3 The Case of Tiffany's Epiphany Read Online Free Page A

remember which bartender served you?” I ask Tiffany.
    “Bruno.”
    “Bruno, the bartender,” I say for effect. “Is he here tonight?”
    Tiffany looks up and down the bar. “Nope, I don’t see him.”
    “Do you remember where you woke up?”
    “In the back.”
    “Show me.”
    Tiffany leads me to a break in the bar and down a slight hallway. We go past the men’s and women’s facilities and stop at a door labeled No Admittance. Tiffany knocks. I watch the spy camera above the upper doorjamb switch on. We wait. A buzzer buzzes. I hear a click. Tiffany opens the door and enters. I follow.
    It’s an office with two desks, one much smaller than the other. There’s a couch against the wall to my left between two identical doors, both closed. Behind the smaller desk, a behemoth of a man sits reading a comic book. Seeing Tiffany, he puts The Fantastic Four down and I spot a large semi-automatic bulge out of the coat of his ill-fitting suit. He doesn’t speak.
    But the man seated at the larger desk does, “Tiffany, how are you?” he says.
    “I’m good,” Tiffany answers with a smile.
    The man, who could double as a GQ model, rises from his chair and comes out and around to greet us. “You gave us quite a scare last night.”
    “This is no place for a beauty nap,” Tiffany tells him.
    The guy takes a look at my jacket, takes a step back as if I have the cooties, and says, “And you are?”
    “This is Mr. Sherlock, he’s a detective,” Tiffany informs the man.
    “Chicago PD?”
    “So to speak,” Tiffany answers before I have the chance.
    Mr. GQ eyes me warily, but steps forward and puts out his hand to shake. “Gibby Fearn.”
    “And what do you do here?” I give as well as I take.
    “I’m the Vice President in charge of operations.”
    I pause when I hear a faint whooshing sound behind one of the doors next to the couch before I speak the inevitable detective opening line, “Tell me what happened.”
    “We got an alert from the bar last night a little after two. Within three minutes three security men converged on the spot to find Miss Richmond passed out against the bar rail.”
    “Oh my God,” Tiffany says. “I don’t want to even imagine what position I was in.”
    “What did you do?” I ask.
    Gibby continues, “I rushed out, thought she was drunk …”
    Tiffany interrupts, “Why would you ever think that?”
    “Probably because you were unconscious on the floor next to the bar,” I answer for the VP of Operations.
    “But that’s so not me,” Tiffany says.
    “Go on, please.”
    Gibby continues, “It’s the policy of the club that when an incident like this occurs, we remove the parties in question from the main floor as soon as possible.”
    “Bad PR or you just don’t want an open spot at the bar?” I ask.
    “What do you think?” This guy likes me about as much as he likes my leather jacket.
    I hear the whoosh again, but this time the sound is accompanied by a plop . “Did you bring her in here?”
    “What else would we do?” Gibby loves to ask questions. I hate that.
    “But you didn’t call an ambulance?”
    “Why should I? Her breathing was even, her pulse steady, and her color normal.”
    “Still …” I say.
    “What? People drink, people get drunk,” he says. “This is a 3 a.m. club. You don’t think this happens all the time?”
    “Do you know if anyone took my picture while I was passed out on the floor like an un-chaperoned model at her first after-show party?” Tiffany asks.
    “I can assure you nobody from Zanadu did.”
    “If I find out someone did, this place will never see another dime of my or my daddy’s money.”
    Gibby never retreats to his desk or asks if we want to sit down. I feel about as welcome as I did at Thanksgiving at my ex-in-law’s house.
    “I let her sleep it off on the couch. She seemed fine by the next morning.” End of story.
    “You stayed with her?”
    “Who else?” Gibby asks with a sarcastic smirk. “I know when to