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
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
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