The Voter File

by David Pepper

  The hair on the back of my neck lifted as a new scenario dawned on me.

  Stop. Walk back.

  Why?

  They’ve hacked his phone. They’re reading your texts.

  My pulse was now racing. Ned was the bait without knowing it.

  And text him that you’re almost at the parking lot.

  Okay.

  The woman peeked down a third time. Again, only a split second. If I hadn’t been focused on her, I would never have noticed.

  Get in the car and drive this way.

  Thirty seconds later I texted again.

  Tell him you left your computer and that you’ll be right back.

  The woman looked down again. This time her raven eyes widened as her dark eyebrows drew together. Worried their plan was going awry, no doubt.

  Ned finally broke down and nibbled at his food.

  The odd couple sat frozen, not yet giving up on their siege.

  Let me know when you’re a block away.

  A minute later she texted back. Here. Across the street, at the light.

  Tell him something’s come up, and you’ll meet with him later this afternoon. Three o’clock.

  ?!?!?! He’s going to think I’m the biggest flake.

  Just do it.

  Seconds passed before Ned and the woman looked down at the same time. Ned shook his head and downed the rest of his McMuffin. The woman glared at her booth mate, shaking her head twice, signaling that the meeting was off.

  A minute later, drink in hand, Ned stood up and left, walking back across the street.

  The odd couple waited for him to reach the sidewalk on the other side before standing up and walking out the door and alongside the restaurant window. Above the man’s left hip, a squarish bulge creased the bottom of his sweater—no doubt a gun. The two climbed into a black Range Rover, the woman assuming driving duties.

  I called Tori.

  “What the hell’s going on, Jack?”

  “Ned was hacked. They were reading all his texts. A big man and an attractive woman are in a Range Rover that’s about to pass you. Get the plate number if you can.”

  The Range Rover drove past the parked Cruze.

  “Got it. I’m going to follow them—”

  “The hell you are.”

  The Cruze pulled out seconds after the Range Rover passed it.

  CHAPTER 34

  MADISON, WISCONSIN

  Now who’s the secret agent?” Jack asked.

  “You still are. I’m just using common sense.”

  Tori had followed the Range Rover for twenty minutes, keeping her distance through Madison while running through two yellow lights and a red, then tailing it a few miles up I-90. She was now idling in a Motel 6 parking lot, a block over from the Holiday Inn where the couple had parked.

  “So what’s next, Ms. Common Sense?”

  “I’m going to check out the hotel real quick.”

  “Tori, I don’t know why you don’t like my advice, but do not set foot in there.”

  “Maybe it’s because you keep talking to me like you’re my dad. Now that we know where they are, why would we walk away?”

  “Tori, don’t go in there. He’s got a gun. Do you?”

  “Mine’s back at Dad’s farm, but I’m actually a darn good shot.” She paused a beat. “Okay, I won’t go in. I’ve got a better idea.”

  She took a key chain out of her jacket pocket. On it hung her truck keys, a key to the farmhouse, keys to her apartment building and the apartment itself, a locker room key, and a key to her bike lock. But there was also a small, black, circular disk—the size of a half-dollar—which she removed from the chain. She’d recently bought the device to keep from losing her keys.

  “I’ve got a way to track these guys.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tori—”

  The fatherly tone in his voice meant another objection was on its way.

  “Jack, I can handle this.”

  She got out of the car, traversed a no-man’s-land of weeds and trash, and entered the Holiday Inn lot. Then she approached the Range Rover while keeping her eye on the motel’s lobby doors and windows. No one was watching.

  A black Chevy Malibu was parked to the right of the Range Rover. She walked in between the two as if she were the Malibu’s driver, took her wallet out of her backpack, then dropped it on the ground. As she bent down to pick it up, she took out the small disk and tore off the tape that covered an adhesive patch. She slipped her left arm under the Range Rover’s passenger door and pushed the disk against the sideboard. She picked up the wallet in her left hand, fumbled around in her bag as if she were searching for the car keys, and cursed as if she couldn’t find them.

  Five minutes later she was back on I-90.

  CHAPTER 35

  MADISON, WISCONSIN

  You’re as stubborn as I am, Jack Sharpe!”

  Cassie was practically yelling through the phone as I sat in the McDonald’s booth, waiting for Tori to pick me up while drinking my third Diet Coke.

  “Now, that’s a low blow,” I said. “What makes you say that?”

  “Jack, I went back and watched the tapes of your final appearances. Your body language gave you away. They ordered you to stop bringing up the president’s anti-monopoly push, but you couldn’t help yourself.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, playing dumb even though she’d described my final week perfectly.

  “They told you not to bring up the monopoly stuff, and they canned you when you ignored them. You violated the same agreement you told me to read.”

  When I’d stressed that she review her agreement, I knew she would. But not this fast.

  “You know I can’t talk about that, Cassie.”

  “You don’t have to. And you’re not denying it, are you?”

  I stayed silent.

  “See. You’re not denying it.”

