Inevitable Discovery Read online

  “What?”

  “You know, that kid. The one they had the protest for.”

  “Are you saying … She shot Vaughn Tabor?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Huh.”

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “No, you’ve been very helpful, Officer Holtzman. Thank you.”

  He ended the call and scratched his neck, pondering his next move. Very helpful, indeed.

  He merged onto the Liberty Bridge and pointed himself toward his office. He made a mental note to avoid the massive sinkhole that had swallowed a city bus just weeks earlier as he inched through the snarled traffic.

  26

  Sasha arrived at Charlie Robinson’s apartment ten minutes early for their meeting. She stayed in the car and checked emails, then scrolled through her social media apps. She’d found Allie—or at least she thought it was Allie—on two different sites and had sent a friend request to her profile on each.

  Alexandra MacManus was the right age to be Allie and had attended, but not graduated from, Georgetown. Born in California. And she looked like an age-advanced version of the teenager Sasha had shared a dorm room with twenty years ago. Alexandra MacManus, if she was Allie, had her privacy settings fairly locked down. Sasha was unable to see who her friends and family members were, which made it a little harder to be sure she was right about the woman’s identity.

  She took pains to craft her messages to be vague enough that they wouldn’t set off any alarms bells if this poor woman wasn’t her old roommate and lighthearted enough that if it was Allie, she would have no reason not to respond. At least that’s what Sasha hoped. So far, though, there hadn’t been a response to either message, even though they both showed as having been read.

  She shrugged. She’d done what she could do for now. It was time to compartmentalize her search for Patrick’s (possible) son until after her meeting with Charlie Robinson and Sam Blank.

  She glanced at the time, killed the engine, and removed her keys. As she was exiting the car, her cell phone vibrated. She pulled out the device and checked the display. It was a text from Connelly.

  Any word from Allie?

  Not yet.

  But if she’s in Cali,

  it’s still pretty early.

  True.

  Her husband had been surprisingly accepting of her theory when she’d filled him in over breakfast. She’d expected him to tell her she was jumping to conclusions or straining the evidence to fit what she believed. Instead, he’d agreed that the student in the picture looked an awful lot like her brother. He’d also conceded that the timing lined up. If Patrick and Allie had, in fact, had an affair, the boy could be their son. And he seemed to think the circumstantial evidence pointed to a liaison. In short, he backed her theory. A theory that wasn’t exactly air-tight. It was more like the colander of theories, punched full of loads of small holes.

  Still, he was supporting her, and she’d take it. She wondered if the unexpected way his father had materialized in his life had anything to do with his reaction. He’d spent his teens and the better part of his twenties looking for his dad. One day, long after he’d given up the search in any meaningful way, a messenger appeared on their doorstep with a message. Duc Nguyen was dying of liver cancer and needed a transplant from his son to stay alive. The touching family reunion did lose some of its shine when Connelly learned that his father was a murderous gangster.

  She could only hope that any introduction to Patrick and Allie’s son—if that’s who the kid was—would end on a happier note than had Connelly’s meeting with his dad.

  Another text pinged. She glanced down at it and smiled. Connelly had snapped a picture of Finn and Fiona, both tousle-haired and sleepy-eyed and still in their pajamas:

  Leaving R & R’s now.

  Kids send their love.

  See you soon.

  Love you all.

  She stowed the phone in her bag, wound her scarf around her neck to stave off the chill, and hurried up the stairs to Charlie Robinson’s apartment building as a gust of cold wind caught the ends of the scarf and lifted them. One week out, the weather forecast was calling for snow for Thanksgiving.

  Thanksgiving. How would Mom do this year? Twenty years. This was a big one.

  She hadn’t really interacted with her mom at the bonfire. She’d been convinced Valentina would have taken one look at her face and known she’d gotten into it with Riley and Jordan. The last thing she wanted to do was talk with her mother about Patrick’s possible infidelity. At some point, she’d have to address it.

