Dead Politician Society (22 page)

Clare pulled out of her parking spot, careful not to let her dress touch the exhaust pipe. At least tonight's events had distracted her from her own self-consciousness. She'd barely remembered she was wearing a dress until she had to get onto her bike.

She drove north through the city. Jessica's family, for all their in-fighting, had welcomed Clare, reminded her of what a functional family was supposed to feel like. Jessica may have lost both of her parents, but her grandparents had stepped in and given her and Rory everything that mattered. Clare hadn't been so lucky. She'd lost both her parents while they were still alive.

Cloutier was going to hate her in the morning, but Clare was unwilling to blame herself for the evening's horror. Yes, another man had been poisoned, and would probably soon be dead if he wasn't already. Yes, it was Clare's job to watch the small group of people that probably contained the murderer(s). But what more could she have done, without compromising her cover?

She arrived at the campus. There was nothing going on at street level, but music pumped loud from the nearby residences, and Clare felt that she might have missed out on something by not having gone to university.

She climbed the large stone staircase to Sidney Smith Hall. She tried the front door, but it was locked. She pulled out her phone.

“Clare?” Matthew's voice was welcoming. “How was the party?”

“Terrible. I'm outside. I'll tell you about it when you let me come in.”

He was there in under a minute.

“Hey, great dress.”

“You like it?” Clare frowned.

“Don't make that face. You look fantastic. Come on upstairs.”

But something wasn't right.

“I need you to level with me.” Matthew unlocked his office door and held it open for Clare.

“Sure.” Clare took her now-familiar seat on the couch.

“On Friday afternoon, when you were in my office, did you maybe have a look around?”

“Um.”

“I'm not angry.” Matthew poured two glasses of red wine. “But why didn't you ask me what you wanted to know?”

“Um.”

“For example, do you still have any questions about the society?”

Clare was horrified, then she relaxed. He couldn't possibly know that she'd been in his drawer. There were no cameras in the room, and there must be someone other than him with access — a janitor, the department head. “I'm so sorry, but I don't know what you mean.”

“No?” Matthew handed her the wine.

Clare eyed the glass — she'd watched him pour it, so it must be fine, right? She'd wait for him to take a sip first. And then maybe she should somehow execute a trade.

Matthew lowered his brow. “Someone's gone through my drawers. You're the only person who's been in my office without me being present.”

“Does anyone else have a key?” Clare wondered what she'd left out of place. Or was he one of those freaks who stuck a hair on his lock to ensure the privacy of his drawer. Shit, he probably was.

“Dr. Rosenblum has one. But there's nothing she would want in here.”

“But there's something I
would
want?” Clare widened her eyes. She should never have dropped out of drama class. “Why are you constantly mistrusting me?”

“Constantly?”

“First you thought I weaseled my way into your class.” Clare wondered if it was a mistake to remind him of this. “And now you think I searched your things when I was sleeping off a migraine. I'm just —” She pushed her wine away forcefully, but without spilling any. “Look, I'm not sure if I've done something to upset you, or if you have trouble trusting people in general. But I'm obviously causing you more grief than pleasure, which isn't the point, is it?”

Clare stood up, and began to put on her leather jacket.

“Clare — I —”

Matthew knew that he should let her leave, that she was more trouble than she was worth. He needed to think about the situation away from her. But she seemed so sincere; it was hardly fair to accuse her of this then send her off all alone.

“Clare, I'm sorry. Please stay.”

Clare froze. Looked at him. One arm was already inside her jacket, and the other held the sleeve it was about to slip into.

“Why should I?”

“Because you're right. I haven't been fair to you. I was thrown when I was forced to accept you into my class. I guess I haven't gotten over it as quickly as I should have.”

Clare perched on the arm of the couch, her coat still half-on, half-off. “So it's better if I leave.”

“No.”

Clare chewed on her lip.

“I'm sorry, Clare.”

She looked tiny. Was she shivering? Why couldn't he go to her? Matthew felt like all motion in the room had been suspended.

“I don't understand your suspicion. What is it you think I want from you?”

He obviously couldn't answer that. Assuming he was wrong, she'd tell the whole class he was paranoid she was a cop, and he'd be a laughingstock among his students.

“Matthew?”

He swallowed. “There's a club that I head up. It's a secret society. I guess I thought you wanted to get in.”

“The
SPU?
” Clare's eyes widened.

He nodded.

“That club is real? I totally thought that card the cops showed us was a hoax. I even told Brian, when he came around asking if I was a member, that if he hadn't found a way in for three years, there was no way the club could exist.”

