Name Withheld : A J.p. Beaumont Mystery (9780061760907)

by Jance, Judith A.

  The body tagged with a John Doe label around his toe did indeed turn out to be Don Wolf’s. A departed Don Wolf’s. But as I was to learn over the next few days, the man was hardly anybody’s dearly departed Don Wolf.

  He was dead, and it turned out that, with one notable exception, no one in the world seemed to be the least bit sorry.

  Four

  Every homicide case is different, and yet there are always similarities. One of the most difficult aspects of beginning an investigation involves notification of the next of kin. I didn’t know it then, but in the case of Don Wolf, it was going to be far more difficult than usual.

  Once Bill Whitten had provided the positive identification we needed, I continued to ask questions while giving him a lift back to D.G.I. headquarters. “You told me earlier that Don Wolf was married, and that the woman in the picture in his office is his wife.”

  “Some people are more married than others,” Whitten replied.

  I let that pass for the moment. “What did you say his wife’s name is? Elizabeth?”

  “No, Lizbeth. No E; no a.”

  “And she’s still down in California?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “You have phone numbers, addresses, that sort of thing?”

  “In his personnel file. I’ll have Deanna locate them for you as soon as we get back to the office.”

  “Were they having marital difficulties of some kind?”

  Whitten seemed to consider before he answered. “From what I could gather, she wasn’t exactly overjoyed at the prospect of moving to Seattle.”

  “Did he have any children?”

  “None that I know of. He and Lizbeth haven’t been married that long—only a matter of months. There could be kids somewhere from a previous marriage, but I wouldn’t know about that. Again, that might be in a personnel file as well, especially if the children were listed as beneficiaries under the group insurance policy.”

  “How much insurance?”

  “Two and a half times his annual salary. A quarter of a million, less some change.”

  “You paid him a hundred thousand a year, then?”

  Whitten nodded. “Salary plus.”

  “Plus what?”

  “A finder’s fee on the new investment dollars he brought in.”

  “If he was making that kind of money, there shouldn’t have been any financial difficulties. Were there any other problems?”

  Whitten gave me a sidelong glance. “You mean problems with anyone other than me?”

  “Look, Mr. Whitten, let’s don’t make this difficult. At this point, I don’t regard you as any more of a suspect than I do anyone else. If you’d like me to Mirandize you and let you have a lawyer present when we talk, I’d be happy to oblige. For right now, I’m just gathering general information.”

  By then, we had arrived back at the D.G.I. garage and pulled into a parking place. I opened the door to get out. When Bill Whitten made no move to exit the car, I settled back in my seat, closed the door, and waited. For almost a full minute, neither one of us moved or spoke. Whitten seemed to be pondering something important, and I didn’t want to rush him. Finally, he made up his mind.

  “I believe I already told you Don Wolf wasn’t a nice man,” he said.

  “You did mention something about it.”

  “Well, I wasn’t just blowing smoke,” Whitten said defensively. “I have proof.”

  “What kind of proof?”

  “My father was a pioneer in the in-store security business. He started his company—the company I started out with—back in the mid-forties, right after the war. In the economic boom that followed, shoplifting became a rising phenomenon. Stores that were large enough to pay the freight hired their own in-house detectives and security, but lots of companies were far too small to handle that kind of expense on a full-time basis. My dad’s company provided roving bands of detectives for hire who went from store to store on a needs-only basis.

  “In the sixties, as soon as the technology became available, Dad became a pioneer in installing in-ceiling or wall-mounted security systems. Later on, we branched out into scanners as well.”

  “Video cameras, you mean?” I asked.

  “Yes, among other things. My dad died of cancer a number of years ago. When I sold the whole thing off a couple of years ago, I made out like a bandit. So did my mother.”

  “Where’s all this family history lesson going, Mr. Whitten?”

  “D.G.I. is my baby,” he said. “I’m the one who started it. I’m the one who brought in the scientific expertise to do the research and who raised most of the money that built this building yet Don Wolf thought he could walk in here and take it away. Instead of just letting him have it, I decided to fight him with all the tools at my disposal.”