  Now, though, she had a more pressing task. She pressed the buzzer for the Robinson/Jones apartment.

  A voice crackled over the intercom. “Sasha?”

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  “Come on up.”

  A metallic buzz signaled the door unlocking. She stepped inside, welcoming the blast of overheated air that hit her in the face. The elevator waited in the lobby, doors open. She walked past it to the stairway, pushed on the metal fire door, and took the stairs to the third floor two at a time.

  She had just rapped her fist against the apartment door when her phone rang. The door opened as she pulled out her phone to answer the call. She didn’t recognize the number.

  “Sasha McCandless-Connelly,” she said briskly.

  At the same time, she held up one finger to indicate to the wiry man inside the door that she needed a minute. He nodded and ducked back inside, leaving the door open a crack for her.

  “It’s Allie Peterman. I understand you’ve been trying to get in touch with me.”

  She noted that Allie used her maiden name rather than confirm that she was, in fact, now known as Alexandra MacManus. Distancing language. But why?

  “Allie, yes. I sent you some messages.” She recalled their old friendship and smiled in an attempt to infuse her voice with warmth.

  “What do you want?” Allie’s voice was flat and icy.

  So much for warmth. She’d give plainspoken truth a shot.

  “Yesterday was the twentieth anniversary of Patrick’s death. Obviously, that was on my mind, and, of course, that meant I was thinking about you, too.”

  When Allie answered, her voice had thawed, but only by a degree or two. “Wow, I guess it has been twenty years. But I’m not sure why you’d reach out to me now after all this time.”

  “I did try to get in touch with you after you left school. Didn’t your parents give you any of my messages?”

  “I don’t remember. It’s been a long time.”

  “Yeah, it has. But I’ve thought of you a lot over the years. I always wondered what happened to you and how you were doing. So you’re married? Do you have any kids?”

  “I’m going to say this plainly, Sasha. I don’t wish you ill. But I’m not interested in resuming our friendship. I called simply to let you know that so you wouldn’t harbor any fantasy about us reconnecting.”

  Well. There was no reason not to go for it now. “Is that because you were sleeping with my brother when he died?”

  That was a long silence, then Allie said stiffly, “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m pretty sure you heard me.”

  “I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

  Sasha plowed ahead, hurrying to get her questions out before Allie hung up on her. “Were you pregnant, Allie? At Patrick’s funeral, did you know you were carrying his baby? Or did you find out later, maybe when you went home for Christmas break? Is that why you didn’t come back to school?”

  “Listen carefully. If you ever contact me again, I will sue you into oblivion. Leave me alone, and leave my family alone.” Allie’s voice shook with fury as she ended the call.

  Sasha took a moment to let the rush of cortisol wash through her. The call had been tense and combative, but it had served its purpose. Allie’s reaction—and the crucial fact that she hadn’t outright denied any of Sasha’s accusations—confirmed that she was on the right track. A
llie had been sleeping with Patrick. And she’d gotten pregnant.

  Sasha thought making progress would bring a feeling of vindication. Instead, she felt lousy. Unsettled and rattled.

  Put it away for now. It’s time to focus on Charlie’s issue.

  Sasha pushed open the door to Charlie Robinson and Raquel Jones’ apartment and stepped inside. It was warm and homey and smelled like cinnamon spice. Charlie and Raquel sat at a small oak table, each cradling a cup of coffee in their hands. Charlie stood.

  “Can I get you a coffee or a glass of water?” he asked.

  “I’d love a coffee, black. Can I just hang this here?” She unbuttoned her coat and gestured to the rack inside the door.

  “Please,” Raquel said.

  She unwound her scarf and hung her coat and scarf from the hook, then joined them in the kitchen. Charlie handed her a glazed ceramic mug of steaming hot coffee.

  “Thank you.” She wrapped her hands around it to warm them.

  “Is everything okay?” Charlie asked. “Your call sounded liked it got kinda heated.”

