Dead Politician Society (