'Do you have a suite number?'
'No, it's a brand-new building. According to Chip, the same outfit evidently owns the whole thing.'
'Did you say D.G.I.? I'm assuming that's not jeans, as in Levi's?' I asked.
'Right,' Watty replied. 'The other kind: G-E-N-E-S, as in DNA. It's one of those new bioengineering companies. Some kind of cancer research.'
'Did Chip give you a name of the man he thinks is my guy?'
'Yeah. Wolf. Don Wolf. He's the operations manager there. Newly transferred up from California.'
'Okay,' I told Watty. 'If you can raise Chip, either by phone or radio, tell him I'm on my way.'
'That shouldn't be too difficult,' Watty told me. 'Unlike some people who shall remain nameless, Detective Raymond actually uses his pager. On a regular basis.'
I didn't miss the sarcasm in Watty's voice. As official reprimands go, it was relatively harmless. If he had actually ordered me to keep my pager on at all times, I probably would have done so, but it would have been compliance under duress. Sergeant Watkins is smart enough to know that he gets the best work out of his people when he lets them use their own judgment in non-life-threatening situations.
Riding herd on a bunch of homicide detectives has to be a whole lot like being a parent and, no doubt, almost as thankless. Watty Watkins is a past master at doing both-raising kids and running detectives. His hand on the reins is sometimes light, sometimes firm. He gets what he wants by alternately ordering and cajoling. Nobody in the department has ever accused the man of not giving a damn.
I reached down and switched on my pager. 'All right, all right,' I muttered. 'It's on.'
'Good.'
'And I'm sorry.'
'That's okay, Beau,' Watty said. 'These things happen.'
That was all there was to it. Clearly, I was in the wrong. Watty and I both knew that, but once I had apologized, he didn't waste both his time and mine by rubbing my nose in it. If I had been in his shoes, I doubt I would have exercised the same kind of restraint.
It all goes to show why Watty's the sergeant, and I'm not. It might also explain why after all these years, he's still married to his first wife.
That's not luck at all. It's because he's one hell of a nice guy.
Three
These days the traffic lights on Seattle's Fifth Avenue are supposedly timed to benefit drivers who actually observe the speed limit. Theoretically, a driver ought to be able to go from the upper end of the Denny Regrade to the International District at the far end of the downtown area with only one or two stops along the way.
While I'd been on the radio, I had come south, sailing along with traffic. Beyond University, however, just about the time I realized I needed to go someplace other than back to the Public Safety Building, forward progress ground to a halt. For the next two interminable blocks, Fifth Avenue was coned down to a single left-hand lane. The numbskull directing traffic wouldn't allow a right-hand turn on Seneca, not even for a homicide cop who had slapped a portable blue flasher on top of his vehicle.
I finally managed to turn west on Madison. Once out of the southbound gridlock, I made it back north with no further hassle. The Denny Regrade is a flat area north of Seattle's downtown proper that has been carved from where Denny Hill used to be. It ends at the bottom of Queen Anne Hill. Denny Avenue runs on a diagonal across the northern end of the Regrade, providing a logical boundary. Logic disappears, however, in a sudden curve where, for no apparent reason other than to bedevil newcomers, Denny transforms itself briefly into a street called Western.
With three lanes of traffic roaring past, I ducked into a passenger load zone outside the building marked 3300 Western and tried to get my bearings. When I first moved back into the city, that block had been the site of a once- fine steak house. In its later years, the place degenerated into a singles-scene joint before shutting down altogether. For years, a fading billboard had promised that a hotel would soon be built on the property. Obviously, that plan had come adrift, because a spankingly new six-story glass-fronted office building sat there now.
The six-foot-tall brass letters that said D.G.I. were easy to spot. So was the fountain, closed down for the winter, that graced a front-door plaza. What wasn't easy to find was parking. Just then, Chip Raymond sauntered out through the door, waving me around to the north end of the building, where I found a discreetly camouflaged entrance to an underground garage. Chip beat me back inside and waved me into a slot marked VISITOR.
'Have you been waiting long?'
Chip shook his head. 'As soon as the report came in by phone, I figured the guy was probably your floater. I didn't want to go charging in here to check it out without having you along. When Watty couldn't find you right off, I grabbed some lunch on the way-a hamburger from Dick's. I bought two. You want one?'
'No, thanks. I'm fine. What have you got?'
Chip unfolded a computer-generated piece of paper and read off the information. 'Name's Don Wolf. Donald R. Moved up here from La Jolla, California, a couple of months ago to assume the position of operations manager at Designer Genes International. Thirty-eight years old. Six feet one inch tall. Weighs about one eighty-five, one ninety. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Tattoo on right wrist that says MOTHER.'
'Way to go, Chip. It sounds like my guy, all right.'
'According to the man who called in the report-'
'Who was that?' I asked.
'Somebody named Bill Whitten,' Chip answered. 'He's the CEO of D.G.I. He said he and this Wolf character were supposed to have a meeting yesterday afternoon, and Wolf didn't show.'
'For good reason,' I said.
Chip nodded. 'There was supposed to be another meeting this morning-at seven. When Wolf didn't show for that one either, Whitten started trying to track the guy down. The call was put through to my desk at ten o'clock, just a little while after you left the department.'
'Wait a minute,' I said. 'Doesn't that strike you as soon? Family members would report it in less than twenty- four hours. But that seems early for people at work.'
Chip nodded. 'The same thought crossed my mind, but that's before I learned about his car. Wolf is nowhere to be found, but his car is right here in the garage. It's that white Intrepid over in the corner. I took a quick look at it and couldn't see anything wrong. Anyway, the situation seemed thorny enough that I didn't want to go upstairs to see Whitten without having somebody from Homicide along with me.'
'Good call, Chip,' I told him. 'Let's do it.'
We stepped into the elevator and rode up one floor to the lobby, where a sweet young thing was 'womaning' a reception desk and switchboard. By mutual if unspoken agreement, Detective Raymond was the one who presented his credentials. There was no need to bring up the word homicide until we had a positive identification.
'We need to see Bill Whitten, please,' Chip said. 'I believe he's expecting us.'
Moments later, we were back in the elevator riding up to the sixth floor. The interior walls of the elevator were covered with some kind of upholstered material that still reeked of new dye. Because of my involvement with the syndicate that bought Belltown Terrace, I know a little about the development and relative cost of downtown Seattle real estate. This particular six-story building-underground parking garage, upholstered elevator, and all- hadn't come cheap. An operation like this represented a big chunk of investment capital, especially considering that Designer Genes International was the building's sole occupant.
Chip Raymond was evidently having much the same thought. He ran one finger across the plush material that covered the walls. 'No wonder cancer research is so expensive,' he said.
I nodded. 'Whatever kind of genes we're talking about, they must be solid-gold plated.'
Just then, the elevator door opened and we stepped off into another lobby with a desk occupied by a vividly made up, middle-aged lady who greeted us with a gracious smile when Chip presented his card. 'Mr. Whitten's on the phone right now,' she said. 'I'm his assistant, Deanna Compton. He asked that I show you into the conference room. Would either of you care for coffee?'
