Chapter 42
Part of the legend surrounding Isaac Wilkinson, the founder of Savant, was that he’d basically lived at the office for years, sleeping on a cot in a storage room, working impossibly long hours even after he’d spun off a half dozen companies and made a half dozen fortunes.
Adding to the myth, when the new company headquarters was being constructed, the Savant publicity team had gotten a lot of press over the fact that Isaac, as he was universally known, had told the architects to include a personal residence on the top floor, so he’d never have to leave work.
Unlike many innovators who transitioned to investing in other people’s startups, Wilkinson had never stopped innovating.
He’d had a hand in almost every significant technological development in the last thirty years.
His current focus, according to a recent article KT had written, was artificial intelligence. And Savant was leading the pack.
The new eight-story headquarters in Fremont, just uphill from Gas Works Park with unobstructed views of Lake Union, was a surprisingly artful assemblage of glass, steel, and concrete that spanned two city blocks.
It had won the Pritzker Prize for architecture the year before, and seeing it in person, June understood why.
Lewis found a parking spot across the street. The rain had started up again, beating steadily against the windshield. “You ever interview him?”
“Not me,” June said. “He’s notoriously private. KT is the only journalist he’s talked to in decades. They met when Isaac was fresh out of Stanford creating his first company and have been fairly close ever since. Everything I know about him, I learned from her.”
“So, what’s our in? Guy like Isaac’s gotta have serious security.”
“We wait,” June said. “Kill the engine.”
Lewis cracked the windows to avoid condensation on the glass, then did as she asked. “What’re we waiting for?”
“You’ll see.”
They didn’t have to wait long. Thirty minutes later, a man walked out of the headquarters main entrance at a rapid clip, then turned away from them and strode purposefully into the blowing rain.
Directly behind him were two athletic guys hustling to keep up.
They wore black ballcaps and stylish black hip-length raincoats that didn’t quite hide the pistols on their belts.
“That’s him,” June said. “Get me closer.”
“What’s he doing?” Lewis eased out into traffic and past the walkers.
“He takes three or four walks a day, rain or shine. He told KT it’s how he does his best thinking. Pull a U-turn at the next intersection.”
Lewis did as she asked, then double-parked, flashers on, as Isaac Wilkinson approached.
He wore an ancient red raincoat, the color faded to a soft pink, over black rain pants and well-worn hiking shoes.
His dark brown face was weathered. His felted wool rain hat looked like it had been sat on several hundred times.
The overall effect was of a hiker who’d walked out of the woods after thirty years in the wilderness.
“You’re joking,” Lewis said. “That’s Isaac Wilkinson?” Isaac wasn’t one to pace the stage publicizing the company’s latest products. There were few pictures of him. According to KT, he didn’t care for publicity.
June opened her door and hopped out. “Stay in the car or you’ll spook his security.”
Wilkinson was moving faster than he seemed. By the time she walked around the Lexus and between two parked cars, he was already past her.
“Isaac Wilkinson,” she called to his back. “Can I have a few words?”
Wilkinson didn’t seem to hear her, but one of the security men pivoted with his palms forward, eyes assessing her with cool professionalism. “Back away, miss. If you want to speak with Mr. Wilkinson, call his office for an appointment.”
June gave him her best smile and picked up her pace, the treads of her running shoes gripping the wet pavement nicely. The guard’s lips tightened and he reached for her wrist, trying for a control grip.
She swept his arm aside, then slipped beneath it, thumping her elbow into the back of his head as she passed, the blow hard enough to make him stumble and begin to fall.
Ever since a certain asshole had locked her in a car trunk a few years back, she’d been training in mixed martial arts.
It was always fun to put her skills to use outside the gym.
Wilkinson kept walking as if nothing had happened.
Behind her, she heard the first guard curse softly as he caught himself and began to recover.