  I took another sip, again saying nothing, although my stomach knotted as every detail came back. The week before the July Fourth holiday, during a Bridget Turner interview, I’d described the president’s anti-monopoly agenda on the air. But Corporate had sent word that they didn’t want me discussing it again. In my next several appearances I’d complied.

  But censoring my analysis to kowtow to Corporate’s wishes had felt so dirty it became a character test. So in a show days later I’d decided on the spot: Screw ’em. I brought it up again, live on the air. The producer squawked in my ear like a dying seagull before I pulled the earpiece out and kept talking.

  “Did you enjoy my last hurrah?”

  “It was bold, I’ll give you that. Bridget looked like she was going to puke.”

  I laughed. Bridget’s face had indeed turned as pale as the oxford shirt I had on.

  “Jack, that monopoly stuff is what they cut from my interview with President Moore.”

  “Well, give me credit, then. I at least got it on air a few times.”

  “You did the right thing. I’m tempted to do the same.”

  Tori pulled into the lot in the blue Chevy Cruze and parked near the window. I stood up to go.

  “Yeah, well, look at me now, Cassie. I wouldn’t recommend going through this at this stage of your career. You can do far more good employed. Keep digging.”

  Within an hour of walking off the set, sitting in the Republic HR director’s office, the company’s chief counsel recited every word of the clause I had violated. They told me I was being terminated and owed them hundreds of thousands of dollars unless I signed the non-disparagement agreement. I caved quickly and walked out of Republic for good by midnight, out of a job and lips sealed. Alex Fischer dumped me by text a week later, explaining that she needed to maintain her standing in the industry.

  A day after that brutal ax had fallen, with
her perfectly sized ring in my glove compartment, I’d picked up and driven home to Youngstown.

  * * *

  • • •

  The flimsy apartment door flew open a few seconds after we’d knocked, a red-faced Ned appearing behind it.

  “How the hell did you guys end up here?” he asked, far more animated than he’d been at our first meeting. “And what happened to our McDonald’s meeting?”

  “Johnny told us where you live,” I said in a stern enough tone that he stepped out of the way. “We need to talk.”

  Tori and I sat down on a tan futon as Ned slumped into a chair. To his credit, the place was clean for a kid his age who hadn’t expected visitors. But the cramped one-bedroom apartment underscored how little campaign staff were paid for all their hard work.

  “So what happened?” he asked.

  “Ned,” I said, “things have gotten a lot more serious. And dangerous.”

  He waved his hand at me. “You’re joking, right?”

  “I’m not. When you lost your phone the other night, it was hacked.”

  “That’s impossible.” He leaned forward in the chair, clasping his hands together. “I was here the whole time, and so was my phone.”

  “Trust me, it happened. Pros could get in and out of here no problem.” The apartment was on the ground floor, and the latch over his window wasn’t locked.

  “What pros?”

  I explained what I’d observed at McDonald’s and how the two had glimpsed down at their phone every time Tori and Ned had texted.

  Ned’s face blanched from red to ashen as the full scope of the predicament sunk in.

  “Okay, so what do we do now? I’m not going to any three o’clock meeting back there, that’s for sure.”

  “That was a delay tactic. We’re not going to let them get anywhere near you. My guess is they’re trying to mop things up so they can move forward.”

  “Move forward how? On what?”

  “Well, that’s the million-dollar question. But my guess is this goes beyond Wisconsin.”

  “What makes you say that?” Ned asked.

  “This election wasn’t big enough to justify all this.”

  Both Ned and Tori looked at each other, then at me, as if I’d insulted them.

  “Not big enough?” Tori asked.

  “Not even close. If someone’s meddling in an election, it’s because they’re aiming for an outcome worth the risk and the investment. As far as I can tell, Beagle’s win didn’t alter a thing. I mean, the court was split five to two before the election, and it’s still split five to two, right?”

  They both nodded, still glaring.

  Tori leaned back and crossed her long arms. “Okay, Sherlock Holmes, then why did they do it?”

  “The truth is, if someone has access to both voter files—let’s say at the national level—and they’re able to alter results, they could—”

  “Manipulate any election they wanted to,” Ned said, interrupting. “So why our race? Just some sort of test run?”

  “That’s my best guess,” I said. “To pull something off on a wider scale, you’d need to hone the tactics of meddling so you could change outcomes without being noticed. In your election, they got a little too greedy, which is why Tori noticed.”

  “So you think they’ve done it in other special elections, too?” Tori asked.

  “There’s one almost every week somewhere. And turnouts are low and unpredictable, so it’s not like people will question the results. Those specials would give them a lot of opportunities to perfect their work.”

  “Perfect?” Ned asked. “For when? This November?”

  “That’s my assumption.”

  “That’s less than one hundred days away. Shouldn’t we be alerting the national parties about the breach?” Tori asked.

  “We need a lot more details first or we’ll look like kooks,” I said. “In the meantime, we have two advantages over these guys. One, they don’t know that we know they’ve hacked Ned. And two, we can now track them.”

  “You can?” Ned asked.

  “We sure can,” Tori said, glimpsing at her phone. “And they’re still at the hotel.”

