by J. A. Jance
It seemed much longer.
Five
My collar was too tight. There wasn't enough air to breathe in Bill Whitten's darkened office. "Damn!" I said. "What a good-for-nothing shit!"
"Pretty rough, isn't it," Whitten said.
I had seen worse, but still…"Is that it?" I asked.
Whitten shook his head. "No, wait."
"You mean there's more?"
Back on the screen, Latty was sobbing and struggling to sit up. "I'm going to leave now," she gasped. Her lower lip was bleeding and starting to swell.
"Oh, my God, Latty," Don Wolf said, as though waking from a stupor at the sight of the blood. "What have I done?"
He reached out one hand as if to help her. She cringed away from him. "Don't touch me," she screeched. "Get away."
"But, baby," he whined. "Please. I never meant to hurt you, I swear. I just got carried away and-"
"Shut up!" she hissed furiously. "I'm going to walk out of here and you're not going to stop me."
"Latty, I can't believe I did this to you. I'm sorry, so sorry. Please don't go. Please say you'll forgive me."
"I'm going to walk out," Latty continued, as if he hadn't said a word. She stumbled to her feet. When she did so, her torn dress fell away from her body. She grabbed the frayed edges of material and tried to hold them together. Swaying unsteadily on her feet, she finally located her shoes and slipped them on. Then she reached out, snagged Don Wolf's jacket off the desk, and wrapped it around her shoulders. I could see the reflexive chattering of her teeth, but somehow, she wasn't crying any longer. In fact, considering what had just happened, she seemed astoundingly calm. And cold sober.
By then, Don Wolf had moved across the room so he was standing between her and the door; between her and the lens of the camera as well. He was tucking in his shirt, zipping his pants.
"Don't go, Latty. Not like this."
"Call me a cab," she returned doggedly.
"I'll take you home, Latty. I promise I won't touch you again. Honest."
He moved toward her, but she recoiled, stopping only when the desk was safely interposed between them.
"I told you, don't touch me! Don't you ever come near me again!" she commanded. "Call a cab."
Shrugging, he picked up the phone and punched out a number from memory. "My name's Don Wolf," he said. "I need a cab at thirty-three hundred Western." He waited for a moment, listening. "That's right," he said. "It's an office building, not an apartment. Just pull up by the front door. We'll be waiting in the lobby."
He put down the phone. "The cab should be here within fifteen minutes."
"I'll be waiting in the lobby," Latty corrected, struggling to keep her voice under control. "You stay right here until after I've gone."
"But Latty," he objected, "I-"
"Just shut up!" she seethed. "Don't you say another word. I never want to hear your voice again, not ever!"
"But I have to ride downstairs with you," Don wheedled, sounding both apologetic and conciliatory. "The elevator is locked. You need me to run the keypad."
Sometimes, in situations like that, in the minutes after something awful happens, anger is the only force capable of holding hysterics at bay. Or maybe anger is just another form of hysterics-one that allows people to function for a time before they fall apart. I wondered how long Latty's anger would carry her.
Wolf stepped aside, clearing a path to the office door. Latty stood leaning against the desk, seeming to gather strength even as she clutched Don Wolf's oversized jacket closed around her. Finally, she straightened and lurched toward the door. I know it was only an illusion of camera placement, but for a disconcerting second as she moved forward, she seemed to be looking directly into my eyes. The girl on the screen was a pale ghost of the one who had entered laughing minutes before. In the course of those few brutal minutes, something in Latty's carefree spirit had been shattered, possibly forever. Her face was frozen into a hollow mask; her eyes, empty. The desolation written there almost broke my heart.
Just inside the door she paused and moved to one side. "If you have to run the elevator, you go first. But if you touch me again, I swear to God I'll kill you."
"I won't," Don Wolf agreed instantly. "Not ever. I promise."
He moved toward the door as well, buckling his belt as he walked. He stopped just within camera range and turned to look around the room. Maybe he was checking to see if anything was out of place. Nothing was. When he turned back to the doorway, there was the damnedest smirk on his face. The son of a bitch looked as though he was proud of himself.
