Dead Politician Society (14 page)

The office smelled musty, like old paper, with a mild coffee overtone. Clare wanted to open the window, to look down upon the concrete quad that was deserted by this time of night, devoid of students bustling by. But she had tried the window, and it was stuck.

She glanced at Matthew's tweed jacket, hung too carefully on the back of his vinyl desk chair. Clare didn't know whether snooping around would be wise or stupid. Matthew had said he was going down the hall to use the washroom, and he had already been gone for what felt like ages.

Still . . . if she didn't search the office now, when would she have the opportunity? Clare took a sip of the wine Matthew had poured for her, then positioned herself in his chair.

She opened the top drawer first. She couldn't see anything special. Pens, small sheets of paper, a few business cards. She rifled through the cards, but found none resembling the
SPU
card Morton and Kumar had shown her.

The deeper drawer to the right held hanging files. On students? Clare was dying to see what was in there about her. But of course they weren't student files — they were course plans, with handouts and drafts of tests. Clare shut this drawer quickly in case Matthew might see her and think she was planning to cheat.

In the drawer beneath that, the file headings were arranged into chapters. Was Matthew writing a book? Clare had never slept with an author before. Did he even want to sleep with her, or was he being nice because she'd fixed his car? Either way, she was making a good inroad.

Clare thumbed randomly through the titles.
Chapter Twelve: Utopia and Controlled Substances.
Straightforward enough.
Chapter Two: Utopia and Party Politics.
Was there an audience for something that boring?
Chapter Seven: Utopia and Law Enforce-ment.
This was up Clare's alley. It didn't seem like much of a clue, though, so she replaced this folder with the others.

Final Chapter: Utopia and Death.
Why no chapter number for this folder? Did Matthew not know in advance how many chapters would be in his book? Why did death have to be the last one? Or was this something different — unrelated to the book? Clare wanted a closer look. Not now — Matthew would be back any second, and Clare was beginning to realize that only an idiot would search a room under these circumstances.

She returned to her seat by the window. Her heart was thumping furiously. She gulped at her red wine. Pathetic. If she was this nervous upon finding nothing, how would she feel when confronted with a piece of real evidence?

As Clare drained her glass, the door handle turned. He was back.

“What's wrong?” Matthew stared at her. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“Can we open the window?” Clare was dismayed that her anxiety was so obvious. “I tried, but I couldn't —”

“Of course.” Matthew gently brushed past her and struggled with the window until it came unstuck. “Cheap fucking piece of glass. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Clare said. “The air helps.”

“Sorry to be gone so long.” Matthew poured Clare some more wine, and sat beside her on the couch. He took her hand. “You sure you're fine?”

“I am,” Clare said, surprised by the warmth she was feeling from his touch. “I'm great. And thanks for dinner. I haven't had a meal like that since I lived at home.”

“Is your mom a good cook?”

“No.” Clare told the truth. “But she's better than I am. Living on my own, I tend to dine on coffee and Kraft Dinner.”

“My mother is a terrible cook.” Matthew had a great smile, when it came spontaneously. “When I went away to grad school, the campus cafeteria was a step up.”

Clare smiled nervously. She wanted more than just his hand in hers. She hadn't planned on feeling genuine attraction.

“Hey.” Matthew squeezed her hand gently.

“Hey.” Clare tried to sound casual. She shifted slightly to face him.

“Are you seeing anyone?” He ran his free hand lightly down her arm until it rested on her outer thigh.

“No.” Clare squeezed back. She wasn't used to this kind of quiet electricity.

“I don't want to make you uncomfortable.”

Clare inhaled deeply. She was uncomfortable in the best possible way.

“Would it be inappropriate if I kissed you?”

The most unromantic words Clare had ever heard. And they turned her on now more than anything Matthew might have said.

She smiled. Squeezed his hand again. Nodded. “You can kiss me.”

