'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 brought 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
