by David Pepper
“Growing up in poverty, I was disconnected from the world even as I lived in the shadow of its greatest city,” Katrina told the newspaper, which also mentioned that she originally hailed from Brooklyn and was a member of the Charter Club, one of Princeton’s eating clubs. “I want to use my time at Oxford to study how technology can connect the economically disadvantaged to economic opportunity, as it has for me.”
A photo of a young Katrina Rivers appeared alongside the article. In a boyish blue button-down, her cheeks flushed, strands of black hair straggling from her pulled-back ponytail, she looked far more like the Kat Simmons Facebook photos than the glamour shot at Oxford.
Cassie’s phone rang. A 970 area code. Colorado.
She eagerly picked up.
“Thanks for calling me back, Axel. She gets in late tomorrow night. Are you still able to help me?”
“Sure am. I have the next three days blocked out. Hell, I’ll make more with you than rides anyway.”
“Great. Just send me the info we talked about as you get it.”
“Will do. Thanks.”
Putting her phone down, Cassie looked back at the Daily Princetonian article.
She reread the quote. “Growing up in poverty . . . economic opportunity . . . as it has for me.”
Cassie quickly Googled Princeton’s eating clubs. Nothing symbolized Princeton’s elitist character more than these. And online descriptions and campus chat boards made clear that the fanciest, most elite clubs were named Ivy, Cottage, and Tiger Inn. Charter, where Katrina was a member, was described as the most down-to-earth of the clubs, dominated by engineers.
Cassie clicked back to the Oxford photo. The Gucci purse. The heels. She had money and wasn’t afraid to show it, looking a lot more like Ivy or Cottage than Charter.
Then Cassie dug up details on the Marshall Scholarship. A prestigious honor, of course. But the scholarship paid for only two years of graduate school, not the seven years Katrina had spent there. And she’d gone right to Oxford, meaning she hadn’t worked a real job between Princeton and those Oxford photos. Maybe she’d been paid for summer gigs. But no summer jobs or graduate student teaching salary would’ve paid her way through the rest of the program, with enough money to spare to afford the highbrow clothes and accessories she’d so proudly displayed in the photo.
From poverty to opportunity.
From Charter to Gucci.
Where had the money come from?
More precisely, who had it come from?
CHAPTER 77
CINCINNATI
If Ted Kovak was getting his knees cut out from under him along the shore of Lake Erie, Evan Walker was off and running on the banks of the Ohio River.
Tori hesitated to read too much into the first two days of early voting. And on the surface, Walker and Seitz, his opponent, were running about even in early votes; by party ID, Seitz was slightly ahead.
But as she’d explained to Jack, even if that was all the media focused on, that wasn’t the number that mattered. For the measure that counted, there was a stark difference developing in who was voting early.
Only about a fifth of the Seitz early voters were sporadic voters. The rest were voters who showed up every midterm. So the incumbent wasn’t moving the needle.
In contrast, almost two-thirds of the early Walker voters were sporadic voters—a strong performance.
Curious, Tori perused the voter file to see how the Walker campaign had been engaging the sporadic voters who’d already voted. Were they doing something special to stimulate this surge of early voting?
Not really. They had them all targeted for early voting but had only begun reaching out to them. So while a few of those voters had received a recent door knock or phone call encouraging them to vote, most had not.
According to the voter file, they were just showing up and voting. Unprompted. In huge numbers.
CHAPTER 78
BRYAN, OHIO
Where’d you get that scar, sweetie?”
From a slight distance, American women were drawn to the Butcher. To his svelte, wiry build. To his olive skin and coffee-brown eyes. To his confident vibe. But when they got close, when they spotted the scar, they’d turn away.
But not her.
Even after sitting next to him, on the scar side of his face, the young redhead didn’t gawk. She leaned in and posed her question.
“I’m a veteran,” the Butcher said somberly, eyeing his martini. “I was injured in the war.”
Her smile broadened her already cherubic face. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her green eyes sparkle. She reached out and ran her fingers along the side of his chin.
He usually would’ve flinched at a stranger’s touch, but he didn’t move as his leathery skin tingled.
“Thank you for your service. My dad served in Iraq. He lost his right eye and right arm. I spent a lot of time taking care of him as I grew up.”
He drew in a long breath as his shoulders relaxed. Although successful, it had been a tedious four days.
His instinct at the farm—to walk away after having sent the old man’s photo—had proven right. He’d guessed that they’d come to Wisconsin, but they were not going to simply drive up to the house. So, better to hunt them down at the hospital where the old man would recover. He’d killed at hospitals before—so many opportunities, and easy to escape.
When Drac had informed him about his targets’ arrest, he changed plans again. He’d already stolen another pickup truck, making the drive to the jail simple. But the added delay from the brawl and resulting investigation scuttled the hospital plan. Still, he’d accomplished his mission, and now was only hours from his destination.