Laura shrugged into her cardigan as she and Susannah left the Hart House Theatre. She liked that the evenings were getting cooler. It made her think of hot chocolate, and lit fireplaces, and curling up with a good mystery novel.

“I'm sorry,” Laura said. “I can barely keep my eyes open. Will you drive home?”

“Hell, yeah. Can we drive with the roof down?”

“You sound like my son. Of course we can have the top down.”

“So did you like the movie, despite those nasty subtitles?”

Susannah tossed the car keys up in the air and caught them, grinning. Their fifteen-year age gap felt huge, at the moment. Probably due to the lead in Laura's veins.

“What I saw was great,” said Laura. “Unfortunately, I think I slept through half the film.”

“Probably the Scotch you were pounding back this afternoon.”

“You mean the one ounce?” So maybe it had been two.

Susannah unlocked the car with the remote. “I probably should have driven us here, as well. Hey, is that Brian? With a girl?”

Laura was about to say that she didn't know who Brian was when the young man in question approached them.

“Susannah. Hi.”

“Hey, Brian. This is my girlfriend, Laura Pritchard.”

Brian came forward to shake Laura's hand. The young woman with him stayed back. “Oh my god. It is such a pleasure to meet you. I'm so sorry about your husband. I mean, your ex-husband. I mean, your late ex-husband. That must have been horrible.”

Laura shook the boy's hand. She wished Susannah would remember to introduce her by her maiden name. “Thank you, Brian.”

“Wasn't that crazy tonight?” Brian said.

“Wasn't what crazy?”

“At the speech. You know, Manuel Ruiz —”

“Oh, we weren't there,” Susannah said. “I know Dr. Rosen-blum wanted us to go. But I had tickets to the film festival. Who wants to pass those up for some boring speech I can read about in the paper tomorrow?”

Strange, Laura thought. Susannah normally loved hearing politicians speak. Even those she hated — her vitriol fueled her interest, if anything.

But Laura was being ridiculous. What was suspect about preferring an exclusive film presentation where the actors came out for a
Q&A
after the show over listening to some pedantic politician?

“Yeah, I'm sure you'll be reading about this one in the paper. And seeing it on the news.” Brian seemed about to elaborate when his date tugged gently on his arm.

“Maybe Mrs. Pritchard doesn't want to hear about Manuel Ruiz from us,” Brian's date said. “You look exhausted. No offense.”

“None taken.” Laura was grateful. “And you're right. I am falling asleep on my feet.”

Utopia Girl:
Wake up, Annabel.

Death Reporter: What do you want? I'm sick.

Annabel looked at her alarm clock. 12:20. She'd fallenasleep without closing her blinds. From her bed, she could see the St. Lawrence Hall on King Street, past St. James Park, with the cathedral off to the side. The sight of these sturdy landmarks made her feel safe. She left her blinds open so the buildings would continue to protect her.

Utopia Girl:
I want to talk. I'm on a high.

Death Reporter:
Fantastic. Any particular reason?

Utopia Girl:
Got rid of another parasite. And on a date to boot. Well, not a “date” date . . . but you can imagine it presented a challenge.

Did she want to be congratulated for her cleverness? Annabel wandered into the bathroom and stuck her digital thermometer in her mouth. She left it in while she typed her response.

Death Reporter:
Again? Thought you killed someone last night.

Utopia Girl:
That should stop me tonight because . . . ?

Death Reporter:
Who was it this time?

Annabel pulled the thermometer out. A hundred and three degrees. What the hell was that in Fahrenheit? She tried to do a mental conversion, but her brain wouldn't wrap around the challenge. Then she realized it
was
Fahrenheit. If it were Celsius she would have combusted already.

Utopia Girl:
Manuel Ruiz. The pious motherfucker who wants to make it illegal for pregnant women to drink and smoke? Make that “wanted” to make it illegal.

Manuel Ruiz. The name was familiar, but Annabel couldn't specifically place the guy. That didn't mean much — her mind couldn't place much of anything at the moment. It suddenly occurred to her that this was the third death in four days. Was that even possible? Maybe she'd missed a week. But no — she checked the date on her BlackBerry — it was still the week of Labor Day, when all this had begun.

