The Voter File

by David Pepper

Cassie scrolled down through her spreadsheet. Three people had been hired by the Republicans since President Moore’s election and had departed since. Two women and a man.

  She skipped over the man, a thirty-four-year old who’d jumped ship to work on a governor’s campaign.

  The first woman also didn’t fit the bill. In her late thirties, she’d worked for a variety of candidates and state parties. She jumped to the national party two months after the last election, but then left a year later to join a conservative advocacy group needing digital help. Advocacy groups now did as much campaigning as parties, so the jobs would be similar. But she’d probably earned a big raise with the move, along with a better title. Not at all like the departure of Natalie Hawke.

  Cassie examined the final name on the list.

  Kat Simmons. Hired right out of North Florida. Very junior, appearing on only two lists of employees, a couple political websites, and presenting at one party conference. Lasted seven months. Now enrolled in a master’s program at the University of Washington.

  That was more like it.

  She went back to Kat Simmons’s LinkedIn and Facebook pages. The Facebook page didn’t provide access to private information, although the photos showed a professional-looking young woman. Glasses, sandy-blond hair in a bun. Professional. The LinkedIn account, which documented the basics of her education and career path, displayed a similarly meek photo.

  Appearances aside, Natalie Hawke and Kat Simmons had similar profiles, had served short tenures at their respective parties, and had left around the same time.

  This was no smoking gun. But if two people had simultaneously hacked the two national party voter files, they were the leading candidates.

  CHAPTER 54

  I-80, YOUNGSTOWN TO NEW YORK

  It was the most shameless of false advertising.

  A sign on I-80 East near Youngstown touted New York as a destination. Although four hundred miles away, the mere listing of the Big Apple on an Ohio highway had always made me feel connected to the East Coast. But the long trek across Pennsylvania quickly shattered any sense of proximity.

  It didn’t help that we’d woken up at four in the morning or that Tori had slept most of the way, but the drive east proved painfully long and deadly dull. Brookville, Clearfield, Danville. Who would’ve thought New Jersey could be the highlight of anything? But the western entrance along I-80 was the most scenic part of the drive.

  We crossed the George Washington Bridge into Manhattan just before 2:00. I’d been to New York’s Republic studio often in recent years, but Tori’s wide-eyed gaze at the skyline made it clear this was her first visit to the city.

  We were in New York to track down a young woman named Natalie Hawke. The night before, Cassie had filled us in on the two women she suspected of infiltrating the political parties’ voter files. We’d agreed to find Natalie, while Cassie checked out the other woman.

  “Are we just going to walk in and ask for her?” Tori asked once we’d entered the heart of Manhattan, heading south on Broadway.

  I chuckled. “We’ll need to be more conniving than that.”

  We’d done the basic research along the way. The Atlantic Center for Public Policy, the think tank where Natalie Hawke claimed to work, was based in Lower Manhattan, not far from Union Square. Its website touted its progressive research on issues such as wages, health care, and family leave. And it housed a small staff of academics along with support staff, one of whom was Natalie Hawke.

  But one thing stuck out: I’d never heard of it. And given my job in Washington, that was odd.

  These think tanks hustled to get their experts on the air. In response to every major news item and political fight in Washington, they’d bombard us with their studies, reports, and research projects while offering up their experts to speak on camera. Those interviews were how they proved to their donors that their investment was paying off and that their agenda was being advanced. So, in my years at Republic, my in-box had been filled daily with pitches from the most established D.C. think tanks to the smallest policy centers across the nation.

  So the fact that I couldn’t recall receiving a single item from something called the Atlantic Center for Public Policy meant they were either really bad at what they did or this was a phony group.

  With Tori waiting in the car, I entered the ground floor of a building right off Broadway. After waiting for two people in front of me to get through, I stepped up to the security desk.

  A heavyset bald man glared up at me. “Where ya headed?” he asked.

  “The Atlantic Policy Center.”

  No reaction.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I don’t.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Bill Sharpe.”

  He suddenly waved his hand high in the air, a wide smile breaking out. “Chuck! How’s it going?”

  A tall guy in a gray suit waved back as he walked toward the building’s exit.

  The guard looked back at me.

  “Name again?”

  “Bill Sharpe.”

  “From?”

  “Channel 8 TV, Atlanta.”

  I’d done a quick search of men named Sharpe involved in media. Several Bills popped up.

  “Got ID?”

  I placed my Ohio driver’s license on the counter. He held it a few inches from his face and squinted. Suddenly he lifted it high in the air.

  “Heidi, almost quitting time! You’re going the wrong way.”

  A mousy young woman in a pantsuit waved back before walking through a turnstile and stepping into the elevator.

  He looked again at my license, then glowered back.

  “You said Bill Sharpe. But this says Jack Sharpe on it. What’s that about?”

  “See the W?”

  The license read Jack W. Sharpe. Jack Wallace Sharpe.

  “Sure do.”

  “That’s for William. People call me Bill.”

  “I see. And what channel was it again?”

  “Eight.”