But since he never initiated an operation in the dark, he’d stopped at the first motel over the state line. He’d been nursing a martini at the motel bar—an evening drink helped him sleep—when the young woman sidled up next to him from a few seats over.
He stared straight ahead. “Please thank him for his service.”
“Oh, he’s no longer with us. But thank you.”
Occasionally, when he was on the road, a woman, sufficiently drunk, would ignore the scar. Or tolerate it. Small talk at a bar would escalate into flirting, then touching, then sex back in the motel room. The woman would never leave the room alive. He had a job to do. And that job required eliminating any trace.
Tonight was different. This young lady wasn’t drunk. She’d seen his scar and moved in closer, then spoken to him gently. Touched him, sent his pulse racing. His injury wasn’t an obstacle this time but a connection he now yearned to explore.
But the clock was ticking. A countdown on her life. Even a few more minutes together meant it would be her last night on earth.
“You’re welcome,” he said, never turning her way even as his heart ticked. Sparing her.
The man in him wanted to look at her, wanted her to stay in that seat and stroke his worn face again. To tell him more about her father.
The assassin in him understood what that would mean.
CHAPTER 79
MARBLEHEAD, OHIO
You couldn’t tell by looking at it, but the quarry took up most of the peninsula where Marblehead was located.
“The town hugs the lake because there’s no other room,” Jimmy explained as we each nursed a beer at the Veterans of Foreign Wars hall, his recommendation for the best lake view within walking distance. With two large freighters hovering offshore, bright deck lights against the darkening sky, the old hall lived up to his hype.
“That’s why there’s no stoplight in town, or even cross streets. There’s nowhere to go in that direction unless you want to plunge eighty feet into the quarry.”
“I never realized it was so deep,” I said. “Where does it start?”
“Not far beyond the road. In fact, that little inn you’re staying at?�
�� The old brick inn, formerly a schoolhouse, was on the non-lake side of the road, down the street from campaign headquarters. “It’s not far behind that.”
“You mean past those woods?”
He laughed. “Don’t let those big cottonwoods fool you. Take too many steps into them and it’ll be the last step you ever take.”
“Guess I’ll jog along the lake, then,” I joked.
Halfway through my response, a dull whir started droning through the restaurant, as if a quiet train were passing by. No other VFW patron budged, including Jimmy.
“It’s the conveyor,” he said.
“What is?” I asked.
“You were looking around for that noise. It’s the conveyor. Outside. Hauling limestone to those boats out there. Runs about once a day.” He paused, eyeing me. “I thought you said you’ve spent a lot of time here.”
My phone rang at just the right time.
“Excuse me.” I pivoted away from Jimmy as I picked up.
“Good news, Jack!” Tori hadn’t sounded this excited since waving me down at Bad Apples.
“What’s that?”
“It’s Dad. He woke up.”
Jimmy stared at me as I spoke. Ever since the drive back from door knocking, he’d watched me closely. My conveyor slip-up had only made it worse.
“Hold on.” I stood up and took a few steps away from the table. “Did he? Great news. And how’s his health?”
“He’s weak but coherent. He remembers some of what happened, even though he’s still in shock. The doctors were stunned he’s able to remember anything after all that damage.”
“He’s a world-class athlete, Tori. That’s got to count for something.”
My leg still aching, I limped toward the VFW hall’s patio, which opened onto the lake.
“Guess so,” she said.
I took a deep, steadying breath before asking the question that mattered most.
“Tori, was he able to describe the guy who did it?”
“He struggled. They’ve got an artist in there trying to walk him through it, so we may know in a few hours. But the doctor said it’s sapping him of energy.”
Damn. The sooner we knew what the guy looked like, the safer we’d be. And maybe the queasy feeling gnawing my stomach would finally go away.
“Well, getting his rest is most important.”
“Dad’ll do his best.”
I hobbled back to the table and sat down.
“Man, you’ve got a lot going on,” Jimmy said, his squinting eyes sweeping me up and down.
“Always! But none of it’s more important than reelecting Ted Kovak.”
“And how’d you hurt that leg, anyway?”
“Bike wreck.” I laughed out loud while patting my leg. “You should see the truck I ran into!”
Jimmy crossed his arms.
“Forget about my shit. Tell me how you crush limestone.”
CHAPTER 80
MARBLEHEAD, OHIO
Jack, can you check your email?”
Nestled in the inn’s blue-walled library, surrounded by navigational charts and books, I’d started my morning drafting the opening paragraphs of the story for the Vindicator. Then Tori had called.
“Of course. What’s up?”
“Dad refused to sleep. He insisted on staying up until they had a final drawing.”
“Did they make progress?”
“More than that. They’re done. That’s what I want to email you.”
I gave her my email address.
“Okay. Coming right up.”
“Thanks. I’ll share it with my undercover guy so we can be on the lookout.” Never far away, Santini’s guy was asleep in a small room next to mine.
“I already did the same.”
