—
Their next stop was the University of Washington, where Sanjay Mishra ran a robotics lab. In the last thirty-six hours, June had emailed him, texted him, and called his cell. She’d never gotten anything back. In fact, his voicemail was full, so she couldn’t even leave a message.
“I read about this guy,” Lewis said. They were back on Montlake, heading north across the bridge toward the university. “Writer seemed to think he was a pretty good dude. Kinda the opposite of Troy Boxall. A family man. He put real money into tech scholarships for poor kids. Plus he made stuff that was actually useful, like the first fully functional robotic hand.”
“The hand was only the start,” June said. “Mishra’s new project is to use humans with teleoperated equipment to train robots on complex manual tasks. After thousands of repetitions by dozens of human trainers, the robot AI has enough data to perform the task on its own.”
“Like how training data enables chatbots to outperform a human being on the LSAT,” he said. “After learning enough tasks, the AI will begin to teach itself, develop new skills on its own. The robot revolutionis right around the corner.” He caught her looking at him. “You know I invest in tech, right? I try to keep up on the latest.”
Because of his physicality and the aura of violence that surrounded him, it was easy to forget how smart Lewis was. On his own since the age of fifteen, and parentless long before that, he was entirely self-educated.
She smiled at him now. “Black man with a library card.” Referencing his favorite quote about the most dangerous man in America.
He gave her a smile back, full and genuine. “Damn right, Junebug.”
They drove past the UW sports complex, then turned left on Pend Oreille Road and angled up into campus proper. In the last twenty years, academics had increasingly turned their research into for-profit businesses, often partnering with their universities and VC outfits to do so. The result was to turn powerhouse institutions like the University of Washington, along with MIT and Carnegie Mellon and many others, into de facto tech incubators.
Sanjay Mishra was right in the middle of it. With his name on more than a hundred patents, he’d already spun off three robotics companies. He was in the process of leaving academia to fully commercialize his research and make a fortune in the process. And the world would change forever, again. For the better, she hoped.
His lab was on the fourth floor of the Paul Allen building, a big new complex for computing and robotics. She knew he wouldn’t work from home because he had four small children. They rode the elevator up and emerged in a small reception area, where a tubular young man in a fleece quarter-zip sat behind a desk. “Help you, folks?”
“June Cassidy to see Sanjay Mishra,” June said. “We have an appointment.” By which she meant that she would have made an appointment if Mishra had gotten back to her.
“Uh.” He flushed slightly. “Professor Mishra’s not in today.”
June figured she’d have to talk her way into the appointment, butdidn’t think they’d be denied outright. Beside her, Lewis straightened his posture, dipped a hand into his pocket, and brought out a business card, which he handed over. Instead of his usual street-inflected drawl, he had the clipped tones of an Ivy League graduate. “Colonel Lewis, Department of Defense. Where is Dr. Mishra?”
“Oh, gosh. I don’t know.” The desk man’s face got pinker. “One moment?” He picked up the phone and punched in numbers. “Someone from the Department of Defense is here? For Professor Mishra?”
June raised her eyebrows at Lewis. He pretended not to notice.
Two minutes later, a small capable-looking woman with jet-black hair came through a set of glass doors. “I’m Jennifer Wong, the lab administrator. What’s this about?” The desk man handed her the card.
“I’m afraid that’s confidential,” Lewis said. “We need to speak with Dr. Mishra.”
The administrator looked at the floor for a moment, then back up at Lewis. “I would also like to speak with Professor Mishra,” she said. “Five days ago, he left the lab early, saying he had a meeting off campus and would be back the next day. I haven’t heard from him since. He’s not responding to text or email. I called his wife and she hasn’t heard from him, either.”
“I see. Have you spoken with the Seattle police?”
“Yes. They said he’s an adult and entitled to change his plans. They told me to call again if he’s been gone for more than a week.”
Lewis took a pen from the reception counter, retrieved the card from the administrator, and scribbled something on the back. “That’s my personal number. Have him reach out the minute you hear from him.”
Back in the elevator, June said, “Colonel Lewis?”
He gave her an elaborate shrug. “We in a hurry, ain’t we? Just trying to move shit along.”
39
Peter
It was almost three-thirty by the time Peter found 507 Puyallup Avenue in a row of attached storefronts not far from the BNSF freight yard. Parking on the street, he could hear the clang and roar of locomotives rearranging boxcars into new strings. This was the Tacoma Tideflats, an industrial area near the docks where refineries, chemical plants, and the big pulp and paper mills had once been located. The mills were a major area employer for decades, but they’d shut down one by one, moving operations to wherever labor was cheapest.
With the .357 at the small of his back, Peter stepped out into the rain, sniffing the air. He had a Marine buddy who’d grown up in family housing at Fort Lewis, on the east side of town, back when the paper mills were in full operation. He’d talked about the smell of his childhood, a pungent sulfurous stink known locally as the Tacoma Aroma. With the mills gone, and environmental laws now requiring smokestack scrubbers for the last remaining oil refiner, the Tideflatsnow smelled only of rotting seaweed and bunker oil exhaust from the huge dockside container ships.
507 Puyallup was nestled between an empty pawn shop and a for-profit plasma donation center. The storefront was cinder block with peeling paint and weathered plywood over the windows and the glass entry door. It had seen better days and certainly looked vacant. Peter doubted the Tacoma cops had gone inside.
The plywood over the door had a rough cutout for the knob and three separate deadbolts. Peter tried the knob but it didn’t turn. Without his green Chevy, he didn’t have the tools to get through the door. He put his eye to a gap, trying to see inside, but saw only darkness. How had Circuit Rider managed to pick up his tabs and registration? There was nobody here to accept the mail. And hadn’t been for some time, judging by the condition of the plywood.