  “We weren’t listening on purpose, promise. But the acoustics here are weird. Your voice carried,” Raquel broke in.

  Sasha pasted on a smile. “No worries. That call was about an unrelated matter. I’m sorry you had to hear that. I’ll put my phone away in a moment while we talk. But before we get started, professor, can I just ask you a question? It relates to that other matter.”

  He wrinkled his brow and threw her a puzzled look. “Sure?” he said, his voice rising at the end.

  “Thanks.” She handed him the picture she’d snapped of Patrick’s double in front of the library. “This is a long shot, but do you happen to know this student? Maybe you’ve had him in one of your classes?”

  He studied the picture, then shook his head slowly. “No. He’s not one of my students. Looks familiar, though. But I can’t place him, sorry.” He handed the phone back to her.

  “Thanks for looking.” She stowed the phone, disappointed but not surprised.

  “Hang on. Was that photograph taken in front of the library?”

  “It was.” Her traitorous heart ticked up a beat.

  He nodded. “Yeah, I don’t know his name. But he works in the library. That’s where I know him from. I’m sure of it. I’ve seen him shelving books and once or twice at the circulation desk. If you need to interview him or whatever, you could probably find him there.”

  Her pulse went wild. She called on her meditation training and her Krav Maga-practiced calm to wrestle it back into line. “Thanks. That’s very helpful.” She scanned the cozy room. “Is Mr. Blank not joining us?”

  Charlie and Raquel exchanged a long glance. Raquel walked to the kitchen, picked up a sheet of paper that was sitting on the counter beside the coffee maker, and handed it to Sasha.

  As she scanned the short note, Charlie said, “He was gone when I woke up this morning. He left that.”

  “What does he mean about the Milltown PD not being finished with him?”

  Another look passed between the couple.

  She leaned forward, “As we discussed last night on the phone, I’m your attorney. I’m representing you. Anything you share with me is confidential. You can tell me.”

  “Sam was there,” Charlie said simply.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He was on the scene when Vaughn Tabor was killed. He ran, but the cops, they saw him.”

  She was quiet for a long moment. “Last night, we discussed a cause of action centered on improper profiling. This is … something different.”

  “I know. And they did that. That happened. But also, this is—I … we have to help Sam.” Charlie stopped and grimaced in frustration.

  Raquel placed her hand on his arm and rubbed it. She spoke in a soothing tone. “Listen, Charlie. Just slow down, babe. Start at the beginning and tell Ms. McCandless-Connelly everything that happened with Sam.” She cut her eyes toward Sasha. “Right?”

  “Exactly right,” she encouraged. “And don’t leave anything out. Don’t edit or censor yourself, Charlie. Don’t make any judgments about what’s important to the case or most helpful to Sam. Okay? I need you to just tell me your story.”

  He let out a shaky breath. “Okay. Yeah, I can do that.”

  She gave him an encouraging smile. “Great. Now, I’m going to take some notes. I don’t want to distract you so just keep talking.” She removed a legal pad and a pen from her bag and settled in at the table.

  Most of what Charlie went over tracked what he said on the phone the previous night, and they moved quickly through the retelling.

  All the men who’d been taken into the van were minorities. The students were all let go. But he, Mr. Barefoot, and Mr. Blank were detained, and, eventually, each of the three was interviewed by the man in charge.

  “The man who was in charge, did you catch a name?”

  “No,” Charlie answered.

  She took a folder from her bag and slid it across the table. “Is this him?”

  Charlie opened the folder and gaped down at the photograph she’d printed from Landon Lewis’ now-defunct NetworkUp profile page. He looked at her as if she were a magician.

  “Yes! He’s a bit older, but this is definitely the guy.”

  “His name is Landon Lewis.”

  “Do you recall any details of his predictive policing program that you didn’t mention when we spoke yesterday?

  He went quiet, thinking, then shook his head. “No. I told you everything last night. Oh, except he mentioned somebody named Cesare.”