“Will you keep it a secret?” He was relieved by her reaction.

“Of course.” Clare smiled warmly. “Now can we get out of this dark room, and grab a drink somewhere more lively?”

Utopia Girl: Guess who.

Anna switched on her bedside light and rubbed the sleep out from her eyes.

Death Reporter:
That's a hard one, since your name displays automatically.

Utopia Girl:
Did you watch the show from your living room?

Annabel opened her blinds, and looked out at the street. Everything seemed intact.

Death Reporter:
What show?

Utopia Girl:
The one I told you to watch this afternoon. Look south.

Death Reporter:
I'm looking south.

Utopia Girl:
Past the park.

Death Reporter:
There's nothing there. The St. Lawrence Hall seems fine. All the buildings on King Street. The Cathedral. All there. Same as this afternoon.

Utopia Girl:
Are you drunk? I didn't blow up a building.

Death Reporter:
So tell me what I should have seen.

Utopia Girl:
Never mind. Watch the news.

Annabel grabbed her
TV
remote and found the
24
-hour news channel. Images of John Alton being carried out of an impressive-looking banquet hall. Words running by at the bottom of the screen. An announcer's even voice: “. . . speculated to have died in the ambulance . . . pronounced dead at the hospital . . . fourth in an extremely rapid series of killings . . . who might be next? . . . how will we protect our politicians?”

Death Reporter:
Were you there when he died?

Utopia Girl:
I was there when he collapsed. I wasn't in the ambulance.

Annabel put the kettle on. Okay, so her head was getting clearer. She wasn't sick, she wasn't delusional like she had been at the beginning of all this. How could she turn this exchange around so that she was helping the investigation, instead of adding fuel to a murderer's fire?

Death Reporter:
Why do you message me? What's in this for you?

Utopia Girl:
You don't remember the book we're collaborating on?

Death Reporter:
That's what's in it for me.

Utopia Girl:
I'm sure Penny wouldn't give me this third degree. But she's a real reporter.

Death Reporter:
When were you talking with Penny?

Utopia Girl:
After you showed her my email, she suggested I send further correspondence directly to her. Her words: “Once the publicity ban has been lifted, I will be writing an article about you and your case. Annabel Davis, while competent at the obituary desk, will never be a star reporter, and she should have no further access to you. She poses a security risk that could compromise our exclusive, and therefore compromise the quality publicity that you are clearly seeking.”

Death Reporter:
You're lying.

Utopia Girl:
You wish I was.

Clare looked up at Cloutier. “This is pretty bad, right?”

“Pretty bad.” Cloutier started eating his second donut. “No matter how well you think you played it, your professor's suspicion alone should be enough for me to yank you off this case.”

“No!” Clare pleaded with her eyes. “I'm getting valuable information. Matthew believed what I said, and I have an in with virtually every suspect.”

“Virtually?”

“Jonathan's tricky. We have no points in common, and when I try to talk to him, he responds briefly and then turns away.”

“And you're too polite to follow.”

“Jessica Dunne is his girlfriend. I'm hoping to make headway through her.”

“You've gotten somewhere with Mateo?”

“I haven't learned much, but we're talking.”

Clare had phoned Diane and apologized for the morning they'd met up on the subway. Diane had laughed it off — it seemed that to her, the course was a game of strategy, so she wasn't offended that Clare might be playing a different game than hers.

“I like the bill she brought to class. She thinks politicians should earn exactly the national average salary, plus expenses.”

“Who'd do that job for forty grand a year?”

“Someone who cared more about the job than the rewards. And it would give them some incentive to improve the quality of life for the rest of us.”

Cloutier looked bored. “The inspector's going to let the paper run the story.”

“The obituaries? You can't be serious.”

“Four people are dead, and no one's in custody.”

Clare looked into her coffee. It was murky and unappealing. “Can we ask for editorial approval of the story before they run it?”

“There's no ‘we' here, Vengel.”

“Simpson.”

“Not for much longer.”

“What does that mean?”

“Jessica Dunne — she's the rich kid who invited you to last night's party?”

Clare nodded.

“Did you arrive together? She leave your sight at all?”

“We met outside on King Street, and went into the hall together. Jessica was a few minutes late, but waiting beat going in alone and trying to guess which family was hers.” Clare opened her bag of donut holes and looked inside. “We were together all night — until Alton collapsed — except for a couple of washroom breaks each.”

“Long ones?”

“Excuse me?”

“Long washroom breaks. Like the sort Matthew Easton took the other night.”

Damn. As in, did Jessica have time to head toward the washroom, then veer off in the direction of John Alton, slip something into his drink, and come back to the happy family dinner table?

