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 much 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.
“Well,” I said out loud. “If I don’t know the source of O’Rourke’s money, I go to the destination.”
I looked up the address to Easy Street Café, then started the 4-Runner, my next move determined. The Smiths, one of my favorite bands, played as I pulled back onto the highway and headed downtown to Easy Street Café. Pommerville said the café was on East Colfax, east of downtown, so I figured it would be easy to find. I took I-70 to I-25, and exited onto Colfax and endured too many traffic lights to count as I finally curved around Civic Center Park and followed Colfax east. Past the Cathedral Basilica of the Immaculate Conception, a huge Roman Catholic cathedral made of limestone and granite, was Prohibition, where Willie and I ate the other night, but I still didn’t see Easy Street Café. I continued on, and just past Humboldt Street I spied the café on the north side. I turned on Franklin and parked a couple of blocks down.
The sun had burned off the early chill, leaving a pleasant warmth as I walked back to Colfax. It was a busy part of town, with small shops, businesses, and restaurants all vying for a piece of the pie. It was a little after eleven when I crossed Colfax and went inside the restaurant.
Easy Street Café could only be described as a dive. It was a rectangle with six small tables at the front, a bar along one wall at the back, with a couple more tables against the other wall.
“You want lunch?” The waitress was tiny, barely five feet, with tattoos running up and down her arms.
I nodded.
She pointed to the second table in. I sat down at a rickety metal chair and she shoved a laminated one-page menu at me. “You want something to drink?”
“A Coke,” I said.
She sauntered off and I studied the menu. Nothing seemed terribly appetizing, but the prices were appealing. I could get a hamburger and fries for $4.95, and that seemed less risky than the French dip or ham and cheese.
The waitress returned with my drink and I ordered the burger, then sat back and looked around while trying to not look like I was looking around.
Two men in jeans, faded white tee shirts and work boots sat at one of the tables by the bar, and three women in business casual attire were by the door. At the table back in the corner, across from the bar, sat a man in black jeans and a yellow Izod shirt that stretched across his burly chest. He dwarfed the table, his arms like logs, his hands like huge metal claws. He was sipping a cup of coffee and chatting with the bartender, who seemed to have little else to do but slowly wipe the bar and talk. Then I noticed a door in the back wall with a ‘Private’ sign on it.
I fiddled with my phone, attempting to appear busy, as I listened to the conversations around me. The ladies were talking shop, discussing how to create a series of reports in Xcel. I tuned them out and tried to hear what the two men near the bar were saying.
As the waitress brought my food, a sliver of light momentarily brightened the room as the restaurant door opened. A man in khakis and a striped shirt marched past the tables and right to the back. Yellow Shirt stood up and they had a short conversation. Then Yellow Shirt turned and opened the door. The man in khakis stepped past Yellow Shirt and disappeared into the back room. Yellow Shirt closed the door, sat back down, sipped coffee and resumed his conversation with the bored bartender.
I picked up my burger and examined it. It looked harmless. I took a nibble. It was delicious. I should’ve known. Sometimes the off-beat places are the best.
A minute later the man in khakis came out of the back room. He nodded at Yellow Shirt, strolled back through the restaurant and left.
I chewed and thought about that. Was it anything? Only time would tell. I ate slowly, savoring the burger, and sure enough, a few minutes later, another man entered the restaurant. He too went straight to the back, spoke to Yellow Shirt, disappeared into the back room and emerged a few minutes later. Interesting.
I slowly worked my way through my meal, then asked for another Coke. I continued to scrutinize my phone as I waited. A few minutes passed and a third man, young, with a pierced eyebrow, came and made a beeline to the back. Unless I missed my guess, it appeared that Pommerville and his daughter Leena were correct.
If a bookie was in that private room, he was doing a decent business. I’d read somewhere that it wasn’t uncommon for bookies to run their business just like I was seeing, through a private room in a small bar or restaurant. It made a good cover. Have someone like Yellow Shirt run interference, keep out the riff-raff and warn the bookie if trouble arrives. Word-of-mouth helps the betting flourish. A nice, smooth operation. But how did one get behind that door?
