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

go the extra mile in this business.”
    “I’d like to speak with Bruno the bartender,” I say.
    The Behemoth at the small desk speaks up, “Sick.”
    “Did he pass out like I did?” Tiffany asks.
    “Dun’t know.”
    “Could I get his name and phone number?” I ask.
    “Dun’t know,” the Behemoth answers.
    I turn to Gibby. “I’ll need to see the video tapes from the cameras that cover that area of the bar,” I tell him.
    “There’s a movie of what happened to me?” Tiffany shrieks.
    “At least two,” I tell her. “Enough to make a documentary called, Tiffany Gets Tipsy .”
    “Oh, my God, I want every copy destroyed.”
    “You got a card?” Gibby asks. “I’ll call you when the tapes are returned from our service.”
    I give a phony pat to my faux leather jacket pockets, “I left my cards in my other suit. Is it possible to have the tapes here for me by noon tomorrow?”
    Gibby gives me a wry smile, as if he’s decided not to call my bluff. “What else can I do for you?”
    There is one last whoosh/plop from behind the door. “I’ll let you know,” I warn him. Before leaving the office, I ask Gibby Fearn, VP of Operations, one last question, “Would you like to see Tiffany’s toxicology report when it arrives?”
    “Why would I be interested in her blood alcohol level?”
    “What if it isn’t alcohol that appears in the report?”
    “What if it is?”
    Life would be so much easier if people merely answered the questions asked of them instead of asking one of their own.
    “Thanks for your time.”
    I pull Tiffany out the office. Her first comment is “Mr. Sherlock we have to destroy those tapes or at least have my face electronically fuzzied up like they do on those reality TV shows.”
    I ignore her request. “Come on,” I say. “I want to hang out in the bar for a few minutes.”
    Tiffany says, “Out there? You want to hang out with me ?” as if she needs each piece of specific information explained in detail.
    “If anybody asks, I’ll tell them I’m your driver.”
    “Well, okay, but I wish you had one of those chauffeur hats to wear,” she says as we proceed to the bar.
    I pick a spot where I can see the entire length of the bar. The place is still packed. Drinks are being poured at a record pace. Waitresses hustle. It’s almost two-thirty in the morning and girls are deciding if, and guys are deciding on who, when it comes to who's getting their tickets punched this evening. The two overly-moussed guys are doing about as well as I would in the place.
    Tiffany goes to the bar to get me a ginger ale and herself a frilly cocktail. As soon as she returns, she tells me she’s going to the ladies room. I stand alone like a wallflower at a high school dance. At exactly 2:32 a.m., Gibby and his muscle come out of their office and make their way down the bar, stopping at each cash register. Gibby inserts a key to the left of the computer pad on the machine, punches in a few numbers, waits for the cash drawer to open, and removes a hefty stack of bills. The money goes into a black canvas bag carried by the Behemoth. It takes less than five minutes to complete all six registers and return to the office.
    The moment Tiffany returns, I tell her. “Time to go home.”
    “But the night is still young.”
    “But I’m not.”
    ---
    I sleep until nine, quite late for me. Care gets up at ten and Kelly emerges from dreamland around ten-thirty.
    “What do you say we take in a class at Sunday school?” I ask as we all stand in the kitchen.
    “I go to school five days a week,” Kelly says. “That’s plenty.”
    “How about church?” I ask. “We could go as a family.”
    “I like going to the same church Tiffany goes to,” Care says. “The church of St. Mattress.”
    I give up on their spiritual upbringing and pull my one frying pan out of the cabinet to start breakfast. “Pancakes?”
    “You make terrible pancakes, Dad,” Kelly says.
    “How about bacon?” Care