The Voter File

by David Pepper

  For now, the foreign planes, fancy donors, and corporations were more than enough to keep her bosses off her back.

  CHAPTER 109

  YOUNGSTOWN

  Jack, why are you playing games when you’ve got a story to finish?” Mary Andres asked, stepping behind me as I sat at the Vindicator’s conference room table.

  “This is work. I’m helping another reporter on important research.”

  “Right. Then what are those doing on there?”

  She pointed at the hundreds of tiny airplanes dotting my computer screen.

  “Like I said. Research.”

  Mary left the room grumbling.

  Although my screen looked like a video game, I’d told the truth. Cassie had asked for my help.

  A gift to the rich and famous to keep their travels private, the FAA “block list” was a relic. Taking advantage of new airplane communication systems, plane buffs had established their own private networks to track and share all flights online, and the FAA was powerless to shut them down. I’d casually poked around those sites for years, nosing into the travel patterns of everyone from Steven Spielberg to Michael Jordan.

  Now, with Cassie’s hard work, these hobbyists might unlock the president’s secret Aspen list.

  The first of Cassie’s tail numbers belonged to a well-known Hollywood director, and the private website traced every mile of his Aspen jaunt. He’d taken off out of Hollywood Burbank, stopped in Palo Alto, then flown to Aspen. He took the same route home. Odds were he picked someone up on the way.

  Similarly, the San Francisco tech billionaire had stopped in Missoula on the way to Aspen, returning there for the night before flying back to SFO the next morning. Given the highbrow nature of the gathering, he likely picked up the eccentric fracking mogul and only Democratic mega-donor who lived in Missoula.

  And the Texas trial attorney, the single largest Democratic donor in the nation, had flown to and from Austin.

  While these visits would make a good story, the other tail number Cassie had shared piqued my interest more.

  G-M1M. A British plane.

  The equipment was a two-year-old Gulfstream G650, the most expensive private plane in the sky. The fastest, too, flying just below the speed of sound.

  G-M1M wasn’t a government plane like the other foreign flights she’d mentioned but was registered to a private company named Windsor Castle PLC. No other information was available on that entity. Whatever it was, Brits couldn’t donate to the president, so this wasn’t a donor meeting like the others.

  The plane had traveled a puzzling flight path. It hadn’t departed from either of London’s major airports, Heathrow or Gatwick, but from a small field outside London. And then it made a head-scratching stop in the United States before flying to Aspen.

  Because Aspen’s airport didn’t provide customs service, any international private flight would first need to stop at another American airport that did. Most pilots would stop as close to the northern flight route as possible—somewhere like Bangor, Maine. Others might land in Denver, pass through customs there, then make the short hop over to Aspen.

  But G-M1M had made a peculiar stop: Burke Lakefront Airport, the small airfield on a spit of land north of downtown Cleveland.

  While Burke provided customs service, it was well south of the route from London to Aspen, adding unnecessary hours to the trip. And the lakefront airport was notorious for its wind and weather. Sure enough, the Gulfstream had landed at Burke last Friday afternoon, around the time the storm had blown through Marblehead and Kelleys Island. Cleveland would’ve faced the same rough weather shortly thereafter, with even gustier winds, which explained why the flight’s departure from Burke was delayed for hours, into the early evening.

  The flight home Sunday added another wrinkle. G-M1M stopped back through Cleveland, then flew to Trenton-Mercer Airport in New Jersey before leaving American airspace and crossing back over the North Atlantic.

  Only one scenario explained the circuitous route and the decision to fly into an approaching storm: Burke Lakefront had been more than a customs stop. G-M1M picked up a passenger there, dropped that passenger back off in Cleveland on Sunday, then either picked up or dropped off another passenger in New Jersey before heading back to England.

  As I zoomed in on that ultimate destination, Tori walked into the conference room holding a paper bag. Sitting down across the table, she slid my way a sandwich wrapped in foil.

  “Turkey on wheat, melted Swiss.”

  “Thank you,” I said, eyes fixed on my screen.

  “What’s wrong, Jack? You’re sweating. And your neck’s all red again like it was in Wisconsin.”

  “Nothing.” I forced a smile. “Just getting this done for Cassie.”

  But, as always, she’d read me perfectly. My stomach was fluttering like it used to before big games.

  G-M1M had flown to and from a small airport called Blackbushe, located about forty-five miles southeast of London, in a county called Hampshire. The Windsor Castle PLC name made more sense now, because the famous landmark sat less than twenty miles away from Blackbushe Airport.

  And all of it felt familiar.

  Three years ago, as I was chasing down the final pieces of the Abacus scandal, two goons nabbed me from a Bob Evans in rural Pennsylvania and loaded me onto the nicest airplane I’d ever seen, a black Gulfstream. Seven hours later, as we descended through ten thousand feet, London’s sea of lights sparkled below. But then we banked east, and south. With the exception of the well-lit Windsor Castle, which was visible off the right wing, the ground grew largely dark before we landed at a small airfield in the English countryside.