  “In Ohio?” he asked, gesturing toward my Ohio license.

  “I’m from Ohio. But moved to Atlanta.”

  “I see.” He lifted a pen from the desk. On a sign-in sheet, he wrote in the name “Bill Sharpe, Channel 8 Atlanta.” Then he wrote, “Atlantic Center” and “2:04,” the time.

  He glanced to his right at a list of numbers, then picked up the phone and dialed five digits. An older man lugging a large carry-on suitcase lined up behind me.

  “Dottie, how goes it?” He paused to hear the answer. “I got a Bill Sharpe here to see you. From Atlanta.”

  He listened for a few seconds, twiddling the pen in his fingers.

  “Who are you visiting there?”

  “Tad Craven.”

  A Dr. Tad Craven, sporting a beard and pince-nez glasses, was described as an economics analyst on the think tank’s website, which also included a long list of papers and articles he’d published.

  “He’s visiting Tad Craven,” the guard said back into the phone. Another pause.

  “Mr. Craven isn’t in today.” He leaned his head to the right as a younger woman lined up behind the older man.

  “Okay. How about Maggie Gerard?” The website described Dr. Gerard as a respected labor economist.

  He repeated the name into the phone. Another pause.

  “She’s not in, either.” He glared at me. “I need to help these other people, Bill. Maybe you should come back another day.”

  Four people now waited behind me.

  “Hold on. I need to talk to one of their analysts. It’s for a major story we’re working on down in Atlanta.”

  He repeated my words verbatim into the phone, then scratched the top of his head as he listened.

  “You’re out of luck, mister. Apparently no
one’s in today that can talk to you.” He peered at the man behind me. “Sir, sorry for your wait. Can I help—”

  “Well, can I at least go up there to make an appointment?”

  He sighed heavily before repeating my request into the phone.

  “I’m sorry. They say you’ll have to do that by phone. Not in person.”

  He hung up the phone. “Next up?”

  The man behind me struggled to pick up his suitcase, giving me one more shot.

  “Gee, you’d think they’d want to get some free publicity.”

  The edges of his thin lips angled down sharply. “Sir, to tell you the truth, since moving in nine months ago, they don’t appear to want any attention at all.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yeah. I can’t remember the last time anyone came to visit them.”

  I cocked my head. “But you seem to know everyone. You must see Dr. Craven and Dr. Gerard? They’re very respected economists.”

  “It’s part of my job to know the people in this building by name. But I couldn’t pick Drs.—” He stopped talking.

  “Craven and Gerard.”

  “Yeah, whoever. I couldn’t pick any people by those names out of a lineup.” On cue, he waved to an older woman as she stepped out of the elevator.

  As he was talking, I’d pulled up the photo of Dr. Craven, the more distinctive looking of the two, on my phone. I held it in front of him.

  “Wait a sec, you’re telling me you don’t remember this nerdy guy?” I asked in the most lighthearted tone I could muster.

  The man behind me coughed, reminding us he was still there.

  “Hold on,” the guard said to him, now intrigued. He studied the photo seriously. “Honestly, I’ve never seen that guy before. And I’d remember that guy. He looks like a chipmunk!” He laughed at his own joke.

  “How about anyone else from the Atlantic Center? You must see someone.”

  “Dottie, the lady I was talking to. She comes in every day at eight thirty. Leaves at five. Like clockwork since they moved here. But she’s the only one I see. I always wonder what the hell she’s doing up there all day by herself.”

  He was really gabbing now, so I held up the photo of Natalie Hawke from the website.

  “She works there, too. You ever see her?”

  He shrugged, his mouth twitching.

  “Cute girl. But she’s never set foot in this place.”

  CHAPTER 55

  WATERLOO, WISCONSIN

  Who the hell are you?”

  The old man’s gruff voice was muffled as he yelled through the rag wrapped tightly around his head and mouth.

  Displays of great courage, and a high tolerance for pain, always impressed Kasabian. Most men, no matter how strong in appearance, caved quickly. Agonizing pain, and the fear of more, usually ensured it. But this old man, bound to a wooden chair in his kitchen, impressed him. He had endured much already.

  Shooting someone without even a greeting was not his usual approach—too uncivil. But the old basketball player’s extreme height and long wingspan posed a unique threat. Kasabian had had no intention of killing him, but he’d needed to disable him. He’d targeted the three bullets precisely—one ankle and both shoulders—to do exactly that without risking vital organs or arteries. After cutting down the giant, he sedated him with a needle and dragged him inside.

  Shaking the chair violently, the old man yelled again.

  “I’ll be six feet under before I tell you a damn thing about my daughter.”

  His face already looked decades older than the day before—his skin a grayish hue, his eyes as crimson as the blood below. The large plastic sheet beneath the chair was caked with crusts of dried blood from the night before and wet blood from this morning.

  Kasabian had learned long ago that knives inspired more terror than any other weapon. So he’d learned to master their use. He found it ironic that his last name meant butcher in his native Armenian.