That single passing glimpse, captured for all time on Bill Whitten's hidden camera, made me want to puke. As a homicide cop, I'm haunted by murder victims. Finding the killers and bringing them to justice becomes a holy crusade. Right then, however, with Don Wolf's smirk still lingering in the air, I had the sense that justice had already been served. Someone had taken care of Don Wolf. In the process, his killer had saved the state of Washington a considerable amount of time, trouble, and expense.
"I told you he wasn't a nice guy," Bill Whitten said.
Bill Whitten was obviously a master in the art of understatement. The security system on screen switched off the light. Shadowy darkness returned to the screen, everywhere but
in the caption box in the bottom left-hand corner. There the stark white letters read: DECEMBER 28, 12:04:20 A.M.
Whitten switched off the VCR. "So do you want a copy or not?" he asked.
Unaware that I had been holding my breath, I let it out. I may have been short on motivation for finding Wolf's killer, but my duty was nonetheless clear. "Yes," I said.
From an evidence standpoint, the tape meant nothing. In order for a recording to stand up in a court of law, at least one of the people being recorded must have given permission. Otherwise, the recording constitutes an illegal wiretap, information from which is generally inadmissible. I was relatively sure neither Don Wolf nor Latty had any knowledge as to the camera's existence, so neither of them could be deemed to have given consent.
Right at that moment, however, I was looking for probable cause rather than a conviction. In showing probable cause, the rules are a little less stringent.
"You'll most likely want to see these other two tapes as well," Whitten added, jerking his head in the direction of the other two plastic holders Deanna Compton had placed on his desk. "I'll have those copied at the same time."
"What are they? Don't tell me he did it again," I said.
Bill Whitten shook his head. "I figured you'd want to see them just for the sake of completeness," he replied. "One is from the ride down in the elevator. The other is from the cameras stationed outside the front entrance of the building. He sent her home in a Yellow Cab, by the way."
"What about New Year's Eve? Was he working that night?"
"He was for a while, up until around eleven."
"Doing what?" I asked.
"Who knows?" Whitten shrugged. "Getting ready to chop me off at the knees, I imagine."
In response to Bill Whitten's keyboard commands, the TV monitor slid back into the cabinet, the doors in front of it closed, and the blinds opened, filling the room with the unexpected light of watery, midwinter sunshine. Watching this process I remembered what Whitten had said to me earlier, in the car, about him being a prime suspect.
"Is there any truth in Don Wolf's charges?" I asked. "That you were diverting funds?"
Whitten's somber gaze met mine across a vast expanse of polished desk. "There are diversions and then there are diversions," he said.
"In the event of an independent audit of the company books, do you think you'd be exonerated?"
"That depends on the CPA," Whitten answered casually, but not quite casually enough. Something in the way he looked at me-the tiniest flicker of an eyelid perhaps, put me on edge and on point. Before I could say anything further, however, he reached out and tapped the keyboard once more, unlocking the door to his office. He immediately pushed
a button on his phone.
"Yes, Mr. Whitten?"
"Deanna, I need you to make copies of these three tapes for Detective Beaumont. He'll need them as soon as possible."
"I may not be able to do that until after lunch," she said.
Whitten glanced at me. "Do you want to wait?" he asked. "Or would you rather have them delivered later on today?"
I checked my watch. The morning was already almost gone, and I had barely made a start. "It might be better to have them delivered."
Whitten spoke back into the intercom. "Whenever you get around to it will be fine," he said. Then he turned his attention on me. "I suppose you'll need to see both his apartment and his car, won't you?"
"Yes, but-"
He punched the intercom again. "Deanna, you'll also need to call the manager over at Lake View. Even though you can't tell Jack Braman what's happening, you can let him know that Detective Beaumont will be stopping by. Jack should let him into the apartment. We'll fax written permission if he needs it. And call the dealer on the car lease and see if he can make arrangements for a duplicate key on Don's Intrepid."
