J. Jance - Name Witheld

"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."

After a brief sip, he drew her along with him toward the window. "Allow me to show you my million-dollar view."

She giggled. "You've already shown me your view. We were here last Sunday afternoon, remember?"

"Maybe so," he replied, "but it's so much better at night. Come on."

The move toward the window took them off at an angle and outside camera range. For a moment, the tape was quiet while neither Don Wolf nor the girl made a sound.

"Notice anything different about the room?" Bill Whitten asked.

With people out of the picture, the view of the room was essentially the same as I had seen earlier from the doorway of Don Wolf's office-a shot showing the backs of the two captain's chairs facing the desk, the desk itself, and the credenza beyond it.