The waitress set my check on the table and I left some bills, then got up and sauntered to the back. As I neared the private room, Yellow Shirt got up and blocked me. Up close, he was even more imposing.
“You need something?” he asked, his voice low. He simultaneously managed to appear bored and threatening.
“Yeah, I’d like to go in there.” I pointed through his barrel-chest at the door.
“It’s private.”
“Thus the sign on the door,” I said.
He looked at me blankly. Not a Harvard grad, this one.
“I want to…you know…” I left the rest unsaid.
He crossed thick arms across his chest. “Get lost.”
I gazed up at him, nodded and slowly turned around. “Okay, I’ll take my business elsewhere.”
The bartender wagged his head in disgust as I passed. I felt my face burning. I left the restaurant and strolled to the corner, thinking.
There must be some kind of code I was missing, something to get past Yellow Shirt. I’d made a fool of myself with my charade, but I verified that one couldn’t just walk into that back room. There was indeed something important going on, important enough to have a bodyguard keeping watch. A thought crossed my mind. Would they think I was a cop? Then I chuckled. No, a cop wouldn’t be as impulsive and stupid as I’d just been. Let Yellow Shirt puzzle over that.
“Good one, Reed,” I chided myself. Regardless, I needed to be more careful. If they thought I posed a problem, I could be asking for trouble. The kind that comes with beatings and broken bones.
Instead of going to my car, I headed north, up Franklin, and came to the alley. I glanced down it. Beat-up green Dumpsters sat near the exits on the back side of the building. By my calculations, the alley door to Easy Street Café was the third one, a black door. There was a little wooden porch that led up to the door. I leaned against the building opposite and watched. It took a while, but eventually Yellow Shirt came out with another man in black pants, a purple shirt and a purple Trilby hat. I ducked around the corner and watched.
Purple Hat was quite a bit shorter than Yellow Shirt, but maybe it was an optical illusion because Yellow Shirt had to be at least 6’6”. Both lit up cigarettes and stood smoking near the door. Then Purple Hat answered his phone and paced around the alley. Yellow Shirt turned my way and I pulled my head back. I waited a moment, then peeked around the corner. Yellow Shirt was now looking the other direction. Purple Hat hung up his phone, they both tossed their cigarettes into the alley and then went back into the restaurant.
I continued watching the door and mused over what I’d learned, which wasn’t much. Yellow Shirt smoked. So did the flashy guy in the Purple Trilby. Was he the bookie, or maybe the restaurant owner? Or both? How could I find out? Follow them? Ugh, I hated following people. It was so boring.
I stayed there for over an hour, periodically moving away from the alley entrance so I didn’t attract attention. The thugs came out three more times to smoke, and each time I slipped around the corner and watched them.
“Such a lot of guns around town, and so few brains.” I was so intent on watching the thugs, I jumped. Damn, my phone! What a time for Bogie. I slipped around the corner and yanked the phone from my pocket and glanced at the number, hoping it was Willie. It took a second for the number to register in my mind. Pommerville’s daughter, Leena.
“Hello?”
“Reed Ferguson?”
“Yes?”
“Leena Radcliff.”
“I wondered if you’d return my call.”
She got right to the point. “We need to talk. Have you eaten lunch?”
“Yes.” I glanced at my watch. Almost one-thirty.
“I haven’t been able to get out of the office until now. I work at the State Capitol and I brought my lunch. Meet me at Civic Center Park, at the Greek amphitheater, in half an hour. I’m wearing a pink skirt and flowered blouse.”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
“Good. I’ll meet you now, and then I don’t want you to bother my father anymore.” With that, she hung up.
I pocketed the phone and hurried back to my car. Good thing I was close to Civic Center Park, because I did not want to miss this opportunity.