I logged into my Gmail account. As I waited for Tori’s email to arrive, I sent one of my own to Mary Andres, my editor at the Vindicator, attaching the opening paragraphs of my story.
Seconds later, the email from Tori arrived, forwarding an email from a sergeant in the Wisconsin State Patrol. A PDF was attached.
I double-clicked to open it, curious to see what someone who cuts off a man’s ear looked like. I pictured someone like the Beast, the ugly hulk from the McDonald’s who’d driven himself, the Syrian, and Ned to their fiery deaths.
My muscles tensed and mouth opened wide as the penciled image filled the screen. I recognized the guy instantly. His hair. His eyes. And one unmistakable feature.
I dialed the chief and rambled quickly after he answered.
“Slow down, Jack. Half the people we lock up have an ungodly scar carved somewhere on their body.”
I took a deep breath.
“It’s him, Chief. He was ten feet away from me. Ten damn feet.”
CHAPTER 81
BALTIMORE
Come on in!”
Unlike most politicians Cassie had interviewed over the years, Councilman Razi Dallas opened the door to his office the very minute they were scheduled to meet: 8:00 a.m. sharp.
As she stepped through the door, preparing to say something, the boyish council member spoke again, as loudly as the first time. “Welcome to Baltimore! How’d you like entering this incredible building?”
“It’s beautiful.”
And it was. With its green lawn, fountains, gray edifice, and white dome, Baltimore’s City Hall was a stunning site.
Even after Cassie took her seat, he remained upright behind a standing desk. As awkward as it was to be planted in a chair, staring up at him, it was too late to get back up.
In two minutes Razi Dallas was living up to the hype she’d read about. His hazel eyes, light brown skin, and short, curly hair made a striking first impression despite his average height and weight. Throw in his outsized personality and palpable energy, and she could see why he’d become an overnight star in Maryland politics.
That combination propelled him to win a district that hadn’t elected a Republican in decades. And as the only Republican on the council, the former assistant city prosecutor gained national attention by walking the most dangerous streets of his district side by side with his residents—mostly elderly and African American—to reclaim those streets from drug dealers. Then he spent weeks at a time sleeping in vacant apartments of public housing projects, forcing the police and building owners to clean them up. He did it all with a severe hearing impairment that required him to wear hearing aids and watch the lips of whomever he was talking to—which he claimed made him a better listener. And he captured it all on Instagram live, where he now had almost a million loyal followers.
“I’m honored you’re here, Cassie. How can I help you?”
The chatter in Maryland was about what office he would run for next: mayor, attorney general, or even a long-shot bid for senator. And that was probably why he’d agreed to an off-the-record interview so quickly.
But she wasn’t here to talk about his future.
“You were quite the star at Princeton.”
He’d graduated summa cum laude and earned the award for the school’s top political science student. Not just a member of Ivy Club, he’d been its first African American president.
“I muddled through, yes.” His expression sobered. “What I lack in intelligence I make up through hard work.”
“I’ll say. You apparently worked hard enough to win a Marshall Scholarship.”
“I’m still not sure how I made it against such amazing competition. But it led to experiences and friendships that I will cherish for a lifetime. I’m a blessed man.”
His humility struck her as genuine. No wonder he’d won a council seat no one thought was winnable.
“Those friendships are why I’m here,” Cassie said. “One in particular. I’m curious if you remember Katrina Rivers; she was your year at Princeton.”
&
nbsp; The Daily Princetonian article announcing Katrina’s selection as a Marshall Scholar had mentioned two other winners that year. One now taught philosophy in California. The other was a young Razi Dallas, the son of two Baltimore teachers—an African American father from Upton and a white Jewish mother from Pikesville—who told the paper he planned to study political philosophy at Cambridge.
The councilman’s round face froze.
“I do remember her, but not well. Why do you ask?”
One good thing about new politicians: they will lie or dodge as much as their more experienced colleagues, but before they have mastered the art of hiding it. For the first time Razi didn’t look at Cassie as he answered, flashing a strained smile.
“You sure you didn’t know her well?”
He swallowed.
“Why are you asking? Is she in trouble or something?”
“Why would you say that?”
“Cassie, if I’m known for my loud voice, you’re famous for kick-ass investigations,” he said. “So the first thing anyone’s gonna think when you call is ‘Am I in trouble’?”
“Really?” she asked with dramatic flair, proud of herself. “But you still agreed to talk to me.”
“Of course. Because I’m damn sure I’m not in trouble. I’m honored to talk to you.”
She laughed out loud. Despite the lie, he was good.
“Then why are you hiding something when it comes to Katrina Rivers?”
“I’m not hiding anything. Just hoping she’s not in trouble.”
“But you said you don’t remember her well—” She stopped her sentence abruptly. An honest guy like this wouldn’t be comfortable letting a lie hang out there in silence.
He stared back for a few seconds, glanced down, then back up. The uncomfortable grin returned.
“Okay, let me revise my statement. She and I spent a good amount of time together for a few months.”
