3 The Case of Tiffany's Epiphany (30 page)

Money is the key to this whole mess. I’m sure of it. I know from previous cases how clubs like this are structured. The owners form limited liability partnerships with as many as thirty-four partners in the mix. They pump a ton of money into decorating the place and get the best PR firm money can buy to promote the hell out it as the “newest, hip, happening place.” They pay some high-profile celebrities to party with the crowd, so that the place is packed night after night and watch the money roll in.

Cha-ching
.
Cha-ching
.
Cha-ching
.

After the newness and the thrill start to wear a bit thin, the partners realize another hot spot is bound to come in soon and knock them off their throne. So, they cut back on the PR, can the celebs, water down the drinks, and milk every dime out of the place. The cash from the till becomes dividends and they chalk up hefty tax write-offs to use against previous profits—thus making profits from their losses. Soon the place is in arrears. They end up selling the building for almost as much as they put into it, start searching for another location, and create another “hip, happening place.”

And I can’t get to first base uncovering who owns, or who runs, or who controls the Zanadu. I’ve tried Google, business records, city licenses, everything except the IRS because I’m scared of asking Lloyd Holler for another favor.

The only persons I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting are the guys who count the money. The guys, or maybe there’re girls or maybe there’re a mixture of both, who sit in the basement, count the cash from the pneumatic tube, and disperse it to whomever or wherever. I’ve asked around, but learned zilch. Are they trolls who live under the Kinzie Street Bridge and only come out at night to perform acts of accounting chicanery? Who do they work for? How much do they make? Do they get vacation benefits? Do they have to contribute to their own health insurance? Most importantly, how do they keep the operation secret from the rest of Chicago? Loose lips sink ships. I have to find these guys and see who’s willing to talk.

I’m still sitting at 7 a.m., staring up at the cards on the
Carlo
. I hear the neighborhood coming alive outside. Cars leaving parking spots, kids on their way to school, the street sweeper sweeping away, and neighbors walking their dogs to their neighbor’s lawns.

And it hits me like a cream pie right in the face.

How could I have missed this? How could I have been so stupid? It’s all there, right in front of me. Why didn’t I see it before? If I could move my feet like a normal person, I’d kick myself in the butt. I sit in awe of my own stupidity. It’s all so simple, so clear, and so logical.

They’re not carting money out of the Zanadu; they’re carting it in!

Excited, I put in a call to “Wait” Jack Wayt. He doesn’t pick up. I call “No-No”. She doesn’t pick up. I wonder if they aren’t picking up together? I call Tiffany. Of course I don’t expect her to pick up. She’s got to be sound asleep.

“Oh, Mr. Sherlock.”

“You’re awake?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

“I had a dream about the dream I had when I got roofied at the Zanadu.”

“Were you wearing red?”

“No, thank God.”

“What happened in the dream?” I ask.

“I was sitting there seeing myself
see
myself, but I couldn’t see what it was all about.”

“What was what all about?” I ask for an explanation, but I suspect her answer will be more confusing than her previous statement.

“What
me
was all about,” she answers, as if this is a perfectly logical conversation.

I contemplate that for a moment then ask, “So, you couldn’t sleep because what
you
are all about is what’s bothering
you
?”

“Exactly.”

I’m certainly glad that’s all squared away.

“Tiffany, I need to use your big TV set.”

“You want me to DVR a show for you?”

“No, I need to go over the DVDs from the Zanadu again.”

“I can’t watch that stuff ever again, Mr. Sherlock. It’s too devastating. That’s what started this whole mess.”

“I know, but there’s something I have to see. Please?” I plead nicely.

“Sure”, she says with a sigh, “come on over. But take a cab. Just knowing that car of yours is parked in my building makes my stomach spaz out.”

---

The ‘L’ ride downtown is hardly good therapy for a bad back, especially when you have to stand, sharing a pole grip with eight or nine other riders during rush hour. The pain subsides a bit because my mind is racing. I discover two other aspects I’ve missed, and how to quickly alleviate both missteps.

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, nobody 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.