I left him to his work. I got the sheets and made up the couch, then tried Willie again. The call again went right to voicemail. This time I left a message asking her to call me. I sprawled on the couch, but it was a long time before sleep came.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Such a lot of guns around town, and so few brains.” I flew off the couch. It was the ringtone on my cell phone, a Humphrey Bogart line. It was from The Big Sleep. I snatched it off the coffee table.
“Willie?”
“Hey, did I wake you?”
“No.” I rubbed my eyes. “Well, not really.” I got up and went into the kitchen. Sun streamed through a big window that looked out on a spectacular view of the Rocky Mountains. The clock on the microwave read 8:45. I guess I was tired…and not a morning person,
“I’m really sorry.” She sighed, then went on breathlessly. “After I took my shower, I went into the kitchen. I just wanted some Oreos and milk, and you didn’t have any in your kitchen, and suddenly it all hit me, and I kinda lost it.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “Sometimes I don’t know when not to be funny.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m up at Cal’s. I tried to call you but it kept going to voicemail.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “After you left, I turned off my phone because I was a blubbering idiot. I guess I cried myself to sleep, and I just woke up and got your message.”
“It’s going to be okay,” I said lamely.
“I hope so. I want to see you, but I’ve got to go to that meeting with Spillman.”
“Do you want me to go with you?”
“No, I’ll be fine. And I’m sure you have things to do?”
I detected a ray of hope in her voice. “Cal and I did some research on Nick O’Rourke and found his old business partner,” I said. “I’m going to start there.”
“Okay, I’ll see you soon.”
“Call me after your meeting.”
“I will,” she said.
I hung up, feeling a weight fall over me. I had to get to the bottom of this, and fast. I made coffee, then took two mugs into Cal’s office. He was still sitting at his desk, staring at the monitor.
“How’s it going?” I asked as I set a mug down on the desk.
“Fine,” he said, barely looking at me.
“What’d you find out?”
He stopped, blinked hard a couple of times and turned to me. His eyes were bloodshot and laced with crazy.
“I think you need some sleep,” I said.
“Nah, I’ve almost got this.” He tapped the monitor. “Then I’ll get to your stuff.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. I nudged the mug closer to him. “You drink that. I’m going to take a shower.”
Fifteen minutes later, I was showered and somewhat refreshed, even though I was in yesterday’s clothes and I needed a shave. I knew he wouldn’t have anything in the kitchen to eat, so I left and went down 285 to the grocery store, where I bought cereal, milk and bananas. When I got back to Cal’s house, I ate and then went into his office.
“Thanks for the help,” I said.
He nodded. “I’ll look into O’Rourke and Pommerville later, once I wrap this up.”
“I think I’ll pay Pommerville a visit, see what I can dig up.”
“You’re on your own with that.” He turned back to the computer and barely noticed me leaving his office.
The higher mountain air held a chill as I drove back to Denver, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Pommerville’s number. After three rings, a deep voice barked, “Pommerville Computer Systems.”
“Is this Stan Pommerville?” I asked.
“Yes, how can I help you?”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about Nick O’Rourke. I’m –” I didn’t get to finish.
“I have nothing to say,” he snapped. Then the annoying buzz of the dial tone ripped through the phone.
I held the phone out, staring at the screen. “People lose teeth talking like that,” I said, mimicking Humphrey Bogart in The Maltese Falcon. What prompted that response from Pommerville?
I frowned. “Okay, Stan Pommerville, let’s see how you dodge me when I show up unannounced at your door.”
I pulled off the road and used my phone to access the internet and look up the address for Pommerville Computer Systems. I located it on Mapquest. I knew the area of small office complexes just north of Denver West, near the foothills in Golden. I glanced at the computer clock: just past ten. Plenty of time to drive out there before Pommerville left for lunch.
I got back on Highway 285 and soon turned onto C-470. Twenty minutes later, I parked in front of a nondescript three-story brick office building that backed up to Interstate 70. I strolled into the lobby and checked the directory. Pommerville Computer Systems was on the third floor, and I noticed that a number of other businesses also had the same suite number. Sharing office space? Was Pommerville’s company struggling?
There was a wide set of stairs that dominated the lobby, but I took the elevator up to the third floor and headed to Suite 301. The door was open so I stepped inside. Just to the left of the doorway was a cheap wood desk with an old monitor on it, the bulky kind that looked like an old TV and weighed as much. In the corner sat a printer/copier, and against the wall opposite the desk were two fake-leather chairs with a small table between them. What was missing was a secretary or office manager – someone who would call Pommerville and inform him he had a visitor.
In two long strides I was across the waiting room, and I glanced down a hallway. All was quiet. I didn’t hesitate, but marched down the hall. I was right that a number of businesses shared the office space, and each company had a plaque by the door. That took the guesswork out of finding Pommerville’s office. I passed three doors, turned a corner and found the door for Pommerville Computer Systems. I tried the knob and it turned. I opened the door, darted inside, and quickly shut it behind me.
An older man in a shirt and tie sat behind an oak desk that faced the door. He looked up, his jaw open in surprise.
