If anybody ever starts a Twelve Step Program for gizmo lovers, Ralph Ames ought to be one of the first to join. He's forever trying to update my technology quotient. He was the instigator behind the high-tech electronic security/sound/ light system in my condo. Because of him, lights and music faithfully follow me from room to room. And if I happen to have the special pager with me, I can open doors to allow arriving guests into either the building or the apartment.
The telling detail here is having the pager actually in my possession when needed. And because I have an ingrained aversion to wearing more than one pager at a time, the home pager usually ends up parked on the bathroom counter. Which was precisely where it was right then when the doorbell summoned me away from the VCR in the den.
Rushing to the door, I pulled it open to find Ron Peters and his wheelchair parked outside in the hallway. He was grinning from ear to ear. "In case nobody's mentioned it, your answering machine's broken," he said, rolling past me first into the entryway and then on into the living room.
His words of complaint about the answering machine didn't nearly jibe with the jubilant expression on the man's face. For somebody whose ex-wife was in the process of making life miserable for anyone within striking distance, he didn't look the least bit concerned.
"What's got you so damned cheerful?" I grumbled, heading back toward the den to collect the tape.
"I've got some good news and some bad news."
"Come on, Ron. No games. I'm working on something."
He nodded. "You and me both."
"So what's the news? Give me the bad, first. We could just as well get it over with."
"We're both being investigated by Internal Investigations."
"That's hardly news, Ron. Hilda Chisholm paid me a little visit and dropped that bomb last night. So what's the good news?"
"Tony says I can't be working for I.I.S. at the same time I'm being investigated, so for the time being, they're shifting me back down to investigations. To Homicide. We're partners again, at least until Sue gets back from Ohio or until the I.I.S. investigation blows over, whichever comes first."
"I'll be damned," I said.
"As soon as I showed up on the fifth floor this afternoon, Captain Powell pounced on me and put me straight to work on this Wolf case. I can't tell you how good it feels to be back in the harness again, to be working on an investigation that counts for something out in the real world. I think I've come up with something important."
"What's that?"
"Detective Kramer-somebody needs to shove a corncob up that guy's ass, by the way-said that he thought I could be the most help by going to work on the financial considerations. He and Arnold had already interviewed the high-profile investors, so I went at it from the other end of the spectrum. Guess what? D.G.I. is in big trouble. The bank is within days of foreclosing on the building, and City Light is about to turn off the power. Same thing for trash collection and phone service. They've evidently been meeting payroll, but that's about all."
"Wait a minute. That doesn't make sense," I objected. "With all those big money investors, I thought D.G.I. would be rolling in cash by now."
"The cash may have come in, but they haven't been using it to pay bills."
"So where did it go?"
Ron shrugged. "Makes you wonder, doesn't it," he said with a grin.
Midwinter in Seattle means that it's dark by four-thirty. Somehow, the day seemed suddenly brighter. I found myself grinning back at him. "Aren't you off duty?"
"Depends on whether or not you have something for me to do."
"How about if we go pay a call on Bill Whitten?" I asked, switching off the VCR, ejecting the tape, and stuffing it into my pocket.
"Sounds good to me," Ron agreed. "We'll take my car, if you don't mind. When it comes to my chair, that Porsche of yours just doesn't cut it. I'll go get the car and meet you out on the street."
We had made it as far as the elevator lobby when a thought crossed my mind. "Hey, Ron, are you wearing a vest?"
Ron pressed the button. "You bet I am," he returned, "although I'm not sure why. Who would go around trying to kill a crippled cop?"
"You'd be surprised," I said. "Sitting in a wheelchair sure as hell didn't keep somebody from shooting a freelance detective named Virginia Marks over in Bellevue last night. My guess is that whoever killed Don Wolf also killed the private eye who was investigating him."
I bailed out in the lobby and went to the street to collect my cellular phone from the 928. By the time Ron came around to where I was standing on the curb, I was attempting to take messages off my broken machine upstairs. It was frustrating going. There must have been nine calls in all. Most of them were hang ups, but the messages that were there weren't really messages at all. They were more like message fragments.
"This is Tony Freeman. There's been a little difficulty…" One was from Gail Richardson, the woman downstairs: "My mother went home today. Want to go out and…"
Midway through the messages, I heard the one Ralph Ames had mentioned to me earlier. "Detective Beaumont, this is Harry…" And that was it.
The last partial message, left after several abortive tries, was from Ron Peters. "This damned thing's obviously not working. Call when you get home."
As Peters' Buick came around the corner of First Avenue onto Broad I was just erasing the last message. He stopped on the street to pick me up. "Next stop D.G.I.," he said, as he drove around the block to head north on First. "Do you think they'll still be open? It's almost five o'clock."
"Somebody is bound to be there."
"By the way, on my way down to the garage, I remembered another call that came into the office earlier this afternoon, from Harry Moore down in La Jolla. He wants to talk to you in the worst way."
Sighing, I shifted the seat belt away from my chest and groped for my notebook. Ron beat me to the punch by handing me a Post-it with a California number jotted on it.
"Here's the number," he said. "I didn't think you'd want to look it up."
"Thanks," I said, keying Harry Moore's direct number into the phone. "After being stuck with Kramer and Arnold for a day or two, it's nice to have a real partner again."
"No lie," Ron said.
Moore answered almost immediately. "Detective Beaumont here," I said. "What can I do for you, Mr. Moore?"
"When I first got the fax, I couldn't believe my luck, but now, with her dead…"
"Whoa, not so fast. What fax are you talking about?"
"The one from Virginia Marks. I left a message on your machine-"
"My machine ate your message, so let's start over from the beginning. What fax did Virginia Marks send you?"
"She sent it last night, after I went home, so I didn't actually see it until I came in this morning around ten. But when I tried calling back Virginia this afternoon, somebody told me that she's dead. Is that true?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
"Damn!" Moore muttered. "I suppose that means I'm screwed then anyway."
"I still don't know what we're talking about."
"Virginia Marks told me she had some critical information for me. She said she could prove that Bill Whitten is using my research-Alpha-Cyte research-to attract investors for D.G.I. And she offered to sell me that information-for a fee, of course. Her asking price was astronomical, but if what she was telling me was true, I could have taken Bill Whitten to the cleaners."
It sounded to me as though someone else had already wiped out Bill Whitten's finances, but I didn't mention that to Harry Moore. He didn't give me a chance.