hour ago.'
'Did you print him?'
'No. We could, but don't usually do that unless there's a question of identification.'
'There might be in this case.'
'Are you trying to tell me that Bill Whitten misidentified the body?' Audrey asked. 'It would be nice to know exactly who's dead and who isn't.'
'What I'm saying is that the person Bill Whitten thinks of as Don Wolf may have been someone else all along.' As briefly as possible, I went on to explain the difficulties I'd encountered in trying to locate possible next of kin. Then I enumerated the phony employment and educational references I had blundered into along the way. I must have made a fairly good case of it. When I finished, Audrey capitulated.
'All right, all right,' she agreed. 'We'll print him, then. But you won't have either prints or autopsy results before noon tomorrow at the earliest. If you have something for me on the woman by then, maybe we can make a trade-prints on him in exchange for a positive I.D. on her?'
'It's a deal,' I told her, although it didn't seem very likely that I would meet that noontime deadline, not at the rate I was going.
It was long after five when I finally gave up on the first item of my TO DO list and took an initial crack at number two. If you believe what passes for homicide cops on television, this job entails nothing more than car chases and pitched gun battles. On a day-to-day basis, I spend far more time with a telephone glued to my ear than with a weapon in my hand.
My first call on that score was to Alpha-Cyte, the La Jolla biotechnology company Deanna Compton had told me had employed Lizbeth Wolf. And because I was calling so late in the afternoon, my efforts met with exactly what they deserved-an unguided trip through a voice-mail jungle.
'Alpha-Cyte's office hours are nine to five, Monday through Friday,' the recorded voice told me. 'If you know the extension of the person to whom you wish to speak, please dial that number now; otherwise, stay on the line for more options.'
Voice-mail options never include quite what you want, especially if you don't know exactly who it is you need to speak to or what his or her extension number might be. The last choice was to leave a message and someone would get back to me.
'I don't think so,' I said, and hung up. 'It's time to send out for reinforcements.'
With the help of a directory assistance operator, thirty seconds later I was on the phone with Captain Wayne Kilpatrick, a homicide supervisor down in La Jolla, California.
'What can I do for you, Detective Beaumont?' he asked, once I had identified myself.
'I'm working on a case up here in Seattle,' I told him. 'Two of them, actually. It's possible both victims may be former residents of La Jolla. I'm trying to verify I.D. s and do next-of-kin notifications, and I'm running into walls.'
'Maybe you'd better fill me in on the details.'
That didn't take long, because it turned out I didn't know much. 'I'll get someone on it right away,' Kilpatrick said when I finished. 'I'll check with Dispatch to see if there's an emergency number on record for Alpha-Cyte. And we'll check out that home address you gave me as well. I'll have one of my officers get back to you ASAP. Give me your number.'
Instead of one number, I gave him the full set-home, office, and cell phone. 'Thanks for the help,' I said.
'Whaddya expect?' Captain Kilpatrick returned. 'It's our job.'
'One more thing,' I added. 'Do you have access to any old telephone books?'
'How old?' he asked.
'Last year's,' I said. 'Maybe even the year prior to that. I'm looking for the last place Don Wolf listed as a place of employment before taking the job in Seattle.'
'You're in luck there,' Kilpatrick told me. 'Last year's phone book is the only one I have. Somebody stole my new one.'
'Look up a company called Downlink,' I told him.
'It's not here,' Kilpatrick said a few moments later. 'How could he give it as a place of employment if it doesn't exist? Sort of makes you wonder what he was up to, doesn't it.'
'It does,' I muttered, putting down the phone. 'Indeed it does.'
Returning to my TO DO list, I placed a check mark beside number two before turning my attention to number three: Find Latty.
In that regard, the greatest possibility of success lay with the cab driver. In the best of all possible worlds, Don Wolf would have called Farwest Cab instead of Yellow. Years ago, I was involved in a case where a Farwest cabby was murdered. What initially looked like a straightforward robbery gone awry actually turned out to be a complicated insurance plot staged by the man's estranged wife and her boyfriend. I was the one who cracked the case and sent both the wife and boyfriend to the slammer. Whenever I need Farwest info, I can always get it-fast and without any hassle.
Back in my Fuller Brush days when I was working my way through school, I learned the value of third-party referrals. It was always easier to sell brushes to someone if a neighbor up the street called ahead to say I was coming. Naturally, I called Farwest first.
'Hey, J.P.,' said Wally, one of Farwest's old-hand dispatchers. 'Long time no see, especially now that you don't need your butt hauled out of bars on a regular basis. How long you been off the sauce?'
'Two years and a little bit.'
'Good for you. I just passed five. Still going to meetings?'
'Some,' I said, although the correct answer probably should have been 'hardly any.'
'What can I do you for?' Wally asked.
'I need some help with a Yellow.'
'Either you need your vision checked or you're screwing up the alphabet. Farwest is in the F's, not the Y's,' Wally told me. 'And our cabs are green, not yellow.'
After I explained the situation, there was a pause during which Wally sent out several cabs. 'You know, J.P.,' he said a little testily, 'there are ways to get at those customer logs through official channels.'
'I'm aware of that,' I returned, 'but all those channels take time. And mountains of paperwork.'
'You can say that again,' Wally sighed. 'So all right. I'll see what I can do, but I'm not making any promises. Some of those Yellow guys are jerks. How can I get back in touch with you?'
I gave him my numbers. Then, smiling to myself, I replaced the receiver in its cradle and put a check mark beside number three. I was definitely making progress. For number four, I called upstairs. Ron Peters answered his own phone.
'Are you still here?'
'No,' he answered. 'I've mastered the art of being in two places at once. What do you want?'
'To talk to you. Are you on your way out the door right this minute?'
'I should be, but I'm not. Come on up. I need to talk to you, too.'
One would think that in the natural order of police hierarchy, the chief's office would be the undisputed departmental sanctum sanctorum. But at Seattle P.D., the chief's office has an open door compared to the Internal Investigations Section. I.I.S., on the eleventh floor, is ruled by the iron hand and unwavering Eagle Scout mentality of one Captain Anthony Freeman. In the world of I.I.S., security is paramount. Even after hours, just to drop by and visit with Ron Peters for a couple of minutes, I had to sign in and out at the reception desk.
Somehow, despite perennial budget tightening, Captain Freeman manages to keep I.I.S. looking more like reasonably well appointed corporate offices than the jumbled mishmash of aging office furnishings that exists in every other department of Seattle P.D. Ron Peters' office didn't measure up in grandeur or view to Captain Freeman's, but it was a damn sight better than my crowded cubicle on the fifth floor.
'What's up?' Ron asked, wheeling back to his desk after letting me into the room.
'Tell me where you got your Chair Topper,' I said.
Ron grinned at me. 'What's the matter,' he quipped. 'Are your heel spurs acting up so much that you're headed for a chair? Amy tells me surgery can do wonders for those these days.'
'It's not for me,' I said. 'It's the case I'm working on-two related cases, as a matter of fact. Each one comes complete with a mysterious wheelchair-bound female witness who drives around in an elderly Crown Victoria with a
