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
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
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