CHAPTER NINE
“What are you…” he sputtered, then quickly recovered. “I think you’re in the wrong office.” He reached for a phone on the corner of the desk. “Wasn’t the office manager out front? She should be able to help you.”
“I need to talk to you, Mr. Pommerville.” I sat down in an uncomfortable wooden chair across from the desk.
The receiver stopped halfway to his ear.
“You can set that down,” I said.
He stared at me through wire-rimmed glasses, as if he hadn’t heard me, then he slowly hung up the phone.
“You don’t have an appointment,” he finally said.
“I called you earlier but you hung up on me.”
His eyes darted to me, then the phone, and back to me, then he put the pieces together.
“You asked about Nick O’Rourke.” His eyes narrowed and his lips formed into a cold line. “I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time. I told you over the phone I have nothing to say, and I still have nothing to say.”
“Why?”
“Wait a minute. Who are you again?”
“Reed Ferguson. I’m a private investigator.” I showed him a badge I had in my wallet, although it wasn’t that special. Anyone who wanted to could be a detective in the state of Colorado, just hang up a sign.
He emitted a mirthless chuckle, then shook his head. “What kind of mess has Nick gotten himself into now? I assure you I’m the last person who’ll help him.”
I waited for a second, then said, “He’s dead.”
Lines formed between his eyebrows as he frowned.
“You really didn’t know?” I asked. “It was in the news.”
“No.” His chair creaked as he shifted his heavy bulk in it. “What happened?”
“Did you hear about the house fire last week? The one northeast of downtown?”
“I saw something on the news, but I didn’t hear that someone died in the fire.
”
“Someone did. Nick.”
“What caused the fire?”
No ‘Poor Nick’ or ‘Did he die painlessly’ or anything like that. Interesting. “It was arson,” I said. “And someone conked Nick over the head and tried to cover it up. Whoever started that fire is looking at some serious prison time.”
Pommerville steepled his hands and rested his chin on his fingertips. “What brings you to me?”
“You were his business partner,” I said, “until things went wrong and you took him to court.”
“And I lost.” The hard look remained on his face. “That doesn’t mean I killed him.”
I tipped my head, acknowledging that. “Maybe. Maybe not.
“I’m not sure what you want from me. I didn’t like Nick and I haven’t spoken to him in years, but that doesn’t mean I killed him.”
“What happened with Jupiter Data?”
“I met Nick when I was an IT consultant with Deloitte. I was –”
I held up a hand. “What’s Deloitte?”
He looked at me like I was a dunce. “They’re a huge consulting company. I was an associate partner and he was a client. I worked with him a lot, and we started talking about what we could do in the big data sector. After a while, we decided to start Jupiter. We pooled our money, worked our butts off, and tried to grow it into a viable business.”
“And?”
He put his hands down and leaned back in his chair. “Nick was cooking the books, stealing money on the side. I handled the IT side of things and I didn’t find out about what he was doing until it was too late. I lost everything.”
“So you trusted Nick and he screwed you over?”
He nodded. “That sums it up. I’d known him for years. I knew how he worked and our idea was great. Jupiter should’ve taken off.” He hesitated.
I waited him out, knowing if I kept my mouth shut, he’d most likely keep talking.
“What I didn’t know was that he’d developed a gambling problem. That’s why he started stealing money from the company, to pay off his gambling debts.”
“How’d you find out about the gambling?”
“I didn’t, at first. My first clue that something was off was when I got a couple of calls about Jupiter being behind on some bills. I talked to Nick and he said he’d taken care of them. He was slick with his lies and I didn’t suspect anything at first. Then the calls increased and I started checking things out. That’s when I found out we were behind on a lot of things. When I confronted him, he tried to talk his way out of it, said he’d invested the money elsewhere and that it would help us in the long run. We were still a small shop, just the two of us and occasionally some contract consultants, and we were both travelling a lot, so it was hard to nail him down.”
“What does this have to do with the gambling?”
“I’m getting to that.” He frowned and the wrinkle lines returned. “It wasn’t until it all started spiraling out of control that I began putting things together. First, we were both making great money, but he never seemed to have any. He complained that he’d just been through a nasty divorce and his ex-wife got everything and he was paying her, but I knew that wasn’t right, because other times he’d say he was glad he’d broke clean from her, that he didn’t owe her alimony or anything. Then he never seemed to have his car around. Nick liked to be flashy and he owned a Mercedes, a real nice one. Had to cost a good bit, but suddenly he wasn’t driving it anymore, and when we were in town together, he’d ask me to drop him places after work. And,” he wagged a finger at me. “One of those places was a little dive restaurant on East Colfax, east of downtown. Not the type of place he’d normally go to. I asked him why he was eating there, if the food was that good, but he dodged the question. I wondered if he was buying drugs there, and I finally confronted him. Instead of telling me what was going on, he threatened me and said to stay out of his business. Things were getting ugly then. He was always on edge and the business was about to fold, so I took the final steps to dissolve Jupiter and get away from him. But by then I had to use my own money to pay bills and taxes. Then I spent a year in court trying to prove he was using company money for his gambling, but I lost.”
