anyone this one is for real.”

  “Why not?”

  “It might spoil the surprise.”

  “Oh, this could be the party of the year.” She’s excited. Her eyes light up like a Zanadu strobe light.

  We step out of the elevator and walk towards the receptionist. I add one final piece of info. “Be sure to tell Monroe to bring his friend Oscar with him.”

  “Does Oscar have a lot of money?” Tiffany wants everyone to have the proper monetary qualifications before she puts them on her list.

  “No, but his parents do,” I lie.

  “Close enough.”

  I stop as we reach the receptionist, but Tiffany walks straight down the hall towards Monroe’s office.

  “Where’s she going?” the receptionist asks me.

  “To see Monroe Chevelier I guess.”

  “She can’t just barge in like that,” she shouts.

  “God knows Monroe’s not busy.”

  The woman relaxes. I’ve said what she’s always thinking.

  I give her a few seconds to answer an in-coming call, and say, “I’d like to see Wendell Bartlett.”

  “He doesn’t have an office here,” she informs me. I notice that she’s the same receptionist who was here before. The turnover must be light.

  “But he comes here all the time, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was told he was coming in today,” I lie again.

  “He very well may be,” she says. “But I don’t keep his schedule.”

  I see Tiffany coming back towards me. I have what I need. Time to go. “Thank you, anyway,” I tell the woman.

  “If I see Mr. Bartlett, who should I say was here?” the receptionist asks before I can get away.

  “Richard Sherlock.”

  “Richard Sherlock,” she pauses for a moment, “you’re not any relation to the famous detective, are you?”

  “No. Why would you ever think that?”

  The receptionist turns back to her work. I take Tiffany by the arm. We pick up the pace and get to the elevator just as it is opening. “Are Monroe and Oscar coming tonight?”

  Tiffany turns to me and says, “Mr. Sherlock, nob
ody ever turns down an invitation to one of my parties.”

  I make two more phone calls from Tiffany’s Lexus. Neither recipient picks up. Now, I’m worried.

  “What’s wrong?” Tiffany asks.

  “I can’t reach Jack or ‘No-No’.”

  “Maybe because they’re busy reaching for each other.”

  “I need their help to pull this off tonight.”

  “You don’t want them at the party, do you?”

  “Yes, they have to be there,” I tell her.

  “Mr. Sherlock, do you realize they’re going to bring the party way down in the looks department?”

  “I’ll tell them to stand in the back.”

  Tiffany considers the situation. “I was going to hire a photographer, but not anymore.”

  We arrive in front of Bruno’s condo building. “This won’t take a minute,” I tell Tiffany as I struggle to get out of the car. She gets out anyway and walks toward the front door with me. “What are we doing here?” she asks.

  “I thought you might need a doorman for the party this evening,” I inform her.

  “I already had someone else in mind.”

  The new doorman comes out to greet us with a smile. “Hello,” he says politely. “You know, you’re here more than some of the residents,” he says, still swimming around in the same dirty, stained, oversized coat.

  “Could you do me a favor?” I ask, hobbling towards him like a camel on its last legs.

  “Get you a wheelchair?”

  “No. Tell me something,” I begin. “Why did the tenants complain about Guido?”

  “He used to have his buddies come over and hang out in the lobby.”

  “You ever see them?”

  “Some of them still drop by.”

  “Do they share anything in common?”

  “Like what?”

  “Are they heavyset, stocky, big guys who kind of lumber instead of walk?”

  “Come to think of it, yeah, they are.”

  I smile. “Thanks.” I hand him a ten-dollar bill. It’s nice to have money to spend on incidentals. “Let’s go, Tiffany.” I turn and escort her back towards the car.

  “I thought you said we were here to hire a doorman for tonight?” Tiffany’s more confused than she usually is.

  “We are, but I got a better guy in mind.”

  As we get back into her car, she asks, “Mr. Sherlock, I thought you put me in charge of the party?” Tiffany is a bit miffed after hearing my second decision on the party planning. “This is something I do best.”

  “You are in charge, Tiffany, but it’s important we have the right mix of guests.”

  “I wholeheartedly agree,” she says firing up the Lexus. “I have about twenty-six people on my list and all of them are really hot.”

  “They can come, but not until later. A select few of us are going to have kind of a little get-together at the club first.”

  “Kind of like a pre-party party?”

  “So to speak.”

  Tiffany smiles, happy to be back in charge. “Where to?”

  “The police station, I have to find “No-No” and Jack.”

  “Actually, that’s really good,” Tiffany says. “I can tell them what to wear.”

  ---

  “A little late, aren’t you?” the desk sergeant asks seeing me. “The ceremony is almost over.”

  “What ceremony?”

  “Jack Wayt’s award ceremony.”

  Tiffany and I make our way to the large squad room to see Jack, in full uniform, standing next to the Chief of Police who is at the lectern. “No-No” stands to the right of Jack with a wide smile of pride on her face. There must be thirty cops sitting in attendance.

  “Jack Wayt,” the Chief continues, “I want to congratulate you for not only being one of Chicago’s finest detectives, with a service record unsurpassed in professionalism and proficiency, but also for breaking a long-standing record in the history of our police force. Few thought it could ever be broken. So, Jack, for thirty-nine years, seven months, and eight days of continuous service, I hereby bestow upon you The City of Chicago’s Service Medal for the employee with the longest work record without a sick day taken or requested.”

