He laughed and approached the desk to shake her hand. “I’m surprised to see you still here. Didn’t you work midnight to eight yesterday?”
“I wish. No, my shifted started at four o’clock yesterday afternoon. I should’ve clocked out at midnight, same as tonight. But all those girls came in on the bus and it didn’t seem ….” She paused and cut she her eyes to the officer stationed at the desk. After a moment, she went on, “… It seemed better to have a female officer present.”
That was all she said, but it spoke volumes. The duty officer lowered her eyes and stared at the counter. He assumed the unspoken subtext involved sexual harassment—or worse—of female prisoners. It was not a topic he wanted to have illuminated, in any case.
“Fair enough. I have a report on the protestors who were sent over to the PPC unit.”
“The chief left for supper.”
“Yeah, I figured, I didn’t see his Hummer in the lot. You’re still on the task force, though, right? I can fill you in. We can go somewhere and I’ll buy you a drinkable cup of coffee. You must be running on fumes at this point.”
She twisted her lips to the side and considered the offer. “Thanks, but I can’t leave. I’m in charge until the shift change. We’ll borrow the chief’s office so we’ll have some quiet.”
“Lead the way.”
He trailed her through the maze of desks, holding cells, and interview rooms. In the rear left corner of the building, they reached a large square office with a shade pulled down over the glass door. She tried the handle; it was unlocked.
She opened the door, and he followed her inside. She turned on the light and gestured around. “Have a seat.”
He took one of the visitor’s chairs in front of the captain’s desk and watched her eye the massive leather seat behind the desk. After a moment, she thought the better of it and claimed the chair next to Landon’s.
Observes the hierarchy even when senior officer not present, he noted automatically.
She removed a small spiral notebook and a ballpoint pen from the breast pocket of her uniform shirt, uncapped the pen, and positioned it over the notepad. “You don’t mind if I take notes, do you?” She asked the question by rote, with no real interest in his answer.
“I’d rather you didn’t, to be honest. But I understand if you want to be sure you report accurately to the chief tomorrow. So I just ask that after you’ve briefed him face to face, you get rid of any notes.”
Her face tightened. “Destroying official documents? I don’t know Landon.”
“Trust me, it’s not destruction of evidence. You’re just protecting the top-secret nature of this program.”
After a moment, she shrugged. “You’re the boss.”
“I appreciate your accommodation.” He smiled at her. With that out of the way, he plunged into the purpose for his visit. “All nine of the targets who were identified last night have been cleared and released.”
“I heard about the students earlier today. Six of them were dropped off at the protest site.”
“That’s correct,” he confirmed.
“And you cleared the other three, too?”
“I personally interviewed and assessed the remaining targets—Mr. Barefoot, Mr. Blank, and Professor Robinson—and made the determination to cut them loose.”
“Based on what your program said?” She looked up from the notes she was writing in neat script.
“Based partially on the artificial intelligence recommendation and partially on my own assessment of their potential latent criminality.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand the point of your fancy program then. Cesare pinged them as people it predicted would commit crimes, right? So, you just have a chat with them and send them on their way? I don’t see the point, Landon. No offense.”
He smiled, but there was no warmth behind it. “None taken, Kara. Look, Barefoot will commit another violent crime. I have no doubt. That’s why my team has been instructed to set up wiretaps, electronic surveillance, and a ground team to monitor him. When he moves, we’ll know. And we’ll let you know.”
“Good. What about the other two?” Her tension eased somewhat, replaced by a measure of satisfaction.
“Charlie Robinson is, I believe, a paper tiger.”
He watched as she doodled a flower in the top corner of the page. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning that he’s going to continue to be involved in protests, agitation, and demonstrations. It’s more or less part of his job description to present as politically engaged.”
“I don’t like that.”
“Well, there’s a natural check on his behavior. He has to walk a line if he wants to keep his position at the university. So, while Cesare raises concerns about his activism, on balance I believe he’ll keep his protesting behaviors on the peaceful, legal side of the line—at least most of the time. Don’t worry, my team will keep an eye on the professor, as well. Our monitoring simply won’t be as robust as what we put in place for Barefoot.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
“And that leaves Sam Blank.”
“He’s the one the chief’s most interested in,” Kara observed.
Landon found himself leaning forward. “Why is that?”
Kara shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
“I’d like to know. Cesare didn’t surface any flags on Blank. And my interview showed no evidence that he’s committed a serious crime in the past or that he’s inclined to commit any future crimes. His inclusion in the group is puzzling.”
“I thought Blank had an outstanding warrant?” she mused.
“For pissing against a tree. That’s hardly the sort of crime Cesare is designed to predict and prevent. I’m not expending any resources on Blank or setting a team on him. There’s no reason to.”
Her eyes flashed. “The chief really wants him, Landon.”
“There’s nothing there, Kara.”
She lifted both hands toward the ceiling in frustration. “Willard saw his face on the traffic camera and recognized him. Said he had a warrant. I didn’t know it was for public urination.”
“Did you know he’s deaf? He has a total hearing loss. I had to scramble find an interpreter.”
