Free Name Withheld by J. A. Jance Page A

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.
    "The 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?"
    "The wife's address and phone numbers?"
    "Oh, 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."
    "Yes, Mrs. Compton. As soon as I reach her, I'll let you know."
    "And when the tapes are ready, they should be sent where?"
    I handed her one of my cards. "The Public Safety 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."
    "Where are you going to lunch? Maybe I can meet you there."
    "Sure," 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, I draw the line.
    "I know where it is," I said.
    "Good. 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.
    "So tell me about Bill Whitten," I said as she munched away.
    "What about him?"
    "Whatever you can tell me."
    "Smart man," Audrey replied without hesitation. "Dedicated. Overbearing. Egotistical. Well connected. Long on drive, but short on science. I guess that about covers it."
    "He's not a trained biotech researcher?" I asked.
    "No, but enough money can rent a whole lot of talent."
    "And 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."
    "Where 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