The Voter File (Jack Sharpe, 3) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

David Pepper is the author of The Voter File, The People's House and The Wingman, which feature Jack Sharpe. He earned his B.A. from Yale University and his J.D. from Yale Law School. He has clerked for a judge on the United States Court of Appeals, served in local elected office in Ohio, worked for major law firms, and taught election and voting rights law. Prior to law school, Pepper worked in St. Petersburg, Russia, for the Washington-based Center for Strategic and International Studies. In 2015, he was unanimously elected Chairman of the Democratic Party of Ohio.

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Chapter 1

Eight months later

PLEASANT PRAIRIE, WISCONSIN

Jack Sharpe? Wait, aren't you like some kind of famous celebrity?"

In this dark cave of a bar, the third Yuengling was definitely taking me where I wanted to go. That, and the sweet simper my auburn-haired bartender flashed as she enunciated my name-she must've seen it on my credit card-whittled away at my weeks of gloom. While this road trip offered me one last opportunity to get off the mat, hours behind the wheel had only meant more time to dwell on how I'd fallen facedown in the first place.

"Well, I'm on television sometimes, if that's what you mean."

I downed the rest of the beer before setting the empty bottle on the sticky mahogany countertop.

She popped the cap off a fourth Yuengling and slid it my way.

"Weather guy?"

"Not that bad. Politics. You ever hear of Republic News?" I took a deep swig from the fresh bottle.

"That's right. I see you on that TV all the time. Up there." She pointed across my shoulder. "With her."

I spun around on the barstool.

Between two mounted flat-screen TVs showing college football, she appeared on a smaller screen-the second-to-last person I wanted to see. Anchor Bridget Turner was interviewing someone about something, words scrolling along the bottom, the Republic News logo beaming in the corner. The sight sunk my mood to where it'd been when I'd stumbled into the place.

"Yep, that's me."

I forced a smile as I turned back to the bar.

"Well, that's cool. So what the heck's a TV big shot like you doin' here?"

"Drinking more than I should, thanks to you," I said, downing another gulp.

"Not here. Here, silly," she said, pointing down at the countertop. "Wisconsin."

She topped off two dirty martinis for a couple to my right, then stepped back my way.

"We in the press need to get out to the heartland every once in a while, don't you think?"

Her eye roll made clear that the evasive schtick bored her. So I played it straight.

"I'm actually here for a story."

"What story? Nothing big ever happens around here." She flipped her hand forward. "Did some banker kill his wife or something?"

"You've been watching too much Dateline," I said, chuckling, before finishing off the bottle. "No one killed anyone. It's about a recent election. But it didn't happen here. I've still got a few hours to go. This was-"

"The first exit after the state line. Trust me, that's most of our business here. Want another?" She reached into the cooler behind her.

"Sure. But that's the last one. . . . And you should give your town more credit. How could I not stop in a place that sounds as nice as Pleasant Prairie?"

But she was right. After a quick trip across northern Ohio and Indiana, the mind-numbing traffic, endless construction, and back-to-back tolls of Chicagoland had slowed my progress. North of Chicago, heading up I-94, I'd hoped Lake Michigan's western shore would liven up the journey. But the only hint of a nearby body of water had been five seagulls pecking at scraps at the Lake Forest rest stop where I'd stopped for coffee. That final blast of caffeine propped me up only temporarily before I dozed off again, forcing me to crank up the radio and slap my cheeks to stay awake. Then came more construction, an endless series of outlets, strip malls, and office parks-still no lakefront-until a big blue sign welcomed me to the Badger State. Although I'd set the outskirts of Milwaukee as my finish line for the day, when a water tower featured the name Pleasant Prairie, I'd exited the highway.

It was time to drop any airs.

"Truth is, I'm from a small town myself. Lived in Ohio most of my life. I feel a lot more at home in a real place like this than in the big city. So, whatever the reason, it's damn nice to be here."

She nodded. "I moved back for the same reason. It's slower going for sure, but I'm good with that. And it's been a much better place to raise my son."

She was getting to me. Her ring finger, I saw, was empty. Like me, she'd likely toiled through the challenge of single parenthood.

"I know the feeling. My son, Scott, is out in California kicking ass, and I'm convinced our days back in Youngstown are the main reason why."

She leaned toward me, brushing her wavy, thick locks away from her olive eyes. "I'm sure his dad had something to do with his success." Her tone had lightened.

"Hardly. I'm impressed he overcame my deeply flawed genes."

"Ha! That's how I always felt. And now my Hank is about to graduate from med school."

"Now, that's impressive. Well done, Mom." I lifted my almost empty bottle in front of me. "Here's to overachieving kids making their parents look good."

We talked a while longer. Turned out Rhonda and I had a lot in common. Varsity athletes in college. Dysfunctional early marriages that had produced messy divorces but impressive sons. If single fatherhood had added speed bumps to my path as a journalist, single motherhood had cut short her sports medicine career. And we'd both endured the doldrums of post-divorce dating life. Of course, I left out a lot, especially my recent career implosion.

"You know something?" Rhonda asked as I closed out my tab.

"What's that?"

"A lot of assholes come through here."

"I bet they do." I'd seen it all as a bouncer in college, but no one got it worse than the women behind the bar. "Must be a daily occurrence."

She nodded, a smile lifting the corner of her lips. "And I figured you'd be the biggest asshole of all."

I feigned a frown but knew enough TV personalities to understand why she'd assume that.

"But you weren't even close!"

I couldn't help but laugh with her. "That's a real ego boost. Thank you."

An awkward silence passed. She smiled again. "I get off in an hour. Any interest in meeting up?"

If I'd stopped at two beers, maybe I would've declined. But I was well past that, enjoying our rapport, feeling liberated. So why not keep it going?

"Can I borrow that pen?"

She tossed a black plastic pen across the bar's worn countertop. I removed a business card from my wallet, crossed out the official email and work number, and scrawled my personal cell phone number on the top. As Rhonda watched out of the corner of her eye, I laid the card back on the bar, next to the unsigned credit card receipt.

As seconds passed, my stomach muscles fluttered. My body tensed.

I stared back down at the card. The Republic News logo, my name, my scrawled number. I lifted the card back up, squeezing it by its edges. I'd purposely left the impression that I still worked there, something she'd probably already seen through. If not, she'd figure it out quickly.

I thought about Alex. Weeks ago I'd been on the verge of proposing. Now here I was, scribbling my number on a business card for a complete stranger.

I put the card back in my wallet. I reached for the black pen again, signed the credit card slip, and walked out of the bar.

The chimes on my iPhone rang for what seemed like an hour. IÕd slept for some fraction of the night, but it...