The Voter File

by David Pepper

  “Makes sense.” Tori typed away.

  Then came another list of industries, including agriculture. Soybeans. Beef. Corn. Chickens. “It’s killing the family farm. . . . It looks like your dad picked the wrong industry. Dairy is one of the most impacted.”

  “Tell me about it. The poor guy worked his whole life on that farm but could never get ahead. He always said he felt squeezed by all sides, and it got worse every year.”

  “That’s exactly what the president said.”

  “Well, don’t tell her, but I’m pretty sure my dad voted for the other guy.”

  I read for another fifteen minutes, extracting everything we could from the interviews.

  Tori looked up after typing the last note. “This is all good stuff, Jack, but the big money is on the side of the monopolies. Who would benefit from breaking them all up the way the president proposes?”

  “According to the president, most economists, and Teddy Roosevelt? Everybody else.”

  “Yeah, but who would benefit enough to pull off this plot? Not some liberal do-gooder helping out the American consumer.”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Then who?”

  “I guess anyone in the industries that are about to have their monopolies broken up. Except for the monopolies themselves, the smaller fry are sitting on gold mines and don’t even know it. Their fortunes are about to skyrocket.”

  I recalled the president explaining that mobile phones and home modems all soared after the breakup of AT&T, opening the door to AOL and other tech first movers. And smaller internet companies and start-ups took off after Microsoft was forced to curb its monopolistic practices.

  Tori’s lips twisted into a grimace and she put her hand to her chin but said nothing.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I was thinking about my poor dad. If this plan happens, he’s selling his farm at exactly the wrong time. Just his luck.”

  She was right. The poor guy hadn’t caught a break since his final NBA rebound.

  “True. But that’s also the answer to your question. If whoever is buying the farm from him is buying others, too—”

  “And it sounds like that’s what’s happening.”

  “—that’s the kind of person that stands to reap a—”

  I paused. We stared at each other for a few seconds.

  “Oh my God, Jack. Whoever’s behind this isn’t sitting on gold mines—”

  I finished her sentence for her.

  “They’re buying them.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “Sal Pavano here. How can I help you?”

  “Hey, Sal, my name’s Rex Chalmers. I’m an ag lawyer in Ohio. I understand you’re in the dairy-farm-buying business.”

  Tori and I had spent fifteen minutes on the phone with Lute, talking through the out-of-the-blue offer for his farm.

  “Sure, I’ve been picking up a few here or there.”

  Quick research had shown that Pavano was a partner at a high-flying New York corporate firm, the kind of firm only large companies can afford. And the website listed Pavano’s specialty as international transactions, with most of his deals coming out of eastern Europe and the former Soviet Union.

  “From what I hear, you’ve been picking up more than that, and for a pretty penny, too. You’ve made a lot of people happy here in flyover country.”

  Lute had described Sal’s fancy Mercedes, manicured nails, and tailored suits, so I figured flattery would help.

  “They can thank my client for that. Just call me the closer.”

  Referring to his client whetted my appetite, but it was too early to press. All of Lute’s legal agreements were with a six-month-old Delaware corporation, conveniently shrouding the foreign buyer. His lawyer wouldn’t want to say much.

  “Well, I may have some takers here in Ohio.”

  “How big?”

  Lute had given me a crash course on dairy lingo that would tempt a potential buyer.

  “We’ve got a good number of family farms. Fifty to a hundred cows each. Some corporate outfits would also consider selling. A couple hundred each. Some more than that.”

  “Not bad. Do you represent them all?”

  “I do.”

  In case he did any research, Rex Chalmers was a lawyer at a respected Cleveland law firm. “But they had a couple of major questions before we sit down.”

  “Fire away, Max.”

  “It’s Rex.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Fire away.”

  “Word on the street is that you represent some big foreign company. My guys are red-blooded patriots. They’re concerned about handing over our food supply to Russians, or the Chinese.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to discuss my client.”

  “I don’t need to know the details. Just assure me it’s not a Russian or Chinese company. Those are deal killers.”

  He paused for long enough that I worried I’d blown the call.

  “Nope. He’s neither.”

  “Or any other country like that?”

  “Look, Max—”

  “Rex.”

  “Look, Rex. I can’t say anything about the client. He insists on confidentiality. All of your clients will have to sign an ironclad nondisclosure agreement.”

  “Of course, but we’ll never get to the damn agreement if they don’t sell in the first place. And they’re not gonna sell if there’s a chance they’re selling out our country’s food supply to the enemy.”

  He paused for a few seconds, then sighed. “Listen, Rex. Last time I checked, our government was sending arms to Ukraine to fight the Russians, so tell your patriots they have nothing to worry about. I’ll leave it at that.”

  “Okay.” I wrote “Ukraine” down on my notepad.

  “What’s your second question?”

  Although he didn’t want to share information, this guy wanted a deal more.