Chapter Eleven
I pegged her as late thirties. She was attractive, not what I’d call beautiful, but certainly not hard on the eyes. She had a round face, small nose, flaxen blond hair and brown eyes. She had a nice figure with maybe a few extra pounds around the middle, and she looked comfortable in a pink skirt and flowered blouse. She was sitting at one side of the amphitheater, eating a sandwich.
“Leena,” I said, sitting down a few feet from her.
“You don’t look like much of a private eye.” Her voice was high and pinched.
“What’s a private eye supposed to look like?”
She made a point of studying me, shielding her eyes against the bright sun glare. “Tougher.”
Trying to get me off my game? A few cases ago, it might’ve deflated my ego, but not now.
“Tell me about Nick O’Rourke,” I said.
She took a bite of her sandwich and chewed slowly. “When I first met him, he was charming and attentive. I’d been through a bad divorce, and my ex was a jerk. Never had a kind word for me…” The sentence hung in the air. Then she repeated, “He was a jerk. So when Nick was so sweet, I fell for him. We went out a number of times and at first it was great.” She paused and looked at a couple sitting on the other side of the amphitheater. They were draped around each other, kissing. I waited. “And then things changed.”
She paused again, and this time she stayed silent, so I prompted her. “What happened?”
“It wasn’t much at first. He was impatient. Then there’d be a verbal jab here and there, usually something money-related. I’d suggest a restaurant that was more expensive and he’d say I wasn’t good enough for that type of place. We’d argue and I’d end up apologizing, and I’d calm him down. And then we’d usually end up in bed. He was good in the sack.”
I raised an eyebrow at her candor.
“Yeah,” she laughed wryly. “I certainly never told my parents that. Things grew worse, but he was in business with Dad, and I knew things weren’t going well. And I had a calming effect on him. I think I fooled myself into thinking I was somehow helping. What would happen if I broke up with him? He was getting so erratic, I thought he might do something to Dad, or the business.”
“How did you find out about the gambling?”
“He started taking me to that café. At first I thought it was because it was cheap, but then one time I noticed that the room in the back that he was going into wasn’t a bathroom. I asked him about it and he tried to brush it off. But he was drinking and I kept pushing and his tongue loosened.” She laughed harshly. “He finally broke down and spilled the beans, bragging about how he’d just placed a huge bet on a basketball game and how the payoff would get him out of the mess he was in. I asked w
hat that meant, but he didn’t answer. Instead he went on about the bookie, saying things like ‘how would anyone even know that a bookie was running his business in the back of the restaurant?’ And he talked about how much money the guy must’ve been pulling in, thousands a night. I had to admit, it was kind of intriguing. Certainly nothing I’d ever seen or done. I asked him how he knew about the place and could anyone make a bet, but he laughed and said wouldn’t I like to know.” She shook her head. “Man, I was naïve.”
“Did he ever tell you?”
She nodded. “He made fun of the whole thing. ‘You go up to the guard at the door and say you want to see Bob’,” she said in a low voice, imitating Nick. “Then I guess they let you in and you place your bet with the bookie. And you better have the money. He stressed that, and when he did, I noticed the worry on his face. I asked him if he’d gotten in over his head and he told me to shut up. That pissed me off and I got up and left.”
She stopped for another bite and her hand trembled slightly.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
She didn’t answer for a moment. “That night was ugly.”
“Your father said that the team Nick bet on lost and Nick went crazy.”
“That’s what I told him.”
I cocked my head. “He didn’t go crazy?”
“Oh, he went crazy, yelling about how they were going to come after him. I tried to calm him down, but he wouldn’t listen. I offered to help and he insulted me, said I was only good for a lay. I blew my top and he attacked me, and he…he forced himself on me.”
I wasn’t expecting that. We sat in silence for a bit. She took the last bits of her sandwich and tossed them out for the pigeons to eat.
“I should’ve reported it, but I didn’t,” she finally said. “When he finished, I left. And I haven’t seen him since.”
“I’m sorry,” I said lamely.
She looked me in the eye. “My parents don’t know, and I want to keep it that way.”
Reed Ferguson Mystery series Box Set 2 Page 35