Inevitable Discovery Page 7

  Robinson smirked. “My political views, huh? You sure that’s what your fancy program bases its determination on?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I couldn’t help noticing that there weren’t any white people thrown into that van by your jackbooted thugs. And no women either. The scary Black and brown man stereotype isn’t exactly cutting edge. It’s pretty worn out at this point, don’t you think?”

  Landon gritted his teeth. He’d also noted the skewed demographics, but he’d calibrated the scoring criteria himself and was quite sure there was no bias.

  He opened his mouth to argue with Robinson, but caught himself in time. “I don’t need to explain my methods to you.”

  “Your big top-secret program’s racist. That’s cool.”

  “Ces—the program can’t be racist, professor. It’s a series of ones and zeros.”

  “Sure, whatever you say.”

  Landon’s pulse shot up. He could feel it throbbing in his neck. He shot out of the chair and advanced on the shackled man. “You might want to rein in your derision, Professor Robinson. You are, after all, in a vulnerable position.” He grabbed Robinson’s collar and shook him.

  Robinson’s smirk vanished. “And you say I’m the one with latent violent tendencies?”

  Landon exhaled and dropped his hands to his side. “So, your cellmates, Mr. Barefoot and Mr. Blank—what do you think of them?”

  “Oh, I get it. You think I’m the most likely to snitch because I’ve got a professional job. Sorry, man. I’m not your weak link.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. Weren’t you listening? I told the credit card company to get stuffed rather than turn on my roommate.”

  “Your loyalty to two total strangers is touching. I wonder, then, who might be interested in talking to me. Mr. Barefoot is an ex-con, so he, presumably, knows firsthand how valuable information can be to law enforcement. I could see him being amenable to snitching, as you say.”

  Landon caught the shadow of uncertainty that passed over Charlie Robinson’s face. Robinson thought Barefoot might be capable of it. He probed further.

  “But I’m more intrigued by Samuel Blank. What do you think he might have to say?”

  He searched Robinson’s face. It was expressionless. Too expressionless.

  Robinson dropped his gaze and shrugged awkwardly, his wrists still bound to his hips and his chains jangling. “No idea.”

  “I think he’s my weak link,” he bluffed. “I predict Mr. Blank’s going to sing like the proverbial canary.”

  Robinson snorted. “Doubt it.” After a beat, he went on, “You know he’s deaf, right?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sam. He’s deaf, and he doesn’t speak. So unless you have someone in this squalid pit who knows sign language, you’re not going to be able to question him about anything, let alone get him to squeal.” Amusement danced in Robinson’s eyes.

  Rage bubbled up; Landon felt his blood coursing through his veins, hot and fast. His face heated. The Milltown PD should have told him. He couldn’t possibly locate a qualified ASL interpreter on no notice. Any third-party contractor would have to be thoroughly vetted, pass a security clearance, and sign a nondisclosure agreement. He needed lead time.

  He growled. “And you know this how?”

  Robinson hesitated. “I can sign a little. My auntie lost her hearing as a kid. Scarlet fever. My mom taught me so I could talk to her.”

  The knot of anger in Landon’s chest loosened. He bared his teeth. “Your aunt’s loss is my gain. You’ll interpret.”

  He expected instant capitulation, but his prisoner surprised him. Charlie Robinson raised his head and stared at him, eyes ablaze.

  “I’ll do it. On one condition. I get a phone call first. I want to speak to Raquel. Otherwise, you can do what you have to, but I won’t help you.”

  Landon didn’t like it, but that’s what compromise felt like: everyone was equally unhappy. Robinson had leverage, and he knew it.

  He sighed. “Five minutes. No more.”

  12

  Sasha was backing her station wagon into a spot in the lot behind the offices when her cell phone rang. She glanced at the display and accepted the call.

  “Hi, Naya.”

  “Hey, Mac, I found your brother’s widow.”

  Sasha was adept at electronic research, quite adept. But Naya was better.