  I leaned forward on the futon, then stood up.

  “Good. It’s time to go on offense.”

  CHAPTER 36

  ASPEN, COLORADO

  Do you make a lot of airport runs?” Cassie asked as the cab pulled out of downtown Aspen.

  “Ya. Sure do,” the driver said in a California surfer’s accent. A lumberjack of a man with a deep tan, muttonchops, and two armfuls of tattoos, he looked, sounded, and smelled like a guy who’d moved out here decades ago to party and ski. A laminated ID card on the dashboard indicated his name was Axel.

  “In the daytime that’s most of what I do when I’m not on the mountain. Nighttime, it’s all bar runs. Why d’ya ask?”

  “I’m curious about how the rich and famous get to Aspen.”

  “That’s why I do the airport runs. Good tippers,” he said. “It’s flying or nothing for those with enough dough to own a private jet.”

  He’d confirmed her assumption. No one with money would put up with the long, mountainous drive most people endured from Denver.

  She sat quietly as they sped down a single-lane highway, cutting between two high ridges before the small control tower appeared in the distance, off to the left. Minutes later, as they drew even to the tower, the cab slowed, took a left, and pulled to a stop in front of the same airport terminal where Cassie had deplaned.

  “Do you mind showing me where the private planes land? The guys with the dough?”

  “Sure, that’s further down the way.”

  He exited the terminal driveway, turning left, back onto the narrow highway. A minute later they took another left and stopped in front of a building that looked like a ritzy ski lodge you’d expect to see halfway up Ajax.

  “Nice digs, huh?” Axel asked.

  “Not your typical airport terminal.”

  “No, ma’am. And not your typical airplane passengers.”

  “So when you pick up folks who fly in privately, is this where you get them?”

  “Sure is. There are a couple separate corporate hangars for people who are based here, but they have their own transportation. The rich and famous? This is where they all come in.”

  Sleek jets of various sizes and colors were lined up to the side and behind the terminal, close enough to the driveway that their tail numbers were visible.

  “Axel, do you ever see the president’s guests land here?”

  “All the time. Governors, millionaires, celebrities, foreign leaders, you name it. They shuttle in and out all weekend when she’s here. Sometimes they hang out in town after, or go skiing, but most go straight to her ranch and straight back, all business.”

  “Do you ever take any to the ranch?”

  “You kiddin’? Those fancy big shots don’t use cabbies like me. They’re all high-end car service companies and dark SUVs.”

  “I’ve seen a few of those myself.”

  “You can’t miss ’em.” He paused for a beat, then stared in the rearview mirror, one eyebrow lifted. “You getting out?”

  The question threw her for a loop. Then she realized they’d been sitting there for minutes.

  “I’ll head back to the hotel, please.”

  “Um, okay.” He shrugged and pulled back out of the driveway.

  Then: “Hey, there’s one of those caravans right there,” Axel said as three dark SUVs whisked by them in the other direction, left turn signals on. “Some political bigwig just kissed the ring.”

  Cassie grinned, but said nothing as she tapped both feet against the floor mat. The president preferred to keep her meetings at Wingspread a secret. But unlike most destinations in America, this one had only one e
ntrance—and it was in the wide-open.

  Finally, a story her bosses would be excited about.

  CHAPTER 37

  MADISON, WISCONSIN

  I can’t meet until 4:00.

  Reclining on the futon, Tori typed the words we’d agreed on.

  “That works,” I said before she pushed “send.”

  Ned, sitting right across from us in his closet of an apartment, waited a few seconds before writing back.

  Okay. Where’s good?

  We needed to find out more about Beauty and the Beast, our nickname for the duo who’d spied on Ned at McDonald’s. Who were they? Where were they from? And, most important, who were they working for?

  Without sharing too many details, I’d called an old source and friend, Youngstown police chief Bill Santini. If we sent him photos, the chief offered to run them through the national facial recognition database. So Ned, Tori, and I concocted a plan to get the best shots possible.

  Tori waited a few more seconds before responding.

  Let’s do Jordan’s. It’s always a blast.

  A chaotic environment would give Beauty and the Beast the least control possible, and Ned had vouched for Jordan’s Big Ten Pub as the wildest place in town. That day’s Packers preseason game would only add to the mayhem.

  Fun!

  See you then.

  At 2:20 the three of us drove back to campus, stopping in a sports apparel store. Ned had donned his Packers jersey back at his apartment, but Tori and I each needed one as well. The XXL fit nicely, even if green and yellow didn’t feel right on this lifelong Browns fan.

  Jordan’s lived up to Ned’s prediction of ear-shattering chaos. Wall-to-wall TVs blared out the whistles, grunts, and commentary of the game, so—like everyone else around us—we had to yell to hear one another. After walking in at 3:05, we squeezed past every size of jersey, whether Packers green or Wisconsin red. Tori led the way, guys stepping back to check out her striking stature and blue-streaked black hair. After twenty minutes we sat down in a booth before ordering three beers to fit in and three waters to drink. A week on the wagon was worth building on.