  “So?” I asked, although I had a reasonably good idea of where Bill’s seemingly rambling tale would end up. “Are we talking employee surveillance here?”

  Whitten nodded. “It’s the same kind of system we had in our old corporate headquarters before we sold it off. This one is newer, of course. More bells and whistles. There’s a hidden camera and microphone in every office,” he explained. “I don’t necessarily use all of them all the time. Some of them, the ones at the front of the building and in the garage and elevators, are on twenty-four hours a day. Others I only activate from time to time.”

  “On a needs-only basis?” I suggested. “Sort of like your father’s traveling detectives?”

  Bill Whitten grinned for the first time all day. “There is a certain similarity,” he said. “Within a week of Don Wolf’s showing up here, I had already figured out his game and turned on the camera in his office. I figured that sooner or later I’d come up with something that would make it possible for me to nail that bastard’s ass.”

  Compared to the worlds of commerce and science, Seattle P.D.’s little interdepartmental rivalries seemed almost commonplace.

  “In the old days at our old company, my dad went over the tapes personally,” Whitten continued. “Here at D.G.I., so did I. Lately, though, I’ve been so overbooked that Deanna sometimes comes in on weekends and goes over the tapes for me. If there’s something she thinks I need to know about, she brings it to my attention.”

  I must have looked slightly askance at that arrangement. “Deanna Compton is a trusted employee,” Bill Whitten assured me. “She’s one of the handful who made the switch to D.G.I. from my father’s old security company. Deanna is like me. She’s been an employee here since almost before there was a here, since before D.G.I. was a gleam in my eye.”

  “You’re telling me that when Mrs. Compton scanned through the tapes she found something then? Something incriminating?”

  Bill Whitten paused for so long before he answered that I was afraid he was going to stop talking altogether.

  “Yes,” he said quietly.

  At that point, I knew better than to push. Again, I shut up and waited him out. “She usually does that on weekends,” he continued finally. “This week, she came in on Saturday afternoon. She called me as soon as she saw it. I came down and took a look right away. In view of what’s happened, I can’t help thinking that I should have done something differently, but at the time, I was only thinking of my own hide. I had already found out that he was going to make his move on me this week, at the board-of-directors’ meeting on Wednesday afternoon.

  “Once I saw the tape, I thought I could get him to back down. That’s when I called him and set a private get-together for yesterday, to see if I couldn’t get him to listen to reason.”

  “It sounds to me a little like blackmail,” I said.

  Whitten eyed me shrewdly. “I’d rather say I found a solution that I thought would work out best for all concerned. He wouldn’t get me axed, and I wouldn’t turn him in to the cops. That way, D.G.I. wouldn’t end up being taken to the cleaners by all kinds of bad publicity.”

  “So what’s on the tape?” I asked.

  “Don Wolf brou
ght a girl here, Detective Beaumont,” Whitten said.

  “A girl?” I asked. “What girl? When?”

  “I don’t know what girl. And it was earlier last week. Wednesday night and Thursday morning, according to the time stamp on the tape.”

  Lots of people bring friends and relations into their offices during nonworking hours. They do it to show off, I suppose. To let their families and loved ones know a little more about what their work environment is like. The fact that Wolf was with another woman when he still had a wife down in California was another issue, but not all that unusual. What I couldn’t quite understand was why Bill Whitten found the idea of an in-office assignation so disturbing.

  “That doesn’t sound like such a big deal to me,” I said. “It reminds me of that day last spring when people all over the country were supposed to bring their daughters along to work. For that one day, Seattle P.D. was crawling with little girls, all of whom want to be detectives when they grow up.”

  “Believe me, Detective Beaumont, it wasn’t anything at all like that,” Bill Whitten said.

  “What was it, then? And what does all this have to do with the price of peanuts? You saw the girl?”

  “Yes,” Whitten answered. “But not in person. Only on tape.”