  “That was fast.”

  “She wasn’t hiding. That makes it easy.”

  Sasha killed the engine, slung her bag over her shoulder, and got out of the car. She hit the remote lock and headed toward the building. “Still, I owe you one. I just pulled in. I’m on my way up to the office. Want me to stop at Jake’s and get you another one of those frothy abominations? My treat.”

  Naya groaned. “Pass. I think I’m getting a cavity from all the …”

  “Sugar?”

  “Bite your tongue. Stop by my office when you get up here. I’ll give you what I have on Karyn Fletcher.”

  “Fletcher? She remarried?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. See you in two.”

  She slipped into the building through the employee entrance and took the back stairs two at a time. Her heels clattered against the wood steps and her heart clattered against her rib cage. Karyn had remarried?

  She reminded herself that it had been two decades since Patrick’s death. But still … the news made her pulse flutter and her palms go clammy.

  She tried to imagine starting a new life if, Heaven forbid, Connelly were to die and her ordinarily overactive imagination failed her.

  She waved a greeting to Caroline, who was leaving Will’s office, and ducked into Naya’s. The windows were cracked, letting in a rush of late autumn air. The room had to be sixty degrees, at most. She eyed Naya’s flushed face and decided not to comment on the temperature. Carl had confided that one of the reasons he’d declared the month a sugar- and alcohol-free one was that Naya was going through “The Change,” and he’d read that avoiding sugar and booze might help her symptoms.

  Sasha thought it was achingly adorable that he’d done the research and launched a mission, but they both knew Naya would murder them in cold blood if she found out that they’d discussed her menopausal state behind her back, so Carl had sworn her to secrecy and she readily agreed.

  “Thanks again for doing this for me,” she chirped as Naya fanned herself with a legal journal.

  “No problem. Here’s what I found.” Naya swiveled her chair around to pluck a thick printout from the printer. She clamped a binder clip around the stack of papers and handed the bundle to Sasha.

  Sasha flipped through the information, scanning more than reading. Karyn Fletcher, formerly Karyn McCandless, nee Karyn Bishop, resided in the northern suburb of Franklin Park with her husband Brinkley Fletcher and their three children, Britt, Brad, and Brianna, ages ten, seven, and five. Karyn was a stay-at-home mom. Brinkley worked as a pharmacist.

  “These kids are all too young,” Sasha mused.

  “Too young for what?”

  She blinked. She hadn’t meant to say that aloud. She hesitated, searching for a plausible lie, but Naya was giving her the stink eye.

  “To be Patrick’s.”

  “Well, yeah. Karyn didn’t marry her second husband until 2007. The oldest was born two years later.”

  Sasha nodded.

  Naya crossed her arms over her chest, pinned Sasha with a look, and waited.

  Sasha looked back at her blankly for nearly half a minute, then sighed and dropped the printout into her bag. She took out her phone and pulled up the picture of the kid she’d seen in front of the library. She handed it to Naya, who studied it for a moment.

  “So? He kind of puts me in the mind of Fiona. Who is he?”

  Sasha nodded toward Naya’s computer. “Search for the 1987 District All-Star Baseball Team. There should be a Post-Gazette article.”

  Naya’s fingers
flew over the keyboard. “Got it.”

  “Enlarge the picture.” She walked around Naya’s desk to stay behind her and see it for herself.

  Naya right-clicked on the photograph and zoomed in on it.

  “See him?”

  Naya let out a long, low whistle. “Yeah, I see him. Second from the center in the back row. Caption says he’s first baseman Patrick R. McCandless.”

  “Yep.”

  Naya turned her gaze to the image on Sasha’s cell phone and then back to the photo of the baseball team.

  “Holy smokes. They could be twins. Who is this kid?” She waved Sasha’s cell phone at her.

  Sasha reached for it and pocketed it. “I have no idea, but I guess he’s not Karyn and Patrick’s kid. I saw him after I dropped Jordana off this morning, and I can’t stop thinking about him.”

