CHAPTER FOUR

Haddie pulled her soft tail Fat Boy into the last parking space beside a white Durango. Her engine echoed in the alley after she turned it off. She’d slammed through the notes and gotten them off to Andrea with plenty of time to catch Mark’s secretary, Jasmine, before she closed for lunch. Haddie’s class didn’t start until 2:15pm.

She’d parked behind Mark’s office, a one-story brick structure on a downtown corner. Two alleys divided the block into quarters with four buildings. Half a block from where the victim’s car had burned, a three-story brick building stood across the alley behind the victim’s office. A brick and concrete parking garage rose equally as high beside it, catty-corner to the mortgage company’s parking lot. Taking her helmet off, she faced the fading and peeling one-story repair shop beside Mark’s office. The smell of grease and petroleum competed with urine and garbage from the alley.

She tucked her helmet, leather gloves, and jacket into a saddlebag and took out her pad of paper. Pulling out her hair tie, she smoothed her hair from the ride and tied it again. It needed a good brushing, but she didn’t have time. Haddie tried to smooth out some of the wrinkles in her jacket suit. She would have driven the RAV4 if she’d known she’d be going out on an interview.

Clutching her yellow pad and pen, Haddie stepped over a curb into the concrete alley. The east section had been barricaded with two cones at her end, and orange barriers and tape guarded a blackened splotch at the exit to the next street. To the left of the singed ground, the second to the last concrete pillar of the parking garage had black smoke trails sprayed across it. Paint peeled off the blue and white repair shop to the right, but its walls showed no sign of fire.

A one-way alley. She would check it out after the interview. She gave a cursory search for cameras, noted that the closest was at the drive-through, but that only covered the mortgage company parking lot.

The building housed a credit union and a couple offices tucked inside, including Mark Colman Mortgage Company, clearly labeled on the glass door along with two others. Inside smelled of mold, like the carpet had gotten wet at some point. The second door on the left had the victim’s company name lettered in gold and silver. How long would it stay open after the owner had died? The door, unlocked, squeaked when she opened it.

Jasmine looked up from her phone, her dark brown face smoothing into a pleasant smile. “Are you Hadhira?”

“I am, thank you for taking some time to meet with me, Jasmine.” Haddie raised her eyebrows and pointed to one of the chairs opposite the gray desk.

With walls of dark green like the color of a frog, the room had little space for even the office equipment and two guests. The monitor and keyboard occupied most of the four feet of desk space. Behind the secretary, two short, black file cabinets held a printer, an empty coffee pot, assorted sugar packets, and cheap creamer. An open door beside the cabinets led back to a windowed office where the natural light helped fight the gloom of the dark room. How did Jasmine sit in here all day? The air smelled of light perfume and some breakfast sausage.

Jasmine had a round face and black hair that curled out in a thick frame. She wore a light blue blouse unbuttoned over a darker blue tank, nearly the color of jeans. “You’re going to help Mel?” The tone was helpful, cheerful.

Haddie nodded. “The firm is representing her.”

“Good. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I don’t think he was right sneaking around on his wife, and the woman should’ve known better, but she’s a sweet thing. Don’t deserve the police running over her like that.” Jasmine lightly touched her hair, testing springy curls. Even over the phone, there had been no sense of condemnation of the victim’s girlfriend.

Haddie had expected the affair to be more inconspicuous. “Did Mel often come here, to the office?”

Jasmine shook her head. “Nah, a few times. Mr. Colman tried to keep it a secret. He’d get all flustered and tell me some story about how she was running over papers from another company. He don’t know we sat nearly two hours one afternoon when he run late getting back to the office. I dug it all out of her.”

“Does he work late?” Might as well get right to the point of it.

“Not usually. Some days, he’ll dip out at lunch and never come back. I deal with everybody, few that there is. ’Til four if he don’t show. Sometimes I work ’til six, if someone’s coming in. I’ll take the overtime. Normally four though. This week’s been ’til four on the dot. Lunch at noon.” Jasmine checked her phone, possibly for the time.

“The night that Mr. Colman died, did you stay late?”

“Nope. Got home on time. And Mel didn’t show nor call, that I know of, that day.” She smiled, white teeth framed in red lipstick. “Sorry. Same questions the police asked.”

So, if Mark Colman had any late night clients the night of his murder, he didn’t include Jasmine. Possibly, he just made up the excuse to keep from seeing Mel. The fight hadn’t seemed that bad. Mel had been a bit dramatic about it, but it could have been little more than a spat. Or, maybe the client had been the killer. “Anybody else show up that day that you didn’t expect? Mrs. Colman?”

“She come by the day after — I’d just found out about — the death. First time I’d ever met her. She just took some papers, told me her son was coming in from the east to run the business, and left. I didn’t get that she liked me, so I’ve been running my résumé around.” Jasmine leaned onto the desk with one elbow. “Your firm hiring?”

“I don’t think so, but don’t let that stop you.” Haddie smiled. “I’d recommend you.”

Haddie’s phone vibrated in her jacket pocket, she pulled it out, and her friend Liz’s text flashed at the top. “HELP!” All caps and an exclamation point — really? It could be anything from needing a pen to needing a ride.

Jasmine leaned back and pulled open a drawer, then slid a three-page résumé across that table. “Tell your boss I show up, rain or shine.”

Haddie spent until 11:45 going through her questions with Jasmine. There didn’t seem to be anything unusual going on, except an affair and murder. The business didn’t look too busy, and Jasmine did a lot of the actual work. Whoever the mystery client was, maybe they’d show up on the drive-through camera. Or, it could have been his way of blowing off Mel.