He stared hard at her. She looked back unblinkingly. Then, after a moment, she shifted her gaze to stare down at her little notepad.
“Would’ve been better for him if he were blind.” She said it under her breath, more to herself than to him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shrugged.
He waited, but she just capped her pen and closed up her notebook. “Thanks for the update. I’ll be sure to pass it on to Chief Carlson.”
21
It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. The only problem was, she knew it was true.
Patrick had cheated on his wife with her best friend. Her best friend had slept with her brother. Sasha wasn’t sure who she was madder at, Allie or Patrick. All she knew for sure was that she’d been betrayed by both of them.
She snuggled up against Connelly and watched the flames dance in the darkness, but she found she couldn’t listen to the stories the others were telling. The words crashed against her like waves against rocks. But she wasn’t able to absorb them because every story was a new opportunity to probe and pick at the pain that rose in her chest.
Had Allie stayed with her that summer just to get closer to Patrick? Or did it go back even further? Was Patrick the reason she hadn’t moved into her sorority house but had asked Sasha to room with her sophomore year? She’d definitely met Patrick when he visited in the spring of her freshman year. She tried to remember when she and Allie had grown close. Was it before or after her brothers’ road trip to see her?
Her thoughts continued to unspool:
Had it been Patrick’s idea or her idea to try rock climbing together? Was he just trying to weasel his way into Sasha’s confidence to gain access to her roommate?
Her mind got stuck on ano
ther truth: Patrick had been about to turn thirty, Allie had been a sophomore in college. What had he been thinking? What had she been thinking?
Sasha was spiraling, and the questions were making her sicker and sicker to the point where she really thought she might vomit. She focused on taking deeper, slower breaths and paying closer attention to the moment: the smell of the fire; the crackle of the logs; and the taste of the olive brine lingering on her tongue.
Connelly nudged her shoulder with his. “Did you hear me?”
She shook her head. “No, sorry.”
“I said Ryan asked if it’s okay if the kids sleep over tonight. Daniella and Julian have an in-service day tomorrow, so it doesn’t matter if they stay up late. The teenagers all have school in the morning, but Siobhan and Colin are going to stay anyway. What do you think?”
What she thought was that there was no chance any of them would get any sleep. But she also knew that Finn and Fiona loved sleepovers with their cousins more than almost anything else in the world.
“Sure. I’ll run home and get their pajamas and toothbrushes,” she offered eagerly. Anything to get out of the rest of the bonfire.
“No need. I had a feeling this is how tonight would end up, so I packed them a bag. They’re all set.”
Sometimes having the most competent husband in the world was a real pain.
“Great,” she said weakly.
He squinted at her in the firelight. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” she lied. “I’ll go get the kids ready for bed.”
“I guess it is getting pretty late. I’ll help you.”
“No, don’t be silly. Enjoy the fire. I’ve got this.”
She flashed him a smile and fled the circle.
She herded her sleepy children into the bathroom, washed their saucy faces and sticky hands, and helped them brush their teeth.
As she was easing Fiona’s pajama top over her head, Fiona asked in a muffled voice, “Why are the grownups all telling stories about a stranger?”
Sasha smoothed the fleece unicorn pajamas over her daughter’s shoulders before answering. “Those are stories about your Uncle Patrick.”
Finn frowned and hopped toward her with one leg through his pajama bottoms and one leg out.
“Easy buddy, you’re going to trip.” She reached out to balance him and help him pull up his pants.
Once he was steady on his feet, he fisted his hands on his hips. “we don’t have an Uncle Patrick. We have an Uncle Sean and an Uncle Ryan.”
“And an Aunt Riley and an Aunt Jordan,” Fiona added.
“And we have an Uncle Friend Hank and an Uncle Friend Chris and Uncle Friend Daniel, but they’re not our real uncles,” Finn informed her.
“Right. Just like Aunt Naya and Aunt Maisy aren’t really our aunts. But we don’t know anybody called Uncle Patrick.” Fiona fixed Sasha with a look she recognized from the mirror.
Heaven help her, she was being deposed but not one, but two, mini-lawyers.
She sank down onto the plush bathmat and tucked her heels under her butt, then pulled Finn and Fiona close, balancing one on each thigh.
“You’re right. You don’t know your Uncle Patrick. That’s because he died before you were born. Patrick was mommy’s brother. He was also Uncle Sean’s brother and Uncle Ryan’s brother.”
There was a long silence while they considered this.
“So, Pap Pat and Grandma Val are his mom and dad?” Finn asked, seeking clarification.
“That’s right, honey.”
Fiona wrinkled her forehead. “When did he die? Did Daddy ever meet him?”
Sasha’s heart heaved in her chest. For a moment, she didn’t know if she’d be able to get the words out. After a breath, she did.
“No, Daddy never met your Uncle Patrick. He died when I was in college. A long time before I knew your Daddy,” she explained.
“Did the cousins know Uncle Patrick?” Fiona asked.
“No. He died even before Liam was born. That’s why we’re having the bonfire tonight. He died twenty years ago today. So, this is a memory night. It’s like a birthday or anniversary, only he’s not here.”