  “Why is your client interested? It’s not like the dairy business is kicking butt right now. But these guys are proud farmers and want assurance that what they’ve built will remain as dairy farms.”

  Sal laughed. “They don’t have to worry about that. My client built up his dairy empire from one small farm himself. He knows what it takes to succeed.”

  “Even competing against the big corporations that have squeezed clients like mine?”

  “Oh, yes. He’ll be fine. He has a plan.”

  “And why now?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why buy these farms now? Why such a hurry?”

  Sal let loose a throaty laugh. “Listen, bud. I don’t know why he’s so eager. I just go out and close the deals.”

  CHAPTER 106

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Iris was wrong about one thing.

  The politician whom Razi Dallas had called in New York was not a member of the New York City Council. She was the Brooklyn borough president—essentially the mayor of Brooklyn. And she called Cassie back almost immediately.

  “I was heartbroken to read that the councilman has disappeared,” Emerald Herrera said over the phone. “What a shining star he is.”

  “The whole city of Baltimore is in shock.” Cassie paused before dropping the big news. “Madam Borough President, I suspect his call to you triggered whatever has happened.”

  Herrera gasped. “The call to me? About that old murder case?”

  “I believe so. Off the record, I had discussed the case with him earlier in the day.”

  “But why would such an old case lead to his vanishing now?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Can I ask what you and he discussed?”

  “That was between him and myself.” Her voice faded. Fearing bad press, the politician in her was clamming up fast.

  “
Madam Borough President, I’m not interested in exposing the conversation or even mentioning that he called you. Assuming he’s even still alive, I’m trying to find him. This is part of a much bigger plot.”

  A few seconds passed by. “Let me get my notes.” A scratchy sound blared through the receiver as Herrera put her phone down.

  Minutes later she picked up again.

  “Razi wanted to know about the double murder of a Sophia and Mikhail Rivers. From Brighton Beach. Eleven years ago.”

  Cassie wrote the names down.

  “And?”

  “Ms. Knowles, this is highly sensitive stuff.”

  Cassie tapped her pen against the desk. The secrecy was getting old.

  “Yes, apparently so sensitive that someone leaked it after your call and now the councilman’s gone.” She let the words sink in. “Please help me find him.”

  “Okay. There was no file on the case. But I talked to a longtime Brooklyn detective I trust. He remembered the case a little and checked around quietly.”

  “Apparently not quietly enough.”

  “True. I will ask him who he talked to. . . . Anyway, the case information is buried somewhere within the FBI.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “This was not a standard double murder.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “No. It was domestic violence.”

  “Domestic violence? Between who?”

  “Sophia Rivers and her husband.”

  “Her husband? She was married?”

  “Apparently. To some midlevel member of the Russian mob.”

  “That’s why the FBI got involved.”

  “Exactly. It’s a brutal gang that’s haunted Brooklyn since the early nineties. Even now more than then. Apparently the Riverses had lived separately for years; he rose within the gang’s ranks, came back and courted her, then killed her when she snubbed him.”

  “And he killed the son, too?”

  “Officially, yes. But apparently not in reality.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The son stumbled across the scene and then killed the father. Husband and wife were found dead, and the son ran off.”

  “So he’s still alive?”

  “I guess you could call it that. But killing a Russian mobster ends your life as you know it. He’s been in witness protection ever since, with the public story being that he was killed.”

  Before Cassie had time to process these words, there was a loud knock on her office door.

  CHAPTER 107

  YOUNGSTOWN

  Jack Sharpe?” said Thea Pappas. “Didn’t you used to work for Republic News?”

  I chuckled at my new favorite question. “Sure did. I’m back on the newspaper side now.”

  “Isn’t that like jumping from a Porsche to a Pinto?” she asked, chuckling. “How may I help you?”

  “We’re writing about a string of acquisitions of regional banks across the country, and the Bankers Journal indicated that you recently sold Athenia.”

  “I did,” she said, media savvy enough not to offer more.

  “You rebuffed offers for years. What changed your mind?”

  “Are we on the record?”

  “Let’s start on background, and you can decide if you want anything on the record after.” A standard journalist trick to get people talking.

  “Okay.”

  “Why did you sell this time?”

  “What’s that old saying: ‘They made an offer I couldn’t refuse’? Well, they pretty much did.”

  “But hadn’t the big banks made rich offers in recent years?” According to one article, FirstAmerica had aggressively sought out Athenia.

  “That’s true.”

  “Well, what was the difference this time?”

  “This buyer uses an entirely different model from the American banks. They want to build up Athenia’s footprint instead of chopping it into pieces. Their plan was best for our workers, our customers, and the communities we serve.”

  “Interesting. Tell me more about the buyer.”

  “I can’t say anything beyond what’s been reported.”

  “Bankers Journal said it’s some outfit from eastern Europe.”