  She shook her head. “Cesare isn’t a person, it’s a program—or an artificial intelligence, more accurately.”

  “Cesare is the AI that tagged me as someone with latent criminality?”

  “Yes. He calls it a predictive and preventive crime tool.”

  “PPC,” Raquel interjected. “That’s probably what it stands for, predictive and preventive crime.”

  Sasha laughed softly. “It probably is. Thanks for pointing that out; it’s been bothering me. So, Mr. Lewis told you that the AI identified you, Mr. Blank, and Mr. Barefoot all as individuals who were predicted to commit serious crimes?”

  “Something like that. Barefoot’s an ex-con. My arrests have mainly related to my protest activities.”

  She noted the use of the qualifier ‘mainly’ but let it pass without comment.

  “And Mr. Blank?”

  “Sam relieved himself on a tree.”

  “Pardon?”

  “He had an outstanding warrant for public urination. Which, you know, is total BS.”

  “So he believed the real reason he was picked up was because he witnessed Vaughn Tabor’s shooting?”

  Charlie pursed his lips and eyed her. “You don’t?”

  “I don’t care to jump to conclusions. But I also don’t believe in coincidences. So let’s just say it smells bad.”

  “You mean it reeks,” Raquel corrected her.

  “Who else knew?”

  “I told Barefoot, but nobody else was around. By that point, the students had been released. The guards—Fox and Scott—were stationed outside the hallway where our cell was. So they couldn’t have heard. I mean … at least not in real time.”

  “What do you mean by that? Do you think you may have been recorded?

  He shrugged. “Maybe. There was a ceiling-mounted camera, but we all kept our backs to it most of the time. And I don’t know if there’s an audio feed. But we kept things pretty quiet. I think we can assume nobody else knows.”

  “Except for the cops who shot Vaughn, you mean.” Raquel’s voice was a knife’s edge.

  “She has a point. Surely they told Lewis why they wanted Sam to be detained.”

  Charlie traced circles on the table with his finger. “I don’t think they did. That Lewis guy seemed baffled. His Cesare program didn’t flag Sam as a ‘latent criminal.’ And peeing in a park? I mean, come on. But he didn’t ask anything about the sho
oting. He kept trying to get at what the real reason was because public urination didn’t hold water.”

  “Neither did Sam.”

  Raquel’s crack lightened the mood, and Charlie’s face brightened for a moment. When he finished laughing, his eyes grew serious. “As horrific as that detention center was, I think Sam might have been safer there than he is on the streets. Lewis and his goons are nightmare fuel, but at least they have some, I don’t know, internal code they follow. Milltown PD, though …”

  He trailed off, but he didn’t need to finish the sentence. They were all thinking the same thing.

  Sasha drained her coffee mug, then said, “Okay, but surely Sam knew that he wouldn’t be safe if he left your place. So why did he bolt? You think someone got to him?”

  “Nah, he was crashed out on the futon when I went to bed. I think he just woke up spooked. I mean, he knows why he got picked up, and he’s right: if the police department wants to silence him, they aren’t gonna stop just because this PPC program cut him loose.”

  “And he didn’t tell you what he saw—that night, I mean?”

  Charlie shook his head. “Nah.”

  She doodled a snowflake in the corner of her notepad. “Okay, last night, I proposed filing a civil rights complaint against Lewis and the PPC. That’s a long shot because of all the secrecy around the program. Realistically, the best chance of success would be to name the Milltown Police Department as a codefendant under the theory that they must be collaborating with Lewis. Last night, I thought that was awfully tenuous. But then I saw Landon Lewis’ picture.”

  “And?” Charlie asked, wrinkling his brow.

  “And I realized I’d seen him before. When I went to get Jordana from the police station, he was coming in when we were leaving. He held the door for us. At the time, I assumed one of the other protestors had also called a lawyer. But it was him. So I think we have a basis to name the PD.”