"Right away," Deanna answered.
"Why is it you have access to Don Wolf's apartment?" I asked.
"D.G.I. owns it," Whitten replied. "Don leased it from the company temporarily in order to facilitate his move up from California. Lake View is on Lake Union, just south of the Fremont Bridge. Do you know where that is?"
"I can find it. Now about these tapes…"
"Yes?"
"If the taping was done without consent, and if word about them gets out, you could end up having an invasion-of-privacy problem on your hands."
"With the girl?"
"Possibly."
Whitten shrugged. "I guess we'll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it. I look at it this way: With Don Wolf dead, sooner or later you'd come looking for me because of what was going on between the two of us. If nothing else, the tape shows that I'm not the only one who had a problem with good ol' Mr. Don Wolf. I may be a good solid suspect, but at least I'm not the only one."
I did my job then-the job I'm paid to do. Even though my motivation was lacking, even though Don Wolf wasn't a prince among men, I was still obligated to investigate his murder. As I pulled out my low-tech notebook and pencil, I glanced back over my shoulder toward what I was sure was a dummy thermostat near the door.
"Are we being taped?" I asked.
Whitten grinned. "We could be if you want to be."
"No, thanks," I said. "I'll pass."
I spent the next hour asking Bill Whitten all the customary questions: about where Don Wolf had come from prior to joining D.G.I.; about how long he had been there; and about exactly what were his duties and responsibilities. As Whitten and I talked, there was one thing I couldn't quite understand, one thing that didn't really add up. Bill Whitten was the founder of D.G.I. Everything I had seen and heard led me to think he was the brains behind the whole operation. Why, then, would he have been so spooked by the arrival of Don Wolf, a Johnny-come-lately?
The only thing I could figure was that there must have been some merit to Don Wolf's charges of fiscal irresponsibility. Diversions, as Whitten had called them. And if a company-owned condo on Lake Union was part of D.G.I.'s "research" holdings, then the late and unlamented Don Wolf may have had a point. But rather than bearding the lion in his den, I made up my mind to check with Audrey Cummings. Since she had obviously known the man on sight, she might also know some of the side issues that would help me
make sense of what was going on with D.G.I.
When I had dredged everything I could out of Bill Whitten, I left his office and stopped by Deanna Compton's desk, where she had evidently handled everything.
"The tapes still aren't ready," she said. "The car dealer is sending a messenger over with a key, and the manager at Lake View is expecting you to drop by a little later. Just buzz the manager's number, and he'll let you in. Now, is there anything else?"
"The wife's address and phone numbers?"
"Oh, of course. Here they are. You'll let us know when you reach her? If she's coming up to Seattle, she may need help with hotel or travel arrangements, that kind of thing."
"Yes, Mrs. Compton. As soon as I reach her, I'll let you know."
"And when the tapes are ready, they should be sent where?"
I handed her one of my cards. "The Public Safety Building," I said. "Homicide's on the fifth floor."
As I rode down in the plushly upholstered elevator, I remembered what Bill Whitten had said: "There are diversions, and there are diversions." What had he meant by that? Did this building qualify? In order to do cutting-edge cancer research, was it really necessary to have a padded elevator? Or a condo on Lake Union? Don Wolf may have been a first-class bastard, but I wondered if perhaps he had been right when it came to Bill Whitten's financial management of Designer Genes International.
Down in the garage, I peered in the windows of Don Wolf's compulsively clean Intrepid. Not a piece of paper, not a single latte cup littered the spotless interior, nor was there a single fleck of mud on the outside. Over the years, I've learned to distrust people who keep either their vehicles or their desks too pristinely clean. Don Wolf was dead, but he was clearly just another case in point.
Wanting to learn more about Bill Whitten, I called the M.E.'s office at Harborview and asked to speak to Audrey Cummings. "Come on, Beau," she objected when I told her what I wanted. "Can't this wait? I was just running out to catch some lunch. I have to be in court by two."
