J. Jance - Name Witheld

"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.

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.

"I've been managing condos for three years now," he said, shaking his head. "Never had one of my residents get murdered before, although I guess Don Wolf was a likely enough candidate."