The second guard, slightly older, had already jumped ahead of her to shield his boss, backpedaling as he raised the hem of his raincoat and unsnapped his holster strap, fingers made clumsy by the cold and wet. “Stop right there or I’ll shoot.”
“Don’t,” Lewis said, suddenly there on the sidewalk with the big Beretta in his fist, staring down both guards. Something in his face or his voice froze them both in place. “Ain’t nobody need to get hurt. Five minutes and we’re gone.”
Wilkinson, a scarecrow in baggy clothes, hadn’t stopped or even seemed to notice, striding into the rain. Past the second guard now, June leapt forward to catch up, then put a hand on his arm. “Isaac. I know what happened to Sanjay Mishra.”
He stopped abruptly and stared at her. Lines were carved deep around his mouth and eyes. Raindrops beaded up on his round eyeglasses. “I don’t know you.”
“June Cassidy. I’m with Public Investigations.” She released his arm and put out her hand. He ignored it. “I worked with Katelyn Thorsen. She was my friend.”
He ran the outside edge of an index finger across the lenses of his glasses like a windshield wiper, then studied her face. After a moment, he spun on a heel to regard his frozen security detail.
“Stop fucking around back there.” He pointed across the street at a small building with dark wood siding. “We’re getting coffee. Try to keep up.”
Then he set off into traffic, his long legs propelling him through the line of fast-moving cars as if they didn’t exist.
—
The Stone Way Café was bright and clean, with large windows and only two other customers, an older woman with a book and a young man with a laptop.
Wilkinson led June to a large corner table by the front window. There was a Reserved sign on it. He didn’t seem to notice. She pointed to the sign. “Should we sit somewhere else?”
He looked at her as if at a particularly dim specimen of a much stupider species. “It’s reserved for me. I own the restaurant.”
Of course he did, June thought. Wilkinson’s net worth was somewhere north of a hundred billion dollars. He really should have had a larger security detail.
He shed his coat, scattering droplets everywhere. “You two.” He pointed at a table near the door with another reserved sign. “Sit.”
His security men’s disapproval showed in their faces, but they did as directed, dividing their attention between Lewis and the street outside. Lewis returned their gazes with a small tilted smile, leaning indifferently against the long marble service counter. The Beretta had vanished.
June opened her mouth to speak but Wilkinson put up a hand. A server approached unasked with six different coffee drinks on a tray, as if she’d somehow known he was coming. She set the tray on a lazy Susan in the middle of the table, the only one in the entire restaurant, then left without a word.
Wilkinson leaned forward and spun the lazy Susan twice, examining the options and finally selecting something in a tiny white porcelain cup. He gestured irritably at the remaining beverages. “Take one and tell me about Sanjay.”
June ignored the drinks. “He’s almost certainly dead and I think you know why.”
Wilkinson looked out the rain-beaded window. “Why do you believe he’s dead?”
“He’s been missing for five days. His wife traced his phone to his car in a parking lot south of town.
On it, I found a Telegram message sent six days ago from someone calling himself Circuit Rider, asking for a meeting.
He told his wife and his office manager he’d be gone for the day.
I think he went to the meeting. It was clear from the text that he was leaving the group.
I believe he also gave one of the Messenger’s tapes to Katelyn Thorsen shortly before she was killed. ”
“I cannot fault your logic,” he said, still staring out at the rain. “There is a high probability that Sanjay is dead.”
“I saw your texts to him. Tell me about your involvement with the Messenger. Have you heard the recordings?”
“I have a large collection,” he said. “I was the one who invited Sanjay into the Movement.” He turned to look at her again. His face was taut but otherwise betrayed no emotion. “If he is dead, it is my fault.”
June said, “Tell me everything you know about the Messenger’s group.”
Wilkinson glanced disapprovingly at his watch. “That will take longer than five minutes.”
June remembered KT telling her that Wilkinson was probably somewhere on the neurodivergent spectrum. Very good at technical ideas, very good at numbers, not very good at people. But still human.
So she waited, knowing he wanted to talk.