"Where are you going to lunch? Maybe I can meet you there."
"Sure," she said. "Meet me at the Gravity Bar. It's probably not your kind of place. Do you know where it is?"
Audrey Cummings is a strict vegetarian. In the course of communications between someone like her and a devoted junk food junkie like me, the word lunch inevitably suffers in translation. The Gravity Bar is a juice bar located between First and Second on Virginia. I've been there once or twice with Ron Peters, and Audrey was absolutely right. It's not my kind of joint. Carrots may be fine for rabbits, but when it comes to drinking the damned things, I draw the line.
"I know where it is," I said.
"Good. Meet me there in fifteen minutes."
I did. Perched on futuristic metal furniture that looked as if it had been liberated from the set of Blade Runner, I sipped a chewy glass of pulpy, freshly squeezed orange juice while Audrey ate her avocado, sprouts, and tomato croissant and downed two huge glasses of carrot juice.
"So tell me about Bill Whitten," I said as she munched away.
"What about him?"
"Whatever you can tell me."
"Smart man," Audrey replied without hesitation. "Dedicated. Overbearing. Egotistical. Well connected. Long on drive, but short on science. I guess that about covers it."
"He's not a trained biotech researcher?" I asked.
"No, but enough money can rent a whole lot of talent."
"And Whitten has that much money?"
Audrey frowned before she answered. "Earlier this year I heard a rumor that D.G.I. might be in trouble, but nothing really solid."
"Where do you know him from?"
Audrey laughed. "Mostly from cancer charity functions, the auction circuit, that kind of thing. I'm sure you know the drill." The laughter died and her brow furrowed. "You're not thinking Bill Whitten had anything to do with Don Wolf's murder, are you?"
"He told me so himself," I answered. "Said he might just as well because I was sure to figure it out myself eventually. I believe the term he used was prime suspect. What do you think?"
Long before I finished asking the question, Audrey Cummings was already shaking her head in an emphatic no. "I don't think so," she said.
"Why not?"
"Did he tell you about his father?"
"He said something about him dying of cancer, I believe. Something about that leading him to what he's doing now, to being involved in cancer research."
"Gordon Whitten had cancer," Audrey told me. "But he didn't die of it."
"What did he die of then?" I asked.
"He committed suicide," she said. "He went down to Mexico for some kind of oddball alternative treatment. When that didn't work, he killed himself. Blew his brains out. Believe me, if Bill Whitten was going to knock off Don Wolf, he wouldn't have done it with a bullet to the back of the head. Never. Not in a million years."
And put that way, I have to admit, Audrey Cummings' theory made a lot of sense. What it sure as hell didn't do was make my job any easier.
A few minutes later, when she had to rush off to her court appearance, I headed north to the Fremont district to take a look at Don Wolf's condo. A message taped to the security phone at the Lake View Condos announced that the manager had been called away and would return in a few minutes.
Retreating to my car, I pulled out my laptop and made a start at translating my notepad notes into a form the brass at Seattle P.D. deem acceptable. I still don't know what I did wrong, but smack in the middle of writing a paragraph, the damn cursor quit. It got stuck halfway through the words Designer Genes and wouldn't budge. A little box appeared in the
middle of the screen. GENERAL PROTECTION FAULT, I think it said, or words to that effect. YOU MUST SAVE YOUR WORK OR YOU WILL LOSE IT.
Which, of course, was a lie. The cursor was stuck. I couldn't have saved my work if my life had depended on it.
In over twenty years of being a cop, the words GENERAL PROTECTION FAULT have never once popped up in the pages of my never-ending series of dog-eared little notebooks. They never have, and they never will. Which is why, slick though they may be, computers will never altogether replace pencil and paper.
And they won't replace detectives, either.
Six
Jack Braman, the Lake View Condo's surprisingly youthful manager, returned eventually. He was short, round, and effusively helpful. When I clued him in as to what was going on, he was suitably distressed. With keys jangling nervously on a heavy key ring, he led me to the elevator of the five-story complex.