  “Yep.”

  She was holding tight to the details like a kid clinging a toy, so I kept pushing.

  “And that they’ve bought a bunch of similar-sized banks across the West and South.”

  “I read the same thing.”

  “Isn’t that a strange fit? An eastern European bank in America?”

  “My attitude is, if they built up a national banking empire from small towns across Romania and then eastern Europe, they’ll do fine in Price and Ogden, Utah.”

  Finally, something new. Romania.

  “Even against the big banks?”

  “I don’t know. But they’re confident they’re up to the challenge. I sure wasn’t, so I’m pulling for them.”

  I ended the call.

  “Same pattern as the others?” Tori asked from the other side of the table, uncapped black marker in hand.

  “The same.”

  A foreign entity swooping into a monopolized American industry, buying up low-performing, modest-sized assets for a premium, oddly confident that their newly acquired enterprise would succeed despite years of struggle.

  On an easel next to her, she wrote the word “Banking” across the top column, next to the words “Dairy,” “Wheat,” “Soy,” “Search,” and a few other industries we’d researched where large companies dominated.

  “Eastern Europe?”

  “Yes. But Romania specifically.”

  She filled the row below “Banking” with the “Romania/EE,” alongside “Ukraine,” “Kazakhstan,” “China,” and other listed countries.

  “Bought in the past year like the others?”

  “More like the last month.”

  She added a check mark below “Romania.”

  “Incredible.” Hands behind my head, I leaned back in the swivel chair from which I’d been making calls for hours. “It’s some type of cartel, gobbling up everything they can. At least we can tell Mary we know what’s driving all this.”

  Tori snickered. “That, and that you were wrong.”

  “Wrong?”

  “Yeah. Forget a sea change in politics. This would be a sea change to the entire U.S. economy.”

  CHAPTER 108

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  With Republic anchor Chuck Massa knocking on her door all afternoon, Cassie set Brooklyn drama aside for a few hours to dig into the list of airplane tail numbers Axel had sent her.

  She stumbled around the internet, hunting for websites that allowed her to track flights by their tail numbers. She found two.

  From Axel’s list, Cassie first examined the planes whose passengers had left the terminal in the dark-tinted SUVs. She also focused on the planes that had stayed only a few hours, likely for a single business meeting as opposed to a weekend of leisure.

  The weekend visits had kicked off with three state government planes—New Mexico, Arizona, and Nevada—all arriving Friday afternoon, flying in from each state’s capital, and returning that evening. Cassie guessed the passengers were those states’ governors, continuing their discussions with the president on her public lands plan.

  Another three planes had flown in from Newark, Austin, and Chicago, landing and leaving on Friday afternoon, Sunday morning, and Sunday afternoon. They belonged to high-end private charter companies, so there was no way to know who their passengers were.

  More interesting were two planes that had arrived Saturday midmorning and were registered to a major pharmaceutical company and a gas company. Quick research revealed that both companies were lobbying hard for controversial legislation before Congress. She jotte
d the companies’ names down; those meetings would make for the kind of damaging story her bosses craved.

  Three other visitors also met that test. Separate airplanes arriving Saturday afternoon belonged to a Hollywood director, a Texas trial attorney, and a San Francisco tech billionaire. The Federal Election Commission’s website showed that all three were major contributors to the president. Again, her bosses’ dream story: donors secretly getting special access to the president.

  Cassie tried to pinpoint where these planes had traveled before and after Aspen. But that was where the trail ended. Both websites indicated all three were on a Federal Aviation Administration’s “blocked list,” whatever that was. No information was available on their respective flight histories.

  But the most intriguing flights had arrived Saturday around noon, within ten minutes of one another. F-ZABB, TC-AB2, and UR-B1B—with one exception, these were the only tail numbers on the entire list that didn’t start with the letter N. Quick research found that the F, TC, and UR signified planes registered in France, Turkey, and Ukraine, with the French plane bearing the tail number of an official government plane. They had flown directly from Paris, Ankara, and Kiev.

  Pay dirt.

  Cassie could picture the breaking news chyrons already: the president of the United States meeting in secret with officials from those countries, together. Surely the president owed the American people more information on such a meeting.

  The three foreign tail numbers gave her pause for another reason. A plane earlier on the list had also displayed a tail number that did not start with N. She’d skipped it over the first time because it didn’t look like a presidential visit. The plane landed late on the Friday night—too late for a meeting—and didn’t depart until Sunday afternoon. And Axel had not listed it as a plane that had used an SUV.

  But now the odd tail number piqued her interest.

  G-M1M.

  Several keystrokes revealed that tail numbers beginning with G were registered in the United Kingdom. She tried to find where the plane had flown from, but it, too, was on the FAA’s blocked list. No flight history was available.

  She closed her laptop. She could ask Jack about the block list later. He knew about that sort of thing.