  “I can see why. But, no, there’s nothing in Karyn Fletcher’s background that suggests she has a college-aged kid. The timing works, though, Right?”

  Sasha nodded. “Yeah, if Karyn was pregnant when Patrick died, that baby would be nineteen now.”

  “Maybe she put him up for adoption?” Naya suggested in a tentative tone.

  “Maybe so.”

  There was a long pause. Sasha tried not to shiver as a blast of cold air whooshed through the window and hit the back of her neck.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I guess I’m going to go see Karyn and ask her.”

  Naya opened her mouth as if she were going to argue against that plan, but something about Sasha’s expression must have made her change her mind. She clamped her mouth shut and nodded.

  After a moment she said, “Let me know if you want company.”

  “I appreciate it, but I think this is something I need to do on my own. Thanks for finding her.” She knew her voice sounded unnaturally tight, but she couldn’t manage a more casual tone.

  “Sure thing. You sure you’re okay?”

  She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she nodded and bolted from the office. She ran directly into Will Volmer, who was on his way into Naya’s office.

  “Oops,” he said as he reached out an arm to brace her.

  “Sorry.”

  “Not a problem. I’m just heading in for a chat with Naya. She says hiring more junior associates has become an urgent need. Care to join us?”

  “Um … hmm … uh,” Sasha stalled. She was usually adept at avoiding administrative meetings, but her brain was too tired to come up with an excuse. Or form an actual sentence.

  He gave her a close look. “Is everything okay? I understand Jordana’s gotten herself into a bit of misadventure.”

  “What? Oh, right. Yes, I don’t think the police are going to press charges against her. So, once she catches up on her sleep, she’ll be fine. But we did get a new client out of the protest.”

  “Really?” He turned, his hand on Naya’s door.

  “He’s a professor. I spoke to a witness who says nine men, including Professor Robinson, were abducted and taken to a detention center of some kind. All the students were subsequently released, but the professor and two others are still being held without charges by a group that hasn’t asserted any connection with law enforcement.”

  Will blinked behind his glasses. “Vigilantes?”

  “My witness didn’t think so. More like … a secret government agency.”

  “Yeesh. Are you going to talk to Leo about it?”

  She made a noise that could have meant yes and could have meant no. Then she said, “Regardless, I think it’s going to involve criminal and constitutional law. Interested in working it with me?”

  He grinned. “Absolutely. Pro bono, I assume?”

  She shrugged. “The professor’s partner made some noises about starting a ComeHelpUs Fund, but I’d rather keep it simple, so probably pro bono.”

  “Count me in.”

  “Thanks, Will. I’ll fill you in after Naya gives you your marching orders. Do you really want to go into the icebox without a sweater?”

  He shot her a wry, knowing grin, then knocked on Naya’s door.

  13

  Charlie gripped the phone so tightly that the molded plastic creaked. C’mon, c’mon, he urged silently, pick up, baby. Raquel’s line rang and rang.

  Scott smirked at him. “Maybe she’s moved on. You know women.”

  Charlie ignored him. Her voicemail message began to play in his ear. He depressed the receiver and redialed. He wasn’t about to squander his one and only opportunity to speak to Raquel on a recorded message. He’d just keep calling until he got through, and if the old white dude running this place didn’t like it, he could pound salt. He couldn’t talk to Sam without Charlie, and he knew it. So he’d have to wait whether he wanted to or not.

  “Your buddy Barefoot’s getting sprung.” Scott tossed off the sentence casually, but he was clearly probing for a reaction from Charlie.

  “He’s not my buddy, but good for him,” Charlie replied as he listened to Raquel’s cell phone ring.

  “Wonder what he gave the boss in order to get his ticket out of here? Probably something you told him.”

  “Maybe,” Charlie agreed mildly. For all he knew, the guard was lying about Barefoot’s release.

