Name Withheld : A J.p. Beaumont Mystery (9780061760907) by Judith A. Jance

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’scharges 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.
    â€œThe 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?”
    â€œThe wife’s address and phone numbers?”
    â€œOh, 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.”
    â€œYes, Mrs. Compton. As soon as I reach her, I’ll let you know.”
    â€œAnd when the tapes are ready, they should be sent where?”
    I handed her one of my cards. “The PublicSafety Building,” I said. “Homicide’s on the fifth floor.”
    As I rode down in the plushly upholstered elevator, I remembered what Bill Whitten had said: “There are diversions, and there are diversions.” What had he meant by that? Did this building qualify? In order to do cutting-edge cancer research, was it really necessary to have a padded elevator? Or a condo on Lake Union? Don Wolf may have been a first-class bastard, but I wondered if perhaps he had been right when it came to Bill Whitten’s financial management of Designer Genes International.
    Down in the garage, I peered in the windows of Don Wolf’s compulsively clean Intrepid. Not a piece of paper, not a single latte cup littered the spotless interior, nor was there a single fleck of mud on the outside. Over the years, I’ve learned to distrust people who keep either their vehicles or their desks too pristinely clean. Don Wolf was dead, but he was clearly just another case in point.
    Wanting to learn more about Bill Whitten, I called the M.E.’s office at Harborview and asked to speak to Audrey Cummings. “Come on, Beau,” she objected when I told her what I wanted. “Can’t this wait? I was just running out to catch some lunch. I have to be in court by two.”
    â€œWhere are you going to lunch? Maybe I can meet you there.”
    â€œSure,” she said. “Meet me at the Gravity Bar.It’s probably not your kind of place. Do you know where it is?”
    Audrey Cummings is a strict vegetarian. In the course of communications between someone like her and a devoted junk food junkie like me, the word lunch inevitably suffers in translation. The Gravity Bar is a juice bar located between First and Second on Virginia. I’ve been there once or twice with Ron Peters, and Audrey was absolutely right. It’s not my kind of joint. Carrots may be fine for rabbits, but when it comes to drinking the damned things,