'Because he was out to get me,' he said. 'He came here two months ago. According to his resume, he was some kind of hotshot financial guru. His resume said he was a real genius, a Harvard-educated, MBA-wielding, money-raising fiend in the world of genetic engineering. I even sold the board of directors on him. The problem is, Don Wolf may have looked great on paper, but in person he was something else. He was one of those smart-assed guys who won't take direction from anybody. A total jerk, in other words, but it's hard to tell that from a resume and a couple of interviews.'
I stole a glance in Bill Whitten's direction. He sat with his arms folded staunchly across his chest, with his eyes staring out the front windshield. 'Detective Raymond told me you and he had a meeting scheduled for yesterday. What was that all about?'
Whitten considered for some time before he answered. 'He was going to take me to the board of directors and ask them to force me out,' he said finally. 'Me, the guy who started D.G.I. and built it from the ground up!'
'Why?'
There was another long pause while Whitten's face reddened with suppressed fury. 'He claimed he'd found evidence of wrongdoing on my part, that I'd been illegally skimming money and diverting it to my own use.'
'Had you?' I asked.
'No, goddamn it! I hadn't. Don Wolf brought in some money, I'll give him that. He said he could deliver investors, and he did. The problem is, those investor dollars came with all kinds of strings. He was undermining me and badmouthing me every chance he could get. He made so much trouble that some members of the board of directors have actually started questioning my every move, including Saturday-morning quarterbacking my decision to build this building. I keep trying to tell them that you can't attract the best people if you don't have a world-class research facility. D.G.I. is that, and I'm the one who made it happen. Little old me-Billy Whitten from Seattle, Washington.'
'Would it have worked?' I asked.
Whitten glowered at me. 'Would what have worked?'
'Would Don Wolf have been able to force you out?'
He shrugged. 'I guess we'll never know now, will we.'
'Maybe not,' I agreed, but what I had already heard was enough to spell the beginning of motive. From that point of view, everything Bill Whitten said would bear careful scrutiny.
Because of a massive ongoing construction project at Harborview Hospital, we had to park two blocks away, but the walk turned out to be pleasant enough. Pale midday sun was beginning to burn through the overcast, turning the day almost balmy. It felt more like spring than early January.
Once inside the M.E.'s dingy basement lobby, I asked for Dr. Cummings. Within moments, Audrey emerged from her own private office dressed in her usual crisply sensible costume. I started to introduce her to Bill Whitten, but that proved unnecessary.
'Why, Bill,' she said, smiling a friendly greeting and holding out her hand. 'How good to see you again. What in the world are you doing here?'
Whitten jerked his head in my direction. 'I'm with him,' he said. 'Detective Beaumont here seems to think the unidentified body that was found off Pier Seventy yesterday belongs to someone who works for D.G.I.' He stopped and then added a slight modification, 'Someone who used to work for D.G.I.'
Frowning, Audrey turned to me. 'Really?'
I nodded in confirmation. 'There's a good possibility,' I said.
Audrey Cummings shook her head sympathetically. 'One of your people? That's too bad, Bill. I certainly hope not.'
'Don Wolf never was what you could call one of my people,' Whitten replied with a grim smile. 'In fact, as far as I'm concerned, if the dead man turns out to be him, I'll be the first to say it couldn't have happened to a nicer guy.'
Coming from a self-admitted prime suspect, that blurted comment came as a surprising admission. He said it right there in public, in front of God and everybody. Usually, good manners dictate that people-even suspects-not speak ill of the dead, certainly not that soon after somebody kicks off. But with regard to Donald R. Wolf, although Bill Whitten was the first to express that derogatory sentiment, he certainly wasn't the last.
The body tagged with a John Doe label around his toe did indeed turn out to be Don Wolf's. A departed Don Wolf's. But as I was to learn over the next few days, the man was hardly anybody's dearly departed Don Wolf.
He was dead, and it turned out that, with one notable exception, no one in the world seemed to be the least bit sorry.
Four
Every homicide case is different, and yet there are always similarities. One of the most difficult aspects of beginning an investigation involves notification of the next of kin. I didn't know it then, but in the case of Don Wolf, it was going to be far more difficult than usual.
Once Bill Whitten had provided the positive identification we needed, I continued to ask questions while giving him a lift back to D.G.I. headquarters. 'You told me earlier that Don Wolf was married, and that the woman in the picture in his office is his wife.'
'Some people are more married than others,' Whitten replied.
I let that pass for the moment. 'What did you say his wife's name is? Elizabeth?'
'No, Lizbeth. No E; no a.'
'And she's still down in California?'
'As far as I know.'
'You have phone numbers, addresses, that sort of thing?'
'In his personnel file. I'll have Deanna locate them for you as soon as we get back to the office.'
'Were they having marital difficulties of some kind?'
Whitten seemed to consider before he answered. 'From what I could gather, she wasn't exactly overjoyed at the prospect of moving to Seattle.'
'Did he have any children?'
'None that I know of. He and Lizbeth haven't been married that long-only a matter of months. There could be kids somewhere from a previous marriage, but I wouldn't know about that. Again, that might be in a personnel file as well, especially if the children were listed as beneficiaries under the group insurance policy.'
'How much insurance?'
'Two and a half times his annual salary. A quarter of a million, less some change.'
'You paid him a hundred thousand a year, then?'
Whitten nodded. 'Salary plus.'
'Plus what?'
'A finder's fee on the new investment dollars he brought in.'
'If he was making that kind of money, there shouldn't have been any financial difficulties. Were there any other problems?'
Whitten gave me a sidelong glance. 'You mean problems with anyone other than me?'
'Look, Mr. Whitten, let's don't make this difficult. At this point, I don't regard you as any more of a suspect than I do anyone else. If you'd like me to Mirandize you and let you have a lawyer present when we talk, I'd be happy to oblige. For right now, I'm just gathering general information.'
By then, we had arrived back at the D.G.I. garage and pulled into a parking place. I opened the door to get out. When Bill Whitten made no move to exit the car, I settled back in my seat, closed the door, and waited. For almost a full minute, neither one of us moved or spoke. Whitten seemed to be pondering something important, and I didn't want to rush him. Finally, he made up his mind.
'I believe I already told you Don Wolf wasn't a nice man,' he said.
'You did mention something about it.'
'Well, I wasn't just blowing smoke,' Whitten said defensively. 'I have proof.'
'What kind of proof?'
