J. Jance - Name Witheld

Moments later, two people came out through the building's front door. They stepped out to the edge of the driveway, almost to the same spot where the Crown Victoria had been parked earlier. Latty was crying again, but as far as I could tell, no words were exchanged during the next eight minutes while they waited for the cab. They were both underdressed for the weather. Looking at the shivering, weeping girl pictured on the screen, the father part of me couldn't help wondering where the hell she had left her damn coat.

Finally, a Yellow Cab pulled up to the curb. Naturally, Wolf darted out and opened the door. Ignoring him, Latty walked around to the other side of the cab and let herself into the car.

As I switched the tape to rewind, I felt a surge of relief. Latty had gotten into a cab that had taken her somewhere-to an address. And with an address and a description, I'd be able to learn Latty's last name.

Now we're getting somewhere, I told myself gleefully. Now we're finally getting somewhere.

For several minutes after I clicked off the VCR, I sat without moving in the darkened fifth-floor conference room. I had replayed the front-entrance sequence several times. I had even played the beginning of the rape tape to double-check the exact time Don Wolf and Latty had arrived at his office.

There was no doubt in my mind that those several occurrences were somehow interrelated. The Crown Victoria had parked in front of the building about two minutes prior to Don Wolf and Latty's appearance in his office. Assuming they had parked in the garage under the building and maybe necked a little on the way inside, then it was conceivable that whoever was at the wheel of the Victoria had followed them to the building. And the fact that the unseen driver had gunned away from the curb just as the elevator door opened meant that whoever it was hadn't wanted to be spotted.

Now, after switching on the light, I pulled out my notebook and began to assemble a TO DO list.

1. 1. Locate and notify Wolf next of kin.

2. 2. Locate proper I.D. on Lizbeth Wolf.

3. 3. Find Latty.

4. 4. Find Wheelchair Lady.

5. 5. Watch the ten o'clock news.

6. 6. Rewatch the tapes on a big screen; license #???

7. 7. Work on report.

Making TO DO lists is always far easier than doing TO DO lists, but I left the conference room and headed back to my cubicle to get started. My first call was to D.G.I. Bill Whitten wasn't in, so I asked to speak to Deanna Compton.

"Detective Beaumont," she said when I identified myself, "did you get the packet I messengered over to you?"

"Yes, thanks so much. I've taken a cursory look at the tapes, and I have a couple of questions for you. Does D.G.I. have any wheelchair-bound employees?"

"Wheelchair? No, none that I can think of. Why?"

"There was a car with a wheelchair rack parked in front of the building on the night Don Wolf took the girl up to his office. I was wondering if you had any idea who the vehicle might belong to and whether or not there was a legitimate reason for it to be here. For instance, could it belong to someone working on the janitorial crew?"

"If it does, I don't know anything about it."

"Let me ask you something else, then. On your personnel records, do you ask employees to list people who should be contacted in case of emergency?"

"Yes."

"Could you check and see if Don Wolf listed anyone other than his wife?"

"You can't find her?"

Time to duck and run. Right that minute I didn't want to reveal to anyone even the most general details of the grisly remains we'd found waiting for us in Don Wolf's condo. "Not at the moment," I said. "I was hoping you could help me locate someone else."

"Just a minute, please," Deanna said. "I have his file right here."

There was a long pause. I could hear paper shuffling on the other end while she looked through the file. "No," she said eventually. "Lizbeth is the only one listed here."

"I see."

"Does it list a place of birth?"

"Tulsa, Oklahoma."

I thought about that for a moment. Birth records generally stay put, but people don't necessarily do the same. Trying to track down someone that way can be a time-consuming, tedious process. What I needed was a shortcut.

They say the only things in life that are certain are death and taxes. But right up there on the list, running a close third, are calls from college and university alumni associations. I think it's virtually impossible to permanently dodge the armies of telephone-wielding fund-raisers who track their potential victims to the ends of the earth.

"Where did Don Wolf go to school?" I asked.

"His bachelor's is from Stanford. MBA is from Harvard."

With Deanna reading me the information, I jotted down the degrees Don Wolf had earned, his majors and minors, and the years in which the degrees were conferred. Obviously, at four o'clock in the afternoon, it was far too late to talk to anyone at Harvard. But there was a chance I could still reach someone down at Stanford.

In the past, I would have played it straight-called in, identified myself properly as a police officer, and then worked my way up the chain of command. Recently, though, my months spent in a tempestuous off-again/on-again relationship with a lady named Alexis Downey, a development officer who raises funds for the Seattle Repertory Theatre, has given me another perspective.

Alexis is an enticing handful, but she's one of those women who, although she has a strong career track going, also has an audibly ticking biological time clock. We broke up completely when I finally convinced her that, at my stage of advancing middle age, I would never be willing to take a second crack at fatherhood. Being with Alexis has taught me a thing or two, not only about women, but also about how devious-minded and cagey development officers can be.

Bearing that in mind, I approached the Stanford alumni office with what I knew would be irresistible bait. Once I had a likely candidate on the phone, I identified myself as Roger Philpott, an attorney with Bates, Philpott, and Orange. (I figured if I was going to try my hand at lying I could just as well have some fun with it.) I told the young woman on the phone that one of the university's alums had died suddenly and there was a chance, if no other heirs could be located, that his entire estate would be left to the university.

"Is it a very big estate?" the young woman asked. The audible catch of excitement in her voice made me feel like a regular heel.

"It's the biggest one I've ever handled," I told her. That, at least, wasn't a lie.

"Do you have his matriculation number?" she asked, and I knew I had her. I couldn't provide a matric number, but I gave her everything else-the year Don Wolf graduated and the degree he'd received, and then I waited. And waited. And waited some more, listening to Muzak all the while. Finally, she came back on the phone sounding puzzled and disappointed.

"There must be some mistake," she said. "I can't find a Donald R. Wolf registered that year. In fact, the closest Donald Wolf I've found is a Donald B. who graduated in electrical engineering, but that was five years later than the date you gave me."

"That's strange," I said. "Let me do some more checking and get back to you."

I put down the phone and sat looking at it. If one statement on a job application isn't true, chances are other things are false as well. I picked up the phone once more and redialed D.G.I.

"Do you have Don Wolf's previous employment records?"

"I suppose," Deanna said, sounding slightly impatient. "Just a minute."

Again there was a period of paper shuffling before Deanna came back on the line. "Do you need complete addresses?"

"Please," I said.

Deanna ended up giving me three names, addresses, and phone numbers: Downlink, San Diego, California; Bio-Dart Technologies, Pasadena, California; Holman-Smith Industries, City of Industry, California. It was almost five o'clock by then, but I figured even if the switchboards were closed, I'd probably still connect with someone.