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What wasn't easy to find was parking. Just then, Chip Raymond sauntered out through the door, waving me around to the north end of the building, where I found a discreetly camouflaged entrance to an underground garage. Chip beat me back inside and waved me into a slot marked VISITOR.
    "Have you been waiting long?"
    Chip shook his head. "As soon as the report came in by phone, I figured the guy was probably your floater. I didn't want to go charging in here to check it out without having you along. When Watty couldn't find you right off, I grabbed some lunch on the way—a hamburger from Dick's. I bought two. You want one?"
    "No, thanks. I'm fine. What have you got?"
    Chip unfolded a computer-generated piece of paper and read off the information. "Name's Don Wolf. Donald R. Moved up here from La Jolla, California, a couple of months ago to assume the position of operations manager at Designer Genes International. Thirty-eight years old. Six feet one inch tall. Weighs about one eighty-five, one ninety. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Tattoo on right wrist that says MOTHER."
    "Way to go, Chip. It sounds like my guy, all right."
    "According to the man who called in the report—"
    "Who was that?" I asked.
    "Somebody named Bill Whitten," Chip answered. "He's the CEO of D.G.I. He said he and this Wolf character were supposed to have a meeting yesterday afternoon, and Wolf didn't show."
    "For good reason," I said.
    Chip nodded. "There was supposed to be another meeting this morning—at seven. When Wolf didn't show for that one either, Whitten started trying to track the guy down. The call was put through to my desk at ten o'clock, just a little while after you left the department."
    "Wait a minute," I said. "Doesn't that strike you as soon? Family members would report it in less than twenty-four hours. But that seems early for people at work."
    Chip nodded. "The same thought crossed my mind, but that's before I learned about his car. Wolf is nowhere to be found, but his car is right here in the garage. It's that white Intrepid over in the corner. I took a quick look at it and couldn't see anything wrong. Anyway, the situation seemed thorny enough that I didn't want to go upstairs to see Whitten without having somebody from Homicide along with me."
    "Good call, Chip," I told him. "Let's do it."
    We stepped into the elevator and rode up one floor to the lobby, where a sweet young thing was "womaning" a reception desk and switchboard. By mutual if unspoken agreement, Detective Raymond was the one who presented his credentials. There was no need to bring up the word homicide until we had a positive identification.
    "We need to see Bill Whitten, please," Chip said. "I believe he's expecting us."
    Moments later, we were back in the elevator riding up to the sixth floor. The interior walls of the elevator were covered with some kind of upholstered material that still reeked of new dye. Because of my involvement with the syndicate that bought Belltown Terrace, I know a little about the development and relative cost of downtown Seattle real estate. This particular six-story building—underground parking garage, upholstered elevator, and all—hadn't come cheap. An operation like this represented a big chunk of investment capital, especially considering that Designer Genes International was the building's sole occupant.
    Chip Raymond was evidently having much the same thought. He ran one finger across the plush material that covered the walls. "No wonder cancer research is so expensive," he said.
    I nodded. "Whatever kind of genes we're talking about, they must be solid-gold plated."
    Just then, the elevator door opened and we stepped off into another lobby with a desk occupied by a vividly made up, middle-aged lady who greeted us with a gracious smile when Chip presented his card. "Mr. Whitten's on the phone right now," she said. "I'm his assistant, Deanna Compton. He asked that I show you into the conference room. Would either of you care for