  Over the past twenty-four hours, he’d use his preferred tool to carve in places and in ways that inflicted the maximum amount of pain. And the man had screamed loudly. He’d cursed. He’d shaken the chair violently and torn at the ropes that shackled him.

  But through it all, Lute Justice hadn’t given in.

  “My holes are shallower than six feet,” Kasabian said, smiling. He held the knife up in the air, eyeing it as he twisted his wrist back and forth.

  His tour of the grounds had made clear that the daughter had visited in recent days. The tire tracks in the space next to the old man’s pickup were fresh. Shoe prints in the dirt indicated both a driver and passenger had entered the house. The daughter had entered her room, the empty gun case suggesting that at least one rifle had been taken. At one point her companion had paced alone outside, near the fence that separated the driveway from the fields.

  Even with all that evidence, the old man had endured hours of pain before even confirming that Victoria had been there.

  “I will ask you again: Where was she going?”

  “I have no idea, mister. No goddamn idea.”

  “And who was the man she was with?”

  The old man had yet to admit that anyone had been with her.

  “You can cut me up all you like. I’m not talking.”

  Kasabian glared at the old man’s weathered face. Studied the ferocity of his gunmetal eyes. He wasn’t bluffing.

  With valuable time slipping away, he faced an important decision. The cleanest path to eliminating Victoria Justice was a surprise ambush and kill. But that required her father giving up her location. If he refused, the alternative path—drawing the young woman to him—would be more challenging. And the path would be far more painful for the old man.

  He swallowed hard. In the end, there was no choice.

  Kasabian stopped pacing back and forth several meters in front of the chair. He studied the old man’s head.

  When it came to motivation, only a few options did the trick. The bait needed to be easily recognized by eyes unaccustomed to horrific sights and threatening enough to spur action. But it also needed to be measured so as not to cause death.

  Staring at the man’s bloody face, Kasabian looked slightly left, then slightly right.

  Which ear would it be?

  CHAPTER 56

  SEATTLE

  The view was just as stunning the third time Cassie walked by.

  Mount Rainier’s white-tipped summit loomed like a ghost behind the large, majestic fountain that served as the centerpiece of the University of Washington’s campus. The panorama of lush trees and green forests that framed the fountain even obscured the construction equipment in the foreground.

  Cassie studied her campus map one more time, trying to figure out why she kept ending up back at the fountain. Somehow she’d walked past sleek new buildings named after benefactors like Bill Gates and Paul Allen two and three times but couldn’t find the old brick edifice she was looking for.

  On her fourth try, she figured it out.

  Minutes later she sat down in the humble third-floor office of Sue Schwartz, a tiny woman with shoulder-length blond hair whose job it was to earn the Daniel J. Evans School of Public Policy and Governance as much free and glowing publicity as possible.

  “What a treat to have you visit us,” Sue said, her brown eyes sparkling as she leaned forward over her desk. Landing a Republic story about the school would be a huge feather in her cap.

  “Glad to be in this Washington and out of the chaos of the other one, at least for a day,” Cassie said. “As I said on my message, my bosses and I were wondering how public policy schools like this handle the political realities of the day. Are you even relevant anymore when everything is driven by partisan poli—”

  “Oh, we’re more relevant than ever,” Sue said, jolting up in her seat.

&
nbsp; “Of course, your job is to say that, but how can that be true?”

  Sue did a double take. “And I’m sure you’re paid to ask tough questions. But our mission is making sure the next generation of public leaders is grounded in good policy, not just politics. Given the partisan chaos you described, there’s no more important time to do this work than now.”

  Cassie pursed her lips and nodded.

  “You make a good point, Sue. But count my bosses skeptical, especially with the tuition these kids are paying.”

  Sue’s eyes bulged, panic setting in that her PR opportunity was imploding into a disaster.

  “We’d love to hear from your students, especially those with political experience. Some D.C. sources mentioned that a couple of their former employees are here.”

  “Who do you have in mind?”

  “You’ve got one student who worked for Congressman Swallow.” Cassie peeked down at her notebook. “His name is Jay Dillon.”

  Sue jotted the name down on a pad on the desk. “The congressman has always been an advocate of ours. And Jay’s a real star. Who else?”

  “Another, Kat Simmons, worked at the Republican Party before coming here. Her old bosses there said she was impressed by the place.”

  “Great.” Sue let out a breath, then wrote Kat’s name down as well. “Any others?”

  “Those two would be fine. We’re talking to a number of schools. The feedback’s been all over the map.”

  Facing her desktop computer, Sue double-clicked to open a page that featured “Evans School for Public Policy & Governance” across the top, with a photo of the large fountain prominently displayed below.

  Cassie’s eyes fixed on the image. The angle looked familiar. Not from fifteen minutes ago, but previously.

  “Let’s see where they are,” Sue said quietly, then typed on the keyboard. “Jay’s in the middle of Advanced Public Finance, on the second floor. He gets out in fifteen minutes. I can message the professor.”

  “Perfect. And Kat Simmons?”

  She typed again. Paused. Then hit some more keys.

  “Funny.” She tilted her head but didn’t elaborate.