“I don't remember.” Clare chose a sour cream donut hole from the bag. “I wasn't counting the minutes she was gone.”

“You weren't suspicious of her?” Cloutier's voice contained a weary scorn. “We already know that Jessica is in the society. People are being murdered at events just like last night's, and an invitation is delivered to your clueless little lap. How can you even for an instant forget what you're there for?”

Clare had been star-struck, pure and simple. A month ago, she wouldn't have known a cabinet minister from a cabinet maker. Now that she was learning about them and discussing them every day in class, politicians had taken on a celebrity status for her.

“I'm sorry.”

“Why don't you say you're sorry to John Alton's wife of forty-three years?”

“It's not my fault he's dead!” Clare exploded. “I lost focus for a couple of hours; that's hardly criminal negligence.”

“God, you frustrate me.” Cloutier crumpled his donut bag into a ball and tossed it into the nearby garbage can. “And you can keep your voice down. If you haven't already blown your cover to smithereens, we might be wise not to let the rest of the world in on it.”

“Good shot.”

Cloutier raised his eyebrows. “I insulted you. What are you complimenting me for?”

“I meant the toss was a good shot, not the insult.” Clare glowered. “Do you still want me to get in touch if I find anything useful? Or should I crawl into a hole and shut up forever as far as you're concerned?”

“You're still being paid — you don't get a free ride.”

“Heaven forbid. If I waste any tax dollars I might end up as Utopia Girl's next victim.”

“That's right.” A smile tugged at Cloutier's lips, but he quickly stifled it.

“Did you pass on my suggestion about the antidote kit?”

“The paramedics had an injection ready, in case it was cyanide.”

“Let me guess. It's wasn't.”

“Aren't you clever?” Cloutier rolled his eyes. “But you have nothing to feel good about. I've never seen someone cock up an investigation like this in my life. Except once, and that guy's never gonna see another undercover gig again.”

“I'm going to smoke. I'll be right outside if you think of anything else encouraging to say.”

Clare grabbed her helmet and her cigarettes, and left the table.

She stood outside the donut shop trembling. It took her three tries to get her cigarette lit. She thought she'd been doing a good job, despite the odd fuck-up. Was she supposed to be perfect at everything her first time through?

Cloutier came outside after a few minutes. He stood a few feet away, and smoked his own cigarette without speaking.

It was Clare who broke the silence. “Both Diane and Jonathan were on staff last night. I think I saw Brian there, too.”

“You talk to them?”

“I spoke with Diane. Matthew Easton has been getting his students these gigs.”

“Hmmph.” Clare would have preferred
Good work, kid.
“You think you can get a job passing pastries around too?”

“Yep.” Clare told him about Matthew's job offer the previous afternoon.

“It's not a secret society invite. But I suppose it's a start.”

Clare was about tell Cloutier not to be too overwhelming with his praise when she saw Kevin approaching along Dundas Street.

“Shit! There's this guy I've been seeing. He can't see me with you. Quick. Hide.”

“Where should I hide?” Cloutier smirked. “Should I duck behind a car? That's not obvious.”

“I don't care. Just go somewhere. Away.”

Cloutier stayed put. “What's wrong with our cover story?”

“I don't want to lie to him. We've barely started dating and I've had to lie so much already.”

“Like about the fact that you're fucking your professor?”

“Can't you, like, go back inside the donut shop until I give you the all-clear?”

“Forget it, Vengel. Sorry —
Simpson
, at least for a couple of hours. As your handler, I'd like to see how well you can handle yourself. Besides, he already sees us talking, and he's headed this way.”

“Kevin!” Clare turned and tried like mad to act natural. “How's it going? Day off?”

“Yeah, I like to take Sundays off.” Was he being ironic? It would be cute if Clare wasn't so stressed by the meeting.

“You must be Clare's new flame,” Cloutier said. “I'm her uncle Steve. Glad to finally meet you.”

Great. Now Kevin would think Clare was some over-eager freak, telling her family about him after a couple of dates.

“Great to meet you.” Kevin shook Cloutier's hand. “Do you two have time for a coffee?”

Clare shook her head. “I have to get going. I'm meeting some friends to work on a school project. And there's no way I'm leaving you alone with Uncle Steve. Who knows what embarrassing baby stories he'd pull out of the woodwork?”

“I'd love to hear those sometime.” Kevin grinned.

“Maybe if we're still dating in a thousand years.”

Clare kissed Kevin lightly and then zoomed off on her bike, first making sure that Cloutier was well on the way to his car.