Death Reporter:
Why are you working so fast?

Utopia Girl:
Taking advantage of opportunities. Plus I don't know how long I have.

Damn. Annabel hoped like hell this wasn't one of those cases where someone had a brain tumor, and started doing horrible things right before they died. That would be her luck — to get a scoop like this and then lose it before anything could come of it.

Death Reporter:
Are you dying?

Utopia Girl:
Hadn't thought of that. Hope not.

Annabel had no idea how to interpret that answer.

Death Reporter:
Most serial killers start slow, and even at the end don't build up to the pace you're going. There must be a reason.

Utopia Girl:
Agree. There must be. And maybe don't call me a serial killer.

Another murder?” Clare said dumbly into her paper coffee cup. Of course another politician was dead. She hadn't found the killer, solved the case, and proven herself a brilliant undercover cop yet. Clare snorted at the memory of her own naïvety. Had it only been three days?

“Ruiz wasn't as famous.” Cloutier seemed personally relieved. “He was well known in his circle, obviously. But your average guy on the street couldn't have told you his name.”

“Meaning you? I'd heard of him.” Clare took the third obituary from Cloutier.

Clare looked up. “It's looking more like the whole group could have done this, right?”

Cloutier grunted into his coffee.

“No? You won't acknowledge that it's possible?”

“Sure, it's possible. Until we have a convicted man in jail, Bigfoot could have come down from his mountain to do these politicians in.”

“Meaning you think I'm out to lunch.”

“Meaning confirm the identities of the group members, and we might find ourselves closer to the answer.”

“Can't we bring in all the people we suspect? Like, one at a time, we can hold them for twenty-four hours. Then if someone dies while they're in custody, bingo, eliminate that person as a suspect. And if someone dies while we're holding each one, then it's either none of them or all of them.”

“No.” Cloutier smiled. At least he got that Clare was joking, as opposed to just thinking she was stupid.

“Is Susannah Steinberg alibied for any of the murders?” Clare asked.

“Only last night's. By her girlfriend. A night at the movies.”

The coffee shop was crowded this morning, and Clare glanced around anxiously. They were nowhere near the university campus, but she worried that she might be recognized.

“Is Laura Pritchard still a suspect?”

“We haven't ruled her out. She brought in that business card, remember.”

“Wouldn't that help the case for her innocence?”

“Yes and no. Neither of the other victims seems to have been sent these cards. Mrs. Pritchard could have obtained a card from Ms. Steinberg, if she's in the society like we think she is.”

“And what? Tried to frame her girlfriend for her husband's murder? Then killed a couple of other random people, to deflect attention from herself? And
not
had cards delivered to them?”

“It's looking like more of a long shot,” Cloutier said. “But if Sasquatch is on the list, the wife who inherits the pensions is too.”

Clare drummed her fingers on the laminate table top. “What about the girlfriend of the wife? Susannah's politics are pretty strong.”

“The motive may have less to do with politics, and more to do with something personal. As I'm sure you already know, because now you're a political genius, Manuel Ruiz was not a far-left socialist like the others.”

“He wasn't a radical right-winger, either.” Clare thought there could still be a political connection. “Did last night's event use the same caterers?”

“Nope. The speech wasn't catered. Just a coffee bar set up at the side of the room.” Cloutier tasted his date square and shuddered. “You like these things? My wife told me I have to start eating healthy, but that is fucking foul.”

“I love them.” Clare had finished her own donut, and was starving.

Cloutier shoved the paper bag in her direction. “It's all yours.”

Clare broke off a small piece and chewed. “So how did the killer get the poison to Ruiz? Was he drinking a coffee from the venue?”

“He had a glass bottle of cranberry juice. His assistant brought it with him.”

Clare swallowed hard. Bits of date square clung to her throat on their way down. “To avoid an outcome like this one?”

