turned back to the doorway, there was the damnedest smirk on his face. The son of a bitch looked as though he was proud of himself.
That single passing glimpse, captured for all time on Bill Whitten's hidden camera, made me want to puke. As a homicide cop, I'm haunted by murder victims. Finding the killers and bringing them to justice becomes a holy crusade. Right then, however, with Don Wolf's smirk still lingering in the air, I had the sense that justice had already been served. Someone had taken care of Don Wolf. In the process, his killer had saved the state of Washington a considerable amount of time, trouble, and expense.
'I told you he wasn't a nice guy,' Bill Whitten said.
Bill Whitten was obviously a master in the art of understatement. The security system on screen switched off the light. Shadowy darkness returned to the screen, everywhere but
in the caption box in the bottom left-hand corner. There the stark white letters read: DECEMBER 28, 12:04:20 A.M.
Whitten switched off the VCR. 'So do you want a copy or not?' he asked.
Unaware that I had been holding my breath, I let it out. I may have been short on motivation for finding Wolf's killer, but my duty was nonetheless clear. 'Yes,' I said.
From an evidence standpoint, the tape meant nothing. In order for a recording to stand up in a court of law, at least one of the people being recorded must have given permission. Otherwise, the recording constitutes an illegal wiretap, information from which is generally inadmissible. I was relatively sure neither Don Wolf nor Latty had any knowledge as to the camera's existence, so neither of them could be deemed to have given consent.
Right at that moment, however, I was looking for probable cause rather than a conviction. In showing probable cause, the rules are a little less stringent.
'You'll most likely want to see these other two tapes as well,' Whitten added, jerking his head in the direction of the other two plastic holders Deanna Compton had placed on his desk. 'I'll have those copied at the same time.'
'What are they? Don't tell me he did it again,' I said.
Bill Whitten shook his head. 'I figured you'd want to see them just for the sake of completeness,' he replied. 'One is from the ride down in the elevator. The other is from the cameras stationed outside the front entrance of the building. He sent her home in a Yellow Cab, by the way.'
'What about New Year's Eve? Was he working that night?'
'He was for a while, up until around eleven.'
'Doing what?' I asked.
'Who knows?' Whitten shrugged. 'Getting ready to chop me off at the knees, I imagine.'
In response to Bill Whitten's keyboard commands, the TV monitor slid back into the cabinet, the doors in front of it closed, and the blinds opened, filling the room with the unexpected light of watery, midwinter sunshine. Watching this process I remembered what Whitten had said to me earlier, in the car, about him being a prime suspect.
'Is there any truth in Don Wolf's charges?' I asked. 'That you were diverting funds?'
Whitten's somber gaze met mine across a vast expanse of polished desk. 'There are diversions and then there are diversions,' he said.
'In the event of an independent audit of the company books, do you think you'd be exonerated?'
'That depends on the CPA,' Whitten answered casually, but not quite casually enough. Something in the way he looked at me-the tiniest flicker of an eyelid perhaps, put me on edge and on point. Before I could say anything further, however, he reached out and tapped the keyboard once more, unlocking the door to his office. He immediately pushed a button on his phone.
'Yes, Mr. Whitten?'
'Deanna, I need you to make copies of these three tapes for Detective Beaumont. He'll need them as soon as possible.'
'I may not be able to do that until after lunch,' she said.
Whitten glanced at me. 'Do you want to wait?' he asked. 'Or would you rather have them delivered later on today?'
I checked my watch. The morning was already almost gone, and I had barely made a start. 'It might be better to have them delivered.'
Whitten spoke back into the intercom. 'Whenever you get around to it will be fine,' he said. Then he turned his attention on me. 'I suppose you'll need to see both his apartment and his car, won't you?'
'Yes, but-'
He punched the intercom again. 'Deanna, you'll also need to call the manager over at Lake View. Even though you can't tell Jack Braman what's happening, you can let him know that Detective Beaumont will be stopping by. Jack should let him into the apartment. We'll fax written permission if he needs it. And call the dealer on the car lease and see if he can make arrangements for a duplicate key on Don's Intrepid.'
'Right away,' Deanna answered.
'Why is it you have access to Don Wolf's apartment?' I asked.
'D.G.I. owns it,' Whitten replied. 'Don leased it from the company temporarily in order to facilitate his move up from California. Lake View is on Lake Union, just south of the Fremont Bridge. Do you know where that is?'
'I can find it. Now about these tapes…'
'Yes?'
'If the taping was done without consent, and if word about them gets out, you could end up having an invasion-of-privacy problem on your hands.'
'With the girl?'
'Possibly.'
Whitten shrugged. 'I guess we'll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it. I look at it this way: With Don Wolf dead, sooner or later you'd come looking for me because of what was going on between the two of us. If nothing else, the tape shows that I'm not the only one who had a problem with good ol' Mr. Don Wolf. I may be a good solid suspect, but at least I'm not the only one.'
I did my job then-the job I'm paid to do. Even though my motivation was lacking, even though Don Wolf wasn't a prince among men, I was still obligated to investigate his murder. As I pulled out my low-tech notebook and pencil, I glanced back over my shoulder toward what I was sure was a dummy thermostat near the door.
'Are we being taped?' I asked.
Whitten grinned. 'We could be if you want to be.'
'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.'