  “Is she anyone you recognize?” I asked. “One of your employees?”

  Whitten shook his head. “No. Relationships between employees are officially discouraged.”

  “You said you’d never met Lizbeth Wolf. Is it possible it was her? After all, it was a holiday. Maybe she came up from California for a visit.”

  Bill Whitten shook his head. “Come on,” he said, opening the door. “I’ll show you.”

  He heaved his heavy frame off the car seat. Then, walking briskly, he led me to the elevator. In the sixth-floor reception area, he stopped directly in front of Deanna Compton’s desk.

  “Don Wolf is dead,” he announced brusquely. “Detective Beaumont here is handling the investigation. You’re to give him access to whatever he needs—personnel records, carbons of phone messages, anything at all.”

  Deanna Compton did a sharp intake of breath. Under a heavy layer of blush, her cheeks paled, but she never lost control. “Of course, Mr. Whitten,” she said without any other crack appearing in her coolly competent exterior.

  “And we’ll need to see those tapes from the other night, both the one from Don’s office and the other one from the front entrance. Let’s do the elevator tape as well. Bring them to my office right away. We’ll watch them in there. Hold all my calls, and tell people I may not be able to get back to them before tomorrow.”

  Nodding, Deanna stood up and started away from her desk. Then she stopped. “What about his wife, Mr. Whitten? Does she know? Do you want me to call her?”

  Bill Whitten looked questioningly at me.

  I shook my head. “No,” I said. “This kind of news shouldn’t be delivered by a disembodied voice over the telephone. It’s always better to have someone do it in person. I’ll contact someone in law enforcement down in La Jolla. They’ll dispatch an officer to speak to her and give her the news.”

  “Oh,” Deanna Compton said, “I see.”

  “And in the meantime,” I added, “it would probably be better if you didn’t tell anyone else. Otherwise, we’ll end up with dozens of people calling up the wife before anyone has time to deliver the news officially.”

  “I understand perfectly,” Deanna Compton said. “I won’t tell a soul until you give me permission. And I’ll go get those tapes. It’ll take a few minutes because I locked them in the vault downstairs for safekeeping.”

  Bill Whitten showed me into an office that was outfitted with the same kind of blond wood furnishings that had been in the conference room. Whitten’s private office was located on the same side of the building as the conference room. As befitted the boss, his window boasted an unobscured view of the snowcapped Olympics.

  Offering me a chair by the window, Whitten busied himself with a computer keyboard and mouse located on the credenza behind his desk. When it came to electronics wizardry, he was no slouch. Using a series of computer-generated commands, he closed the blinds, turned off the lights, and brought a twenty-seven-inch television console rolling out from behind the sliding doors on a wall-mounted media cabinet. Once Deanna Compton delivered the tapes and left the room, he used another command to click shut the lock on his office door.

  In the old days, that kind of technical display would have provoked me to astonishment, but Ralph Ames, my attorney, has seen to it that my apartment is equipped with the latest in exotic home security and control systems. Mine not only tells me the usual stuff about whether or not the place is on fire or if someone has broken in, it can also do other homey little tasks like opening and closing the blinds at set times and under set conditions. In the mornings, it automatically grinds and starts my first cup of coffee. As long as I remember to load in the beans and water the night before, my morning shot of SBC java can be waiting for me as soon as I open my eyes and crawl out of bed. It’s an efficient system, as long as I remember to turn the damned thing on.

  After studying the labels, Whitten selected one of the three tapes Deanna Compton had delivered, and inserted it into the VCR. Then, for several long seconds, the man’s expert fingers flew over the keyboard and mouse, turning on the VCR, fast-forwarding the tape to the exact place he wanted.

  My first view of what turned out to be Don Wolf’s office was one that remained static and shrouded in darkness for some time. It looked more like a still photo as opposed to television’s usual moving images. Careful examination revealed the shadowy interior of an unoccupied office. In the lower left-hand corner of the screen, a digital readout relayed the word PAUSE.