  Still, he steeled himself for Scott’s continued taunting, but before the guard could get his jabs in, Raquel picked up.

  “Baby?”

  He winced at the raw pain in her voice.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Where are you?”

  He wished he knew.

  “Some detention facility.”

  “Not the police station, though, right? Your TA said some vigilantes or something grabbed you up.”

  “They’re not vigilantes.” He paused to glance at Scott, whose face was a rock. Blank, hard, giving nothing. “I think they’re feds—or federal contractors, most likely.”

  “Mercenaries?”

  Her fear cut through him. “Let’s say private military contractors. It sounds nicer, doesn’t it?”

  “Who gives a crap how it sounds, Charlie? What have they done to you?”

  “Nothing, really.” Yet. “I’m being detained.”

  “Without charges, by dudes in black outfits, in some secret facility. This is bad, stop pretending it isn’t. It isn’t reassuring; it’s infuriating.”

  That was the point. Raquel had a temper. If she was pissed off, she wouldn’t be panicky and anxious.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  He must’ve sounded as unconvincing as he felt, because Scott rolled his eyes.

  “Do you mind giving me a little privacy here?” he hissed.

  “Well, yeah, I do mind. Besides, we’re recording your call. You don’t have any privacy whether I’m here or not,” Scott pointed out.

  Raquel finished cursing under her breath. “I’m going to kill you when you’re safe.”

  “Sounds counterproductive, really.”

  That earned him a wry laugh. “They hooked me up with a lawyer for you. Not one from the clinic. She’s in private practice. One of your students works for her.”

  “Who?”

  “The lawyer? Uh, let me see, Sasha McCandless-Connelly. That’s what I wrote down at least.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “The student’s name is Jordana somebody. I didn’t catch a last name.”

  “Morgan.”

  “What?”

  “Jordana Morgan is—never mind, it’s not important. Private attorneys are expensive. I don’t think—”

  “She said they’d do it pro bono. She’s done some criminal law, but there’s another partner who specializes in it. They’ll work on it together. She said they’ll file an … uh, an emergency motion for discovery. She said it’s probably a federal case, and the Western District will hear it right away. She said—.”

  “Tell her not to.”

  “What?”

  “Not yet. Just ask her to wait twenty-four hours.”

  “Are you j
oking, Charlie? Your rights are being violated. You’re in danger!” Her voice rose, wobbly and screechy.

  “Just chill out, baby. Take a breath. I have my reasons.”

  “Your reasons,” she muttered. “Let’s hear ‘em.”

  He glanced at Scott. “They’re not going to hurt me. I have … I have something they need, and if I help them—”

  She jumped in. “Let me guess. You’re protecting someone, aren’t you? Another detainee? You know, Charlie, one of these days, your martyr complex is gonna get you killed.”

  “I’m not being a martyr. And I’m not in that kind of danger.”

  He didn’t think he was, at least. The guy in the suit was intense, but for all the physical posturing, he didn’t strike Charlie as a particularly violent guy. Scott and Fox were the muscle. And, yeah, they’d pound him into a pulp without provocation if they were ordered to do it. But they seemed too well trained, too disciplined, to pop off on their own. He’d be okay.

  “And they’ll release you after you do … whatever it is you’re gonna do?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe,” he answered truthfully. Probably not. But if Scott was telling the truth about Barefoot, it was a possibility.

  “I don’t like this.”

  “I know, baby. Believe me, neither do I. But just give it one more day. Trust me.”

  He could hear her huffing while she considered his request. She was fuming, but she’d understand. She always did.

  The door creaked open. Fox stuck his head through the doorway and made a slashing motion across his neck. “Time’s up. Boss wants to question the mute guy.”

  “He’s deaf. He’s not mute,” Charlie corrected him. Fox withdrew his head and slammed the door shut.

  “What did you say?” Raquel asked.

  “Sorry, I wasn’t talking to you. I’ll see you soon.”

  “Charlie—”

  “I know, be careful.”