Free 3 The Case of Tiffany's Epiphany by Jim Stevens

admits.
    “I might be coming down with pancreatitis,” Jack informs us of his latest self-diagnosis. “I’m almost positive my pancreatic juices aren’t flowing properly.”
    “I have no problem with my flow,” Tiffany tells him.
    Yet again, too much information.
    “Jack, what did you find out about this place?” I ask.
    The three of us are standing in the same spot where I was almost killed the other day.
    “It’s owned by some dummy corporation,” Jack says.
    “My daddy says a lot of companies are owned by idiots,” Tiffany informs us. “That’s why they’re underinsured.”
    Tiffany is at the very beginning of her family business’ learning curve.
    We pace around the outside of the building and try to see something that we didn’t see the first time around.
    Tiffany would obviously rather be at Saks. She sashays around doing her best not to dirty her fancy shoes in the oil stains, grease, and “yucky” potholes. “Why are we here again?” Tiffany asks. “Because I don’t like being in these neighborhoods, especially in this disgusting alley.”
    “This is where the kidnappers dropped me off and somebody started shooting at me,” I tell her.
    “You didn’t tell me that, Mr. Sherlock.”
    “Yes, I did. I told you about me getting kidnapped, shot at, almost crushed, and roughed up, the other night when you picked me up.”
    “Oh, I wasn’t listening,” Tiffany says.
    Why do I bother?
    Jack leads us into the back door of the building. “So far we’ve got zilch.”
    Inside, the CSI techs are unpacking their hand-held vacuum cleaners. “Don’t touch anything, Tiffany,” I say as we walk through the junked-up, two room area that’s as filthy as a third world slum.
    “You might want to tell those guys,” Tiffany says pointing to the techs, “they’d be better off hiring a cleaning crew.”
    Jack leads us to a window facing the rear alley. “This is where someone tried to pop you,” he says. “There’s powder residue all over.”
    I move to a chair which sits all alone, no doubt where the shooter took aim.
    “Tell you anything?” Jack asks.
    “Plenty,” I lie.
    “Good.” Jack knows I’m lying.
    We move to the center of the bigger of the two rooms where there’s an old table, which was once part of someone’s kitchen years ago. It has less dust and grime on its top than the rest of the junk in the place. A CSI tech waits for us before he vacuums. “This the office?” I ask.
    “I bet,” Jack says.
    “What are you two talking about?” Tiffany asks, not wanting to miss out.
    “Economics,” I answer.
    “I hate that,” Tiffany says. “The only thing I like about economics is the money.”
    No surprise there.
    We keep searching for clues. Jack points out some things he sees, and I do the same. Tiffany gets real bored--real quick. “Excuse me,” she says to get our attention, “but what does all this have to do with me getting ‘roofied’?”
    “Maybe nothing,” I tell her. “Maybe everything.”
    “Bad answer, Mr. Sherlock. Really bad answer.”
    In the far back of the building, tucked away around a corner are two doors, both closed. Tiffany moves to the first one and tells us, “I’m gonna hate myself, but two Latte Grandes are calling me home.” She opens the first door, steps inside, and yells out, “Oh my God. This is disgusting.”
    What did she expect, the Ladies Room at the Ritz?
    “Help!”
    Jack and I immediately run to her aid. She stands in a pool of sticky, dark-red glop. With her right hand she braces herself against the door and lifts her left foot to inspect the effect her “Wrong Way” Corrigan maneuver has had on the sole of her very expensive footwear. The stuff oozes on it like marinara sauce made with too much tomato paste. I look at Jack. Jack looks at me.
    “Sure does kill that Kevlar theory,” I surmise.
    “What is this cruddy gunk?” Tiffany asks.
    “You’re standing in a pool of blood,” Jack tells her
    “Blood!” Tiffany