Getting up to walk out, Haddie noticed the alarm pad flashing an error. “Problems?” she asked, pointing to the display.

“Been like that. Mr. Colman usually gets his guy out here to fix it, but Mrs. Colman said not to worry about it. Her son would deal with it.” Jasmine pulled her lipstick from her purse.

“When did this start?”

“It was like that the morning after Mr. Colman died. Happens every now and then. Some sort of short in the wiring.” Jasmine used the camera in her phone as a mirror. “Nothing much here anyone would want.”

“Good luck, Jasmine.”

The woman paused, offering a wide smile, and pointed toward the résumé tucked in Haddie’s pad. “Rain or shine!”

Once in the hall, Haddie started to dial Liz and wrinkled her nose at the odor. There had been water damage somewhere. They should check for mold.

A sharp dressed man in a black business suit stepped from the door ahead. Short, almost military cut, light brown hair and a slight stubble along a solid jaw made him look somewhat handsome in a blue-eyed, thirtyish way. “Good day.” He motioned her ahead of him in the hall. “Please.” The polite British accent rolled out and he became dashing in an instant.

Haddie hung up on Liz mid-ring. “Thank you.” She took a deep breath, having forgotten the mold. She paused just ahead of him, before she spun. “Is this your office?”

He was about to lock the door. With a charming smile he held up his keys. “It is. Can I help you?” Purplish blotches covered the back of his hands, between fingers and even on fingertips.

Haddie raised her eyebrows. “Actually — yes. I was wondering if you knew the deceased, Mark Colman?” The sign on the door said “Kupatal Imports.”

He turned down and continued locking the door. There was even a reddish-purple blotch at the back of his neck by the white collar. “In passing. Bad bit of news that is.” He finished, dropped his keys in his jacket pocket, and left his hand tucked out of view. Maybe embarrassed. “I’m Harold Holmes, and you are?”

“Hadhira Dawson, I’m working with the Andrea Simmons Law Firm.” She took in another deep breath of the foul corridor and wished she’d waited until she was outside to corner him. There seemed only one way out of the building.

“I do wish I could help. We talked no more that you and I have, and on rare occasion at that. He seemed a sound fellow.” Harold Holmes dropped his eyebrows down, darkening his eyes and smiling deeper. Despite being an inch or two shorter, he gave no sense that he’d been intimidated by her height. “I’m sure you’ll do the miss good.”

Miss? Did he know of Mel?

Haddie’s phone rang. Liz. She hit ignore. “Did you know a Mel Schaffer?”

“Blondie? Is that her name?” He made a sly smile and shrugged. “I didn’t ask about their business, or her name, but she seemed polite. Not as confident as yourself.”

Perhaps too much of a charmer. So, he wasn’t assuming she worked for Mel. Who did he think the firm represented? Harold’s information added little to Jasmine’s interview, but the affair certainly didn’t seem to be much of a secret. The police had probably gathered as much. Sarah Colman likely had known.

Liz rang again. Haddie moved to answer, but asked one last question, “When was the last time you saw Ms. Schaffer here?”

He looked up toward the ceiling and pouted. “A couple weeks, can’t say exactly.”

Haddie hit answer and nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.” She opened the door to the parking lot and the less obnoxious city air.

Background noise filled the phone. “Haddie, thank the heavens, can you help?” Liz asked.

Two hours until class. “What’s up?”

Mr. Holmes passed with a nod, making for a red Porsche Cayman that had not been in the parking lot when she’d arrived. His business seemed to be doing better than poor Mr. Colman’s.

“Damn car. I got off I5 at Franklin and it died before I got off the ramp. I was getting ready to walk.” Liz sounded stressed. She held it well, but they’d known each other for three years.

Haddie stood near the building, phone to her ear, when the door to the building opened again. “Don’t walk. I’m close.”

A tall man, possibly in his thirties, walked out of the building. Clean shaved, he glanced over in surprise, then offered a broad smile and nod as he passed. Thin, he wore a light-blue polo shirt that fit tight across the chest and arms.

“Liz, wait a sec.” Haddie swallowed, calling after the man. “Excuse me, do you work here?”

He paused and turned just a step away from her. Bright dark eyes, he furrowed his eyebrows in a pleasant, questioning expression. He might have been an inch taller than her.

“My name’s Hadhira Dawson, I work for Andrea Simmons Law Firm. Did you by any chance know the deceased Mark Colman?”

He shook his head. “David Crowley. I’ve got a client here. I hadn’t realized someone died here.” His smile lessened, and he tilted his head slightly.

She hadn’t meant to concern him. “No, not here. Down the alley.” She gestured in the general direction. Close by, but not here. Nice Haddie.

David nodded and smiled. “Sorry, I didn’t know him.”

“Thanks.” Haddie returned the smile, and he continued on to his car, a white Toyota Cambry Hybrid. A solid sedan.

Haddie strode toward her bike, clipping her pen to her pad. Liz drove a 2008 Avenger that seemed intent on dying this year. This was the third time it had come up with something odd.

She unlocked her saddlebag, peeking down the alley. Her curiosity would have to wait. “You’ve got plenty of gas?”

“Engine challenged — not idiot. I know which gauge that is.” A car roared in the background past Liz, muffling anything she said afterward.

“Is it getting fuel?”

“I tried to find out. I stared at the hood. Really — mean — like.”

Haddie slipped on her helmet, smiling. “Okay, I’ll be there in ten.” Westbound, she’d have to go to Glenwood. “Fifteen.”

Liz paused for a moment. “Take your time. A nice axe-murderer in what used to be a white pickup just pulled up to help. Remember, I want to be cremated.”

“Ten, dammit.” Liz fired up her Fat Boy.