  If my sense of direction was right, that humble airfield had been where Blackbushe Airport was located on the map now facing me.

  And after a short car ride from that airfield, we’d pulled up to Oleg Kazarov’s estate.

  CHAPTER 110

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The man didn’t even look twice. Which alerted Cassie that he didn’t belong.

  After updating an excited Chuck Massa and calling Jack about the FAA block list, Cassie had left work early to escape to the sculpture garden on the National Mall. A slow walk through the understated garden offered the perfect elixir for her long, tense days at Republic. And her early morning in Baltimore, followed by an afternoon assuaging her ornery bosses, had made today particularly long.

  Along the garden’s manicured trail of complexity and abstraction, Cassie’s favorite stop was a spare work of bronze. While sculpted in the 1950s, it appeared prehistoric: the rough figure of a man, with scant definition and detail, leaning straight back on a horse. The two formed a mangy duo. The rider’s stubby arms shot outward to his sides, while his short, malformed legs clung to the horse’s shoulders. The horse’s spindly legs splayed toward the ground in an unnaturally wide stance, its undersized head lifted skyward, its ribs protruding out of the dark bronze.

  But for all of the figures’ physical imperfection, the intensity of their stances—their ramrod-straight legs, their taut necks, the man’s outspread arms, their parallel gazes straight up into the sky—packed more power than any piece of art she’d ever seen. She’d often stare at the horse and rider, joined in their moment of joy and liberation, for so long that she had to remind herself there were other pieces in the garden to visit.

  And she wasn’t the only one. Over her many visits, she’d seen people stroll casually by the other works that dotted the garden’s walkway. Not this statue. It stopped visitors in their tracks.

  Which was why one visitor’s reaction this afternoon so jolted her.

  As she and five others stood around the horse and rider, a gray-haired, iron-jawed man had emerged from around a corner. In a sheepskin bomber jacket and dark slacks, he approached the small gathering, passing only feet from her. He shot a quick glance at her and an eve
n shorter one at the sculpture. He then took a few more steps, stopping in front of a far less striking piece.

  Politely smiling at the others gathered around, she stepped in the direction from where the man had come. If he was there to observe the art, he wouldn’t backtrack that way.

  But that’s exactly what he did. When she rounded a corner and looked back, the gray-haired man loped in the same direction she was going, passing the horse and rider for a second time without even a glimpse.

  Cassie’s heart skipped a beat and she walked faster. The man sped up, too.

  As she reached the wide dirt path lining the edge of the mall, heavy footsteps closed quickly behind her.

  “Are you Cassie Knowles?” the man asked in a thick Brooklyn accent.

  “I am.” She spoke in a guarded tone, keeping her distance. “And who are you?”

  “Ernest Foley. New York PD.”

  Cassie caught her breath. “Let me guess. Out of a Brooklyn precinct?”

  “Brooklyn headquarters, actually. I’m a senior detective there.”

  “You scared the hell out of me—”

  “I noticed. Those statues ain’t my cup of tea.”

  “How can I help you?”

  He gestured his right arm forward, lightly touching her back, inviting her to walk in the same direction. The call with the borough president played back through Cassie’s mind—the part about someone having leaked Razi Dallas’s call within the police department.

  “Are we being followed?”

  “Not that I know of. But I’m more comfortable walking while talking as opposed to standing in place.”

  “Makes sense.”

  They walked toward the Washington Monument as he sidled up to her right.

  “You made some calls about an old case in Brooklyn the last few days. I was asked about it twice this morning, and I wanted to get down here before you got yourself hurt.”

  A familiar chill crawled down her spine. Back at the Globe, days before busting two corrupt Boston officials, several cops had visited her, warning that she’d “get herself hurt.” But their attempts at intimidation hadn’t stopped her.

  “I’m afraid a Baltimore council member is in trouble because of it.”

  “Yes, he is. Unfortunately, that call went somewhere else first before I could stop it. Why do you think I flew the shuttle down here?”

  “It’s that serious?”

  “Oh, it’s deadly serious, Ms. Knowles.”

  Another phrase they’d used back in Boston.

  The red sandstone and multiple towers of the Smithsonian Castle emerged on the left, a landmark that caught the detective’s fancy more than the sculptures.

  “And why is that? If it went down the way the borough president explained it to me, why is it so sensitive eleven years later?”

  “One guess.”

  “Because it did not go down that way?”

  “Bingo.”

  “So the bureau president lied to me?”

  “No. She was fed the company line. She doesn’t know the real story. Almost no one does.”

  “Well, what’s the real story? And why are people still lying about it now?”

  “You have to promise me you won’t repeat a word. The people caught up in that case are very dangerous.”

  “I’m sure. Russian mobsters aren’t exactly thrilled when someone kills one of their own.”

  Detective Foley smiled faintly, shaking his head. “That’s not exactly what happened.”

  “Isn’t that why the case is buried with the FBI?”

  “Oh, it’s buried all right. And the mob is most certainly involved.”

  “Okay?”

  “But it’s the mob that did the killing.”

  “You mean killed Mrs. Rivers?”

