Dev Conrad - 03 - Blindside Read Free

going?’
    Matt and his wife Amy had both graduated at the top of their class at MIT. They were both deep-sea divers and mountain climbers. They loved adventure. And that included the adventure of being online detectives. If that involved hacking, I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know.
    When I called and gave them a name, they knew what I was after. The kind of detail that can make a man think twice about staying in the race.
    â€˜The name is Rusty Burkhart. I checked. There’s a fairly long story about him on Wikipedia. Can you start right away?’
    â€˜If I can’t, Amy can.’
    â€˜Great. You’ve got my cell number.’
    â€˜You got it, Dev. Let’s hope he’s a serial killer.’
    Jeff Ward was campaigning in the western section of his voting district when I’d flown into town last night so I’d yet to see him. His headquarters was one of those big, empty buildings that had housed a giant audio store before the economy committed suicide. Now it was the realm of phones, faxes, computers, stacks of campaign literature and posters of a handsome Irish man of thirty-six who liked to be depicted as a runner, a scrub basketball player, a swimmer and a man right at home in his district’s only slum. The young black kids didn’t look quite as taken with him as he might have hoped.
    The private offices were on the second floor. Lucy found me a tiny room that had a phone and a small table for my laptop. I spent most of the first hour after seeing Burkhart checking with my people in Madison then with the people in Chicago. This cycle we had four clients up for re-election, including Ward.
    I did more work on my Mac. I could see why Tom was convinced there was a spy in Ward’s campaign. Ward and his four most important staffers would have a meeting to decide which theme to push in their next TV and radio campaign. Before they could get their advertising agency to get on the air with it, Burkhart would trump them with his own spot about the same theme. His own angle on it, of course. This always made it appear as if the Ward spots were responses to the Burkhart commercials. In other words, Ward always looked to be on the defensive. Once could be a coincidence. Even twice. But this had happened four times in a month. One of the staffers was on the Burkhart payroll.
    I read the backgrounds Tom had sent me on the staffers. Nothing jumped out at me. These days we’re a nation of narrow specialists and the political industry is no different. Each staffer had gone to a good state school; each had graduated with a BA in political science with minors in communications or sociology. Two had gone on to get graduate degrees. Each had started young with our party, spending high school time ringing doorbells and handing out literature and working as volunteers during their college years. They loved politics. It can be heartbreaking but it can also be exhilarating. And it’s a job that matters. Congress is filled with people who shouldn’t be there and I include a good number on our side. Vigilance is the key.
    The meeting room was down the hall from me. Lucy said they tried to meet every day at four o’clock. I wandered down there.
    The table was old and cigarette-scarred and chipped. Same for the chairs. On a far wall was a giant plasma TV screen. A gallery of Jeff Ward posters covered all the other available wall space. These were more somber than the ones downstairs. Here he was with his gorgeous wife and their two very beautiful little girls. Here he was in front of a cathedral with hard hats of different ethnicities standing around him. Two for one – God and the labor force. And here he was ladling out soup in a soup kitchen. He looked comfortable in the long white apron.
    Lucy sat across the table from a young man in an inexpensive brown suit that was about the same color as his thinning hair. When he heard me come in he looked up and frowned.
    â€˜Jim