“I’m still fuzzy on how you knew he had a gambling problem,” I said.
“My daughter. She dated him for a time, and after everything fell to pieces, she told me about his gambling problem. She said she’d been to the restaurant with him a few times. She didn’t know anything about the gambling until one night when they were there, he bragged about placing a bet that was going to pay big. She said later that night they watched a basketball game and his team lost. He went crazy, went on about owing people money, so she left, and that was the end of their relationship.”
I pondered everything. “If he owed people money, did he ever act like he was worried about them coming after him? Like his bookies?”
He snorted. “Why don’t you ask them?”
“Who would that be?”
“How the hell should I know? You’re the detective.”
“I prefer not to hunt for needles in haystacks if I don’t have to,” I said, not trying very hard to hide my sarcasm. “If you know anything about where he gambled or who he owed money to, it would help me tremendously.”
“Try Easy Street Café. If it’s still there.”
“I’d like to talk to your daughter about Nick.”
He glared at me. “I don’t think so.”
“I really don’t need your permission. And this is another needle in the haystack situation,” I said, this time letting the sarcasm flow. “It’d be much easier if you’d tell me how to get in touch with her.”
The glare remained. “Fine,” he said, snatching a pen off the desk. He wrote on a notepad, tore the paper off and handed it across the desk. “Her name is Leena. That’s her cell phone. I’ll let her know you’ll be calling.”
“You do that,” I said as I tucked the paper into my pocket. “One final thing.”
“You really are a pain in the ass.”
I smiled. “Where were you three nights ago?”
“Tuesday night? Looking for an alibi?”
“Yes.”
“I was at home with my wife. I get home at 5:30 every night. I’m an old man, Mr. Ferguson, and I’m pretty boring. We had dinner and I read a book while she watched TV. I went to bed early. She can verify that, although I don’t want you calling to bother her.”
“How else can I verify that?”
It was his turn to smile. “That’s your problem.”
“You’ve been so helpful up to this point,” I said. Oh, that sarcasm…
A long silence ensued.
“I know I should probably feel sad about Nick’s death, but I don’t,” he finally said, then gestured around the tiny office. “I’m stuck in this, trying to reinvent myself. I’m 67 years old. Do you know how hard it is to find a job at my age? I’ll tell you. It’s impossible. So I’ve started another business and I’m working like a dog to make enough to get by. I invested everything in Jupiter Data, all my retirement, all my savings, and Nick stole it out from under me. I can’t live on Social Security unless I sell my house and live in an apartment smaller than this damn place.” He glanced at a framed photo on the desk, of a woman about his age. “And I wouldn’t do that to my wife.” He abruptly stood up. “I’ve been as helpful as I can to you, but I don’t want my wife dragged into this. She’s suffered enough.” He came around the desk and opened the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do, and I don’t want to discuss Nick anymore. Please don’t bother me again.”
I rose and stepped past him into the hallway. As I walked through the corridor and out into the building foyer, I mulled over the conversation. Like it or not, Pommerville had a motive to kill O’Rourke. I slowly descended the stairs, still in processing mode. I needed to verify Pommerville’s alibi, but I found myself not wanting to bother his wife. I pictured myself going to talk to her, and it was too m
uch like interrogating my own mother. I wondered how else I could verify that he had been home with her on the night of the fire.
I reached the lobby and walked out of the building. One thing I knew for sure. Nick O’Rourke was not well-liked, and I seemed to have only people who wanted him dead, not alive. My suspect list was growing, but I was no closer to finding out who the actual murderer was.
CHAPTER TEN
I sat in the car for a few minutes, planning my next move. Willie hadn’t called yet, and that had me a little worried. Was Spillman grilling her? I pushed those thoughts to the back of my mind, because it wouldn’t help find O’Rourke’s killer.
I took out the piece of paper with Leena’s phone number and dialed it, but the call went directly to voice mail. Pommerville was probably talking to her right now, telling her all about my visit and coaching her on what to say, I thought. Man, was I cynical. Leena said in a light and airy voice to leave a message, and so I did, leaving her my name and briefly explaining why I wanted to talk to her. I doubted she would call back, but maybe she’d surprise me. I wondered if she could verify Pommerville’s alibi. Then again, would she lie for him? There was that cynicism again.
I stared out the windshield, watching a blue jay hop from branch to branch on a tree as I thought about Pommerville. Would a 67-year-old man be able to knock out Nick? Would Pommerville start a fire to cover his tracks? Or did he hire someone to do the crime for him? Pommerville bore more scrutiny, that was for certain.
What else had I learned? Nick O’Rourke had a gambling problem, and he had siphoned money from Jupiter Data. But after the company went under, that funding source had dried up, but I highly doubted that Nick’s gambling habit had miraculously gone away. If he couldn’t get money from Jupiter Data, where would he get the money to fund his habit? Cal might dig up something, but unless O’Rourke left a digital trail of his monetary acquisitions, Cal wouldn’t find it. The obvious source was he’d borrow it. And where did someone who didn’t have money or credit borrow money? From a loan shark. But how could I find out who that was? I thought for a second.
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