'By the way, on my way down to the garage, I remembered another call that came into the office earlier this afternoon, from Harry Moore down in La Jolla. He wants to talk to you in the worst way.'
Sighing, I shifted the seat belt away from my chest and groped for my notebook. Ron beat me to the punch by handing me a Post-it with a California number jotted on it.
'Here's the number,' he said. 'I didn't think you'd want to look it up.'
'Thanks,' I said, keying Harry Moore's direct number into the phone. 'After being stuck with Kramer and Arnold for a day or two, it's nice to have a real partner again.'
'No lie,' Ron said.
Moore answered almost immediately. 'Detective Beaumont here,' I said. 'What can I do for you, Mr. Moore?'
'When I first got the fax, I couldn't believe my luck, but now, with her dead…'
'Whoa, not so fast. What fax are you talking about?'
'The one from Virginia Marks. I left a message on your machine-'
'My machine ate your message, so let's start over from the beginning. What fax did Virginia Marks send you?'
'She sent it last night, after I went home, so I didn't actually see it until I came in this morning around ten. But when I tried calling back Virginia this afternoon, somebody told me that she's dead. Is that true?'
'Unfortunately, yes.'
'Damn!' Moore muttered. 'I suppose that means I'm screwed then anyway.'
'I still don't know what we're talking about.'
'Virginia Marks told me she had some critical information for me. She said she could prove that Bill Whitten is using my research-Alpha-Cyte research-to attract investors for D.G.I. And she offered to sell me that information- for a fee, of course. Her asking price was astronomical, but if what she was telling me was true, I could have taken Bill Whitten to the cleaners.'
It sounded to me as though someone else had already wiped out Bill Whitten's finances, but I didn't mention that to Harry Moore. He didn't give me a chance.
'So first I sat here and tried to figure out how Bill Whitten could end up with Alpha-Cyte proprietary information, and finally, it dawned on me. Lizbeth!'
'You think Lizbeth Wolf gave it to him?'
'No, don't you see? That worthless bastard stole it. Don Wolf stole it, probably right out of Lizbeth's computer, and handed it over to Whitten. That's got to be it.'
By the time Harry Moore finally stopped long enough to draw breath, Ron had already parked the Buick in front of the curb at D.G.I. and was waiting for directions.
I looked over at the door to the building where the five o'clock exodus was already in full swing. 'Look, Mr. Moore. I've got to go to an appointment right now. Can we get back to you on this a little later?'
'Sure,' he said. 'Don't worry about how late it is. I'll be here.'
By then, Ron had already lowered the wheelchair and was waiting for me on the curb. 'What's going on?' Ron asked. 'It sounded bad.'
'Come on,' I said. 'I'll tell you on the way.'
But then I glanced up and saw the security camera stationed over the door. It reminded me of the ones inside.
'Come to think of it,' I said, 'I'll tell you the rest of it when we come back outside. If I tell you in there, Bill Whitten will have it all recorded on his personal Candid Camera. From what Harry Moore is telling me, that's probably a real bad idea.'
We went on upstairs, but when the elevator opened onto the sixth-floor reception area, it was like entering a deserted village. Deanna Compton wasn't at her desk. Bill Whitten wasn't at his, either.
'Looks like everybody took off early,' Ron said, glancing around.
But it didn't feel right to me. Most CEOs I've ever heard of don't punch time clocks. Neither do their private secretaries. Trying to understand what my instincts were telling me, I walked all the way around Deanna Compton's desk. Everything was in order. When I had been there before, the top of her desk had been covered with papers and files. In the upper right-hand corner had sat an oversized, leather-bound appointment book. But now, at two minutes after five, none of those things were in evidence.
I was about to suggest that we head back to the elevator, when I glanced down at the three separate trash containers stowed next to the wall. Leaning down, I pulled out the mixed paper recycling box. One of the top items was an envelope from one of Seattle's downtown, bicycle-dependent messenger services. And inside that was a second empty envelope. The return address said The Travel Guys with an address in a high-rise on Pike.
I started adding things up. The investment money the mayor's boyfriend and his friends had dropped into D.G.I. was among the missing. Harry Moore didn't know all the details about who had stolen what from Alpha-Cyte, but if Virginia Marks had been able to figure it out, someone else would be able to uncover that information, too, now that they knew what to look for. Three people connected to Bill Whitten's dying D.G.I. were dead, and there was a good chance we were coming close to finding out how come and who had killed them.
And if Bill Whitten was our man, there was an excellent possibility that he was about to blow town.
Sometimes, you just have to go for it. I picked up Deanna Compton's phone and dialed the number listed on the outside of the envelope.
'This is Jason,' an overly sibilant male voice answered. Jason of The Travel Guys sounded as though he and Johnny Bickford might frequent some of the same hangouts. 'May I help you?'
'This is Bill Whitten!' I grumbled into the phone. 'There's been a mistake. The tickets you sent me have somebody else's name on them. Where are mine?'
When he heard me say that, I'm surprised Ron Peters didn't tumble out of his chair.
'Oh, I'm so sorry,' Jason said quickly. 'I can't understand how that happened. Christopher is already gone for the day, but let me check your records, Mr. Whitten. Just a moment.'
'What the hell are you doing?' Ron demanded.
Silently, I shushed him with a finger over my lips. And it was a good thing, too, because just then Jason came back on the line. 'Here it is. Those must be the tickets to Puerto Vallarta at ten thirty-five tomorrow morning. If you'll just tell me whose tickets were sent to you, I'll have someone come pick them up, and we'll get this whole thing-'
Jason was still talking when I put down the phone.
My mother would have been ashamed of me. I didn't even say thanks.
Twenty-one
'I guess I'd forgotten how you do things sometimes,' Ron said in the elevator. I didn't remember whether or not I had told him about the surveillance cameras in the elevator. But if Bill Whitten was on his way out of town, maybe that didn't matter.
'It worked,' I said.
Ron just shook his head. 'Where to next?'
'Next, we find out where Bill Whitten lives, and we go there.'
'And what kind of subterfuge are you planning to use to do that?'
'No subterfuge,' I answered. 'How about if we try directory assistance?'
It probably would have worked, but we never had a chance to use it. My pager was going off as we headed to the car. While he loaded his chair into the carrier, I dialed Watty's number. Kent Reeves, the night-shift homicide sergeant, answered the phone.
'Hey, Detective Beaumont,' Kent said, 'you just missed her.'
'Missed who?'
'A lady named Grace Highsmith. She said if you called in to tell you that your answering machine at home isn't working.'
'I know.'