  “Both Mr. and Mrs. Rivers.”

  “Wait, the mob killed them both?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Mikhail witnessed it?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Then why did he disappear?”

  “Because he’s the one who did the killing. He was a young mobster at the time.”

  Cassie gasped, swallowing hard and turning his way. “He shot his own parents?”

  “In cold blood.”

  “Awful.”

  “Truly. You should’ve seen the bodies.”

  “Did you?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. I was a newer detective back then and had to process the scene.”

  She still didn’t know what to make of him. Those Boston cops had never said a thing beyond their threats. Foley was far more forthcoming, but his monotone delivery was disconcerting.

  “Was it some type of civil war? The borough president said the dad was in the mob, too.”

  “That’s more of the company line. The poor guy had sobered up, built up a modest life selling insurance, and was simply trying to put his old marriage back together. He and Mrs. Rivers had communicated again for about a year before they were killed.”

  “Well, then why—”

  He eyed her, grim-faced. “I have no clue why the son did it.”

  “And now where is he? Jail?”

  “Free as a bird. He moved up the chain. Mikhail Rivers has a new name and runs the most lethal Russian gang in Brooklyn. If he was protected then, he’s untouchable now.”

  “So the case was buried to protect him?”

  “You got it. Some bad apples on the inside cleaned things up fast, building the false narrative you heard. Then they buried it all.”

  “Who else knows about the case?” Cassie wondered about Katrina in particular.

  “Almost nobody. My partner and I only worked the case at the outset, enough to get a sense of what really went down. After it got pulled from us, we played dumb and didn’t bring it up again. And then it disappeared, which is why your calls caught my attention.”

  They stopped at a crosswalk and waited for the pedestrian light to flash green. The Washington Monument and a wide circle of flapping American flags awaited them on the other side of the busy street.

  “Did you know there was also a daughter?”

  “Lovely Katrina? You couldn’t miss her. Her photos were all over the house, far more than Mikhail’s. But she was overseas when it all went down.”

  “Do you think she ever found out what really happened?”

  “Unless her own brother admitted it to her, I doubt it. We never saw her.”

  “Not even at the funeral?”

  “What funeral?” he said, smirking. “You don’t have a funeral for a mob killing if you know what’s good for you.”

  The pedestrian light flashed green.

  “So what am I supposed to do with this information?” Cassie asked as she stepped off the curb.

  “Absolutely nothing. No more calls. No more questions. Drop it all. Let’s just hope they release this Baltimore guy.”

  Just talk, or more threats?

  They reached the other side of the road. Home was to the left, so Cassie stopped walking. She looked right into Detective Foley’s heavy-lidded eyes as the photos of the councilman’s young family flashed in her head.

  “He doesn’t know anything. The poor guy just cared about the daughter.”

  “Then maybe he’ll be okay. Killing a council member might bring more heat than if they just let him go.”

  CHAPTER 111

  CLEVELAND

  As we warned you last week, you should not have traveled.”

  Oleg Kazarov lay back in his hospital bed, motionless and miserable, his apron dark and damp with sweat. An IV tube was back in his shriveled arm. But this time the drugs flowing through it were battling a bacterial infection as opposed to the cancer. And the bald, bearded doctor—the chief of oncology at the clinic—stood over him like an an
gry school principal.

  He hadn’t felt this ill the entire duration of his treatment.

  “I understand,” he said weakly. “What can be done now?”

  Bad luck had conspired against him from the trip’s outset. The long flight delay in the storm. Heavy early turbulence. Recycled cabin air, altitude, and rough storms over Illinois not only had kept him from getting needed rest but wreaked havoc on his weakened condition. By the time the flight had descended, he was shaking uncontrollably from chills and vomiting. The flight delay had pushed his meeting back to the next day, so a medical van shuttled him directly from the tarmac to the hospital.

  “You need to rest completely,” the Cleveland doctor replied. “No phone calls. No reading. Don’t even think about work. This is a deadly serious moment in your recovery.”

  “Okay.” He closed his eyes, stifling a cough.

  On the other hand, the trip had been a success. Against the advice of the local doctor, he’d attended the rescheduled Saturday-morning meeting. Within an hour, and with the help of one other guest, all his questions about the final plan had been answered. Then he returned to the hospital for an extra day of rest before flying home Sunday.

  A vibration to his right stirred him. His phone was sitting on a small bedside table, the lit-up screen in his line of sight. It was Katrina calling.

  He reached for it.

  “What did I tell you, Mr. Kazarov? No phone calls. You must rest.”

  “I will not talk.”

  The doctor shook his head, exasperated.

  He picked up the phone.

  I can not talk now.

  Ok, Dyadya. How was the trip?

  Successful. Good information to report to the group.

  Okay.

  Will call in 15 minutes.

  CHAPTER 112

  YOUNGSTOWN

  Heart racing, I consumed the Gulfstream’s full flight history like a teenage kid rifling through his older sister’s diary. And even my initial glance erased any doubts about whether G-M1M was Kazarov’s plane.