  The applause begins and continues as the Chief drapes a medal around Jack’s neck then shakes his hand vigorously. “Congratulations, Jack.”

  I wait until Jack shakes every hand in the room and makes his way over to Tiffany and me. Before I can speak he says, “Wait.”

  “What?”

  “My fibromyalgia is acting up again.”

  “I thought only women get that disease?”

  “I’ve come across a special strain.”

  “Why didn’t you call in sick?”

  “I will if it gets worse.”

  I speak sincerely. After my last request went south, I want him to grant me one more favor. “A lot of the pieces are falling into place, Jack. If I can get all the suspects in the same room, someone is going to screw up, and we’ll have our murderer.”

  “What do you want me to do?” he asks.

  I tell him.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Of course you can, Jack. Wear that medal and you can do anything.”

  It takes a few more minutes to convince Jack, but I do. The next person won’t be so easy.

  “No, no. No way.”

  “You have to get him there,” I tell “No-No.”

  “It’ll be financial suicide if it doesn’t work out,” she says.

  “Make him an offer he can’t refuse.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit.

  “Tell him it’s my party,” Tiffany says to help the cause. “And my parties are famous in this town.”

  “It won’t matter to him.”

  “He’s got to be there,” I plead with “No-No”. “You’ve got to find a way.”

  ---

  We sit in her Lexus on Oak Street, just north of the Loop and less than two blocks from Lake Michigan. Tiffany refuses to get out.

  “I can’t do it.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “She has to be there.”

  “But I can’t stand being in the same room with her.”

  “Tiffany, get in there, go right up to her, and invite Alix to the party tonight,” I say to her. “The ‘Nice’ you can do this.”

  “I think that’s what I hate about the ‘Nice’ me,” Tiffany says. “Being nice.”

  “She has to be there. It’s important. Please,” I beg nicely.

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes.”

  “This isn’t going to be easy,” she says, walking slowly away.

  I wait in the car, as Tiffany trudges into a swanky day spa. She re-emerges five minutes later. “She said she’d have to see if she could clear her schedule.”

  “Does that mean she’s going to show?”

  “Nothing will stop that conceited little bioché from being there.”

  ---

  Tiffany drives me to the Cook County Jail. “Wait” Jack Wayt should already be inside.

  “See ya tonight,” Tiffany says as she peels out. She’ll spend the rest of the day confirming the invitees and interfacing with the caterers, the decorators, maybe even a DJ or two; and a put together a killer ensemble to die for. It’ll be a hot time in the old nightclub tonight.

  “Where’s the babe, Sherlock?” The question is asked by a trio of guards as I go through the metal detector.

  “She’s busy, but she sends you her best,” I tell the disappointed officers.

  Jack is already waiting in the interview room when I arrive.

  “Wait.”

  He says as I offer my hand to shake.

  “I think I broke a blood vessel in one of my metatarsals when the Captain was pumping my hand like he was trying to get water from a dry well.”

  “I think you’ll live, Jack.”

  “As if I had a choice
,” Jack says rubbing his right hand.

  I fill Jack in on more of my discoveries and theories as we wait. “Most of what you’ve told me, you have no way of proving,” Jack tells me.

  “Once I figure it all out, proving it will be a mere formality,” I assure him.

  “Easy for you to say, Sherlock.”

  Dirk McGee leads Gibby Fearn into the room and immediately removes the shackles.

  “Getting tired of the hotel accommodations?” I ask him.

  “What do you think?”

  “You have to admit, the room service is prompt.”

  Gibby looks at Jack. “Who are you?”

  “This is Detective Jack Wayt.”

  It’s probably good they don’t shake hands.

  “What’s the medal for?” Gibby asks.

  “Longevity,” Jack answers.

  “What do you want?” Gibby asks.

  Questions, questions, and more questions. Having a conversation with Gibby is like over-dosing on the rules of Jeopardy.

  I take a seat at the table to relax my back. “Gibby, I know you didn’t try to blow D’Wayne DeWitt to kingdom come. I also know you weren’t in on the skimming going on at the Zanadu, although you watched it go down night after night. And I’m pretty sure you’d love to get out of here. So, I’m going to ask you one last question, but you have to give me an answer and not another question.”

  For once, he doesn’t question me.

  “Would you like to go to a private party tonight at the Zanadu? I promise you will get the door prize, which is immunity for anything you say, but we will expect you to speak up when it’s your turn. There'll be food, free drinks, and lots of fun people. So, if you’re not busy tonight what do you say?”

  “Can I bring a date?” he asks.

  “Gibby, I said no questions.”

  “You can bring a date,” Jack tells him, “as long as it’s not your lawyer.”

  Gibby gives us a good long stare. “Sure,” he says. “I could use a night out.”

  ---

  Jack drops me off in front of the Zanadu at five o’clock. Tiffany is supposed to meet me here now, but of course she’s late. I use the time to make a phone call.

  “Guido, it’s Richard Sherlock.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m feeling pretty crummy about you being out of work, and I’ve taken the liberty of setting up an interview for you.”