3 The Case of Tiffany's Epiphany by Jim Stevens Page A

meantime,” Arson tells me.
    “Is that one of those Members Only jackets?” Sterno asks.
    “No, my ex-wife bought me this jacket only a couple of years ago.”
    “She probably knew then she was going to dump you,” Sterno says.
    He might be right about that.
    Arson must be hearing instructions through his earpiece, because he pulls the rope back and allows a group of four to enter. I give up. I move to the side and consider my next move. One doesn’t immediately come to mind. I turn around and walk away in the opposite direction. I wave when I reach the girls saving my place. They pretend not to notice me. They’re too busy chatting away with the two guys who were behind me in line. I’m a matchmaker by default.
    I walk the streets in the immediate vicinity of the club, searching for parked limos. I find three on Kinzie Street. One has a driver waiting inside. I rule that one out. Two are parked on opposite sides of the street about one hundred yards apart. I write down their license plate numbers and wait about fifty yards away from each.
    Twenty minutes go by. Nothing. I’m getting impatient. I’m standing against a sign advertising Nightclub Parking when the limo, which had the guy sitting inside, drives right past me. Riding shotgun is Mr. Ponytail. They go by so fast I can only pick up the first three digits of their plate. This should teach me never to rule anything out based on occupancy.

CHAPTER 7
     
    About a week ago, before Tiffany downed her unfortunate libation, I was wasting my time in the Barnes & Noble on Clybourne Avenue. I love that store. It’s huge, has couches, tables, and a Starbucks; all there to enhance my reading pleasure. When I don’t have a lot of money, a lot to do, or both, this is one of my favorite stomping grounds. I’m here a lot.
    There have been innumerable news stories concerning the demise of the brick and mortar retail bookstores. And in each of these articles, the writer gives umpteen reasons for the collapse of what once was a thriving business. It seems to me the only reason these stores are going out of business is because they let people like me in, allow them to hang around for hours reading whatever they want, and then walk out without spending a dime. If I owned B & N, I’d have floor monitors wander around with stopwatches in hand, relegating each reader to only a couple of pages per book.
    One time I was in the Homeopathic Health section and came across Oh, My Aching Back . In this heavy on the pictures and light on the words manual, I found a number of ways to improve my bad back. There were exercises, diets, food supplements, vitamins, hot and cold compress solutions, even a chapter on inversions. I read almost half the book, memorized the exercises, replaced the book, not where I found it, but a few shelves away, and went home to try out my new regimen.
    It worked! My back hasn’t felt this good since Care was crawling. Now, each morning I start my day on the floor, twisting and turning, stretching and straining, curling and coiling. As soon as I have the time, I’m going back to B & N and read the rest that miracle worker.
    ---
    I’m in the middle of the Flounder Fetal Position when the phone rings. It’s Jamison Wentworth Richmond the Third. Well, actually not him, he never speaks to me; it’s only one of his assistants. She informs me that there has been a serious blip on their Paid Out computer screen and I have to investigate a certain pharmacy in Evanston, which is suddenly doing a land-office business on some of the most pricey pain killers on the market. Ritalin, Oxycontin and Plavix are moving off the shelves faster than anything at Walmart on Black Friday. The bulk of the cost of these little magic bullets is being billed to Medicare, but since it pains Mr. Richmond to pay out even the measly amount the government doesn’t cover, he calls me. Unfortunately, since I borrowed money from him to pay off my divorce, I have to drop everything and get