“Probably.”

“I guess his juice wasn't being guarded the whole time. Any luck finding out what kind of poison?”

Cloutier looked like he was about to tell her, for the millionth time, to focus on her own job, but then something in his face changed, and he humored her. “No word on specifics, but I'll tell you what we know.”

“Cool.”

“The symptoms, combined with the fact that we're fairly sure it's ingested by swallowing, shortlists anthrax, cyanide, nitro-glycerin, and a few others that are less common but easy to come by.”

This was all Greek to her, but Clare was thrilled to be put in the loop. “What about antidotes?”

“Excuse me?”

“Doesn't it make sense to stock an emergency kit at all future political events, with antidotes for the most likely poisons?”

“Yeah.” Cloutier grinned. “I'll suggest that.”

Did he like one of her ideas?

“Is the
Star
still willing to keep all this quiet?” Clare asked.

“Hell yeah. The inspector says Penny Craig is eager like a teenage virgin for that exclusive.”

“Really? Those were Morton's words?”

“You know what I mean. There's no problem getting the paper to shut up.”

“I guess this rules out Matthew Easton.” Clare felt herself filled, unjustifiably, with relief. “I was with him the whole night.”

“Yeah?” Cloutier snickered. “How's that going for you?”

“It was fun. It started with drinks, then he took me for a great Italian meal, then we had sex on his desk.” Clare grew warm recollecting it.

“That broken car thing worked?”

“Like a charm. I don't think academics are particularly blessed with common sense. Anyway, now that we know Matthew isn't Utopia Girl, am I wasting my time getting close to him?”

“Are you kidding? We think he's their leader. Stay as close as you possibly can.”

“Right,” Clare said, more than pleased with this directive. “So where did this speech take place?”

“On campus.”

“By campus, do you mean . . .”

“University of Toronto. You didn't know the speech was happening?”

“I heard a couple people talking about it.” Clare tried to respond to the actual question, not the accusation in his voice. “But I got the impression they were going under duress, for a class that I'm not taking. I had no idea it was on campus.”

“I guess you can't be in two places at once. Good work getting close to your professor.”

“Oh.” Clare felt her heart sink. “I guess — if the speech was on campus — we have to put Matthew Easton back into the equation. And maybe move his position up on the list.”

“You weren't with him the whole night?”

“He took a really long washroom break.”

“How long?”

“Like, twenty minutes or more.”

“What time was this?”

“God, I don't know. Maybe nine or ten.”

“Ruiz died at
8:45
. Could it have been that early?”

“I guess.” Clare tried to remember. “I wouldn't have thought so.”

“What was the light like outside?”

“It had just gotten dark when we went into Matthew's office building.”

Clare waited while Cloutier performed the mental calculation.

“The timing works, kid.” For once, Cloutier's eyes held more concern than derision. “You sure you want to be doing this?”

“I'm sure.” Was he kidding? Things were just getting interesting. “Hey, while he was gone, I searched Matthew's desk drawers.”

“You what?” Cloutier looked at Clare blankly.

“Not for too long — I didn't know when he'd be back — but it looks like he's writing a book about utopia. I think it would be great if I can get back in, and figure out what his angle is.”

“You're kidding, right.” Cloutier set down his coffee and folded his hands on the table.

“Kidding? No. You don't think it would be interesting?”

“Of course it would be interesting. But please tell me you didn't search the man's office when he could have returned at any moment.”

“I was careful!” Clare knew Cloutier was right.

“You could have blown your cover in an instant. All to find essentially nothing.”

“I'm sorry.” Clare stared at Cloutier's hands.

“I don't know what to make of you. You have these moments of brilliance, then you completely negate them with grand gestures of stupidity.”

“Brilliance?” Clare looked up at him. “Because I can work on the stupidity. Take more time. Think things through.”

“I don't know if you can.” Cloutier looked sad. “This is why I wanted someone older, who's already made those mistakes.”