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

I draw the line.
    â€œI know where it is,” I said.
    â€œGood. Meet me there in fifteen minutes.”
    I did. Perched on futuristic metal furniture that looked as if it had been liberated from the set of Blade Runner , I sipped a chewy glass of pulpy, freshly squeezed orange juice while Audrey ate her avocado, sprouts, and tomato croissant and downed two huge glasses of carrot juice.
    â€œSo tell me about Bill Whitten,” I said as she munched away.
    â€œWhat about him?”
    â€œWhatever you can tell me.”
    â€œSmart man,” Audrey replied without hesitation. “Dedicated. Overbearing. Egotistical. Well connected. Long on drive, but short on science. I guess that about covers it.”
    â€œHe’s not a trained biotech researcher?” I asked.
    â€œNo, but enough money can rent a whole lot of talent.”
    â€œAnd Whitten has that much money?”
    Audrey frowned before she answered. “Earlier this year I heard a rumor that D.G.I. might be in trouble, but nothing really solid.”
    â€œWhere do you know him from?”
    Audrey laughed. “Mostly from cancer charity functions, the auction circuit, that kind of thing. I’m sure you know the drill.” The laughter died and her brow furrowed. “You’re not thinking Bill Whitten had anything to do with Don Wolf’s murder, are you?”
    â€œHe told me so himself,” I answered. “Said he might just as well because I was sure to figure it out myself eventually. I believe the term he used was prime suspect . What do you think?”
    Long before I finished asking the question, Audrey Cummings was already shaking her head in an emphatic no . “I don’t think so,” she said.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œDid he tell you about his father?”
    â€œHe said something about him dying of cancer, I believe. Something about that leading him to what he’s doing now, to being involved in cancer research.”
    â€œGordon Whitten had cancer,” Audrey told me. “But he didn’t die of it.”
    â€œWhat did he die of then?” I asked.
    â€œHe committed suicide,” she said. “He went down to Mexico for some kind of oddball alternative treatment. When that didn’t work, he killed himself. Blew his brains out. Believe me, if Bill Whitten was going to knock off Don Wolf, hewouldn’t have done it with a bullet to the back of the head. Never. Not in a million years.”
    And put that way, I have to admit, Audrey Cummings’ theory made a lot of sense. What it sure as hell didn’t do was make my job any easier.
    A few minutes later, when she had to rush off to her court appearance, I headed north to the Fremont district to take a look at Don Wolf’s condo. A message taped to the security phone at the Lake View Condos announced that the manager had been called away and would return in a few minutes.
    Retreating to my car, I pulled out my laptop and made a start at translating my notepad notes into a form the brass at Seattle P.D. deem acceptable. I still don’t know what I did wrong, but smack in the middle of writing a paragraph, the damn cursor quit. It got stuck halfway through the words Designer Genes and wouldn’t budge. A little box appeared in the middle of the screen. GENERAL PROTECTION FAULT , I think it said, or words to that effect. YOU MUST SAVE YOUR WORK OR YOU WILL LOSE IT .
    Which, of course, was a lie. The cursor was stuck. I couldn’t have saved my work if my life had depended on it.
    In over twenty years of being a cop, the words GENERAL PROTECTION FAULT have never once popped up in the pages of my never-ending series of dog-eared little notebooks. They neverhave, and they never will. Which is why, slick though they may be, computers will never altogether replace pencil and paper.
    And they won’t replace detectives, either.

Six
    J ack Braman, the Lake View Condo’s surprisingly youthful manager, returned