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 much like interrogating my own mother. I wondered how else I could verify that he
“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 much like interrogating my own mother. I wondered how else I could verify that he
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