  “All the offices and labs are equipped with sound and motion detectors,” Whitten was explaining. “They deliver a combination of time-lapse and video images. The lights come on automatically when someone enters any room in the building, and they go off two minutes after the room is vacated. The video scanners, when activated, work much the same way. As you can imagine, with a building this size, trying to watch everything would be a physical impossibility. That’s why we do spot checks here and there.”

  “Sort of the way the IRS does audits.”

  Whitten nodded then continued with his guided tour. “The video equipment is very compact—about the size of a pack of cigarettes. There’s an individual unit concealed in every room’s thermostat panel. The images captured by the various cameras are transported via fiber optics to a panel of video recorders.”

  Just as Whitten stopped speaking, the image of Don Wolf’s office, visible on the television monitor, came to life. Overhead lights flashed on, bathing the office in fluorescent illumination. The constant PAUSE sign in the lower left-hand corner of the screen changed abruptly to reflect a date and time: DECEMBER 27, 11:47:34 P.M.

  For the first second or two, no one was visible, but I heard a hoot of girlish laughter.

  “Still, I feel funny about this,” the voice of a young-sounding woman said as the giggle subsided. “Like we shouldn’t be here. You’re sure alarms aren’t sounding somewhere?”

  “I’m sure,” a man answered who was, presumably, Don Wolf. “After all, Latty, this is my office. Who’s going to object?”

  Latty. What kind of name is that? I wondered.

  “Besides, if I weren’t allowed to be here during off hours, I wouldn’t have the security code, now would I?” Wolf continued. He was in full view now, and I could see that Don Wolf and my dead floater were indeed one and the same.

  “It’ll only take a few minutes,” he was saying. “I just want to show you how the downtown skyline looks from the desk in my office. It’s very romantic. Want some more champagne?”

  There was another—slightly tipsy—giggle. “I shouldn’t. And, Donnie, you shouldn’t either. Remember, you still have to drive me home.”

  “Other than Mrs. Compton, do any of your other employees know
about this camera system of yours?” I asked, while the man I assumed to be Don Wolf made a big production of putting down his own champagne glass and taking the young woman’s. Smiling up at him, she watched while he filled it. Observing the whole thing on tape, I revised my original “slightly” tipsy up to very.

  “Mrs. Compton and I are the only ones who need to know,” Bill Whitten answered. As he spoke, his voice took on such a peculiar huskiness that I couldn’t help looking at him. He was leaning forward in his chair, watching the screen with such all-consuming intensity that I pretty well guessed what was coming.

  I’ve been a cop for a long time. As I turned back to the screen, I more than half expected the woman Whitten had referred to as a “girl” to be some pint-size, preteen hooker plying a traveling, desktop version of the world’s oldest profession.

  What I saw on the screen instead was an eye-catching blonde, probably in her early twenties. A shapely Marilyn Monroe look-alike, Latty dressed the part in a low-cut, tight-fitting white dress and improbably high heels. As Don Wolf filled her champagne glass, she suddenly yelped and jumped back when a drop of carelessly poured bubbly spilled from the rim of the bottle, landed on bare skin, and then dribbled down the curve of her ample cleavage.

  “Oops,” Don Wolf said, noticing the spill. “Let me get that for you.”

  He leaned close to her. With a quick flick of his tongue, he licked away the errant drop and then nuzzled his face in her bosom. The girl giggled and moved back farther away from him, waggling a reproving finger.

  “Come on now, Donnie,” she said. “Don’t start. You know that’s not nice.”

  “How can you say such a thing?” he grinned. “It seems very nice to me.”

  While she smiled and sipped her champagne, a still-grinning Don Wolf stripped off his jacket and tie and dropped them on the desk. Then he picked up his own glass and filled that one as well. Once both glasses were brimming, he took Latty’s free hand in his and pulled her toward him.

  “A toast,” he said, “to my lovely Latty. You make me feel like the luckiest guy in the whole world.”