Finn reached up and stroked her cheek. “That sounds sad, Mommy.”
“It is sad. But it’s also happy to remember people who died. That way they live on through your memories even though they’re gone.”
He buried his face in her neck.
“Uncle Patrick doesn’t have any kids?” Fiona asked.
Sasha looked at her daughter over her son’s head. As she stared into the green eyes that were so like her own, she really couldn’t begin to formulate an answer. The answer was no. Right? And yet, she couldn’t shake the image of the student outside the library.
She realized they were waiting for an answer.
“No, no kids.” She smoothed Finn’s hair and pulled Fiona close for a moment. “Come on, let’s get you two snuggled up in your sleeping bags.”
After the twins were settled in—or as settled in as they were likely to be in a basement with their six cousins, Sasha passed out hugs and kisses, dimmed the lights, and implored the kids to keep it down a dull roar. She explained that if the adults could pretend they were sleeping, they could stay awake. But if they made so much noise that someone had to come downstairs and intervene, they would have to go to sleep. The teenagers nodded along sagely as she doled out advice on how to stay just this side of the law.
She climbed the stairs to the kitchen and was digging around in the refrigerator looking for the sparkling water, when her dad appeared in the hallway.
“I didn’t know you were in here, Dad.”
“Had to hit the head, honey.”
“Delightful.”
“Hand me one of those bubbly waters, would you?”
She grabbed two at random and passed one to her dad. “I assume you’re not fussy about flavor?”
“You assume correctly. What were you doing in the basement?”
“Getting the kids ready for bed—or trying to, at any rate.”
Her dad smiled a distant, fond smile. “I remember the sleepovers you four used to have with your pals. Those were some good times.”
Her stomach lurched. The last “pal” who’d ever slept at her parents’ house had been Allie.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Sasha, are you feeling okay? You’re awfully pale, and you’ve been quiet all night.”
She leaned back against the counter and braced herself with her elbows. “Dad, can I tell you something?”
He eyed her cautiously. “Yes?”
He didn’t sound too sure, but she needed to tell someone, so she forged ahead. “I want to show you a picture.”
“Okay.”
She pulled out her phone and swiped open her photo gallery. Once she found the photo of the boy, she enlarged it and passed the phone to her dad.
He squinted at the image for a moment, then moved so that he was positioned directly under the lights shining down on the kitchen sink. He angled the phone and cocked his head.
“Now where would that have been taken? Is that Pat hanging out after baseball practice?”
“I think you know it’s not, Dad. I spotted that kid this morning on campus at Chatham.”
He handed her back the phone. “Huh.”
“Dad, I went to see Karyn today.”
His shoulders stiffened, and his face turned stony. “Leave it alone, Sasha.”
“Leave what alone?”
“Don’t start digging around in the past. You need to let this go.”
“Riley and Jordan said—”
“Sasha! Stop. Don’t do this.” He cut her off sharply.
She stepped back and blinked at him, wide-eyed. She couldn’t recall a time when he’d spoken to her with such anger.
He softened his tone. “Tell me you’ll let this go. Please.”
“I’ll let it go,” she lied.
22
Leo glanced at his wife as they hurried
down the street from Ryan and Riley’s home. She’d refused her parents’ offer of a lift, saying it was a nice night for a walk. It was a nice, if frosty, night. The sky was clear, the crescent moon was a dim sliver, and the stars were bright and plentiful.
But it wasn’t the night air that caused Sasha to turn down the ride. She was brittle and stiff while she said her goodbyes to her parents.
“Finn was already asleep when I went down to tell the kids goodnight,” he remarked.
“Hmm. Good for him. I doubt Fiona will sleep a wink.”
They walked in silence for a bit. Then he said, “Something happen with your dad?”
She turned her head sharply to stare at him, then laughed softly. “No flies on you. Yeah, we had a bit of a disagreement. Hey, you never told me what you found out about the black van.”
It was a change of subject, but a fair one. He had promised to fill her in if she agreed to go to the bonfire, after all.
“They aren’t federal agents.”
“I’m actually somewhat surprised to hear that.”
He’d been surprised, too. The tactics she’d described were straight out of the shadow agency playbook. Not that he’d tell her that.
She tilted her head. “So, what then? Private military contractors?”
“The muscle, maybe. A lot of those guys are independent contractors. Even if they work for a PMC, they freelance on the side. But the program isn’t being run by a PMC or a defense contractor or anything like that. Believe it or not, it’s a tech company.
“A tech company. Like Silicon Valley?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Well, originally. A guy named Landon Lewis, who used to work for PicaPage and then NetworkUp, left the social media sphere to start a company called PPC. It’s headquartered in Bakery Square now.”
“Just a stone’s throw away.”
“Yep.”
“So, what’s that stand for—PPC?”
He raked his fingers through his hair. “That’s an excellent question. I don’t know. All I know is that PPC isn’t officially connected with any of the federal intelligence or law enforcement agencies. But it does receive federal grants to develop tools to be used in predictive and preventive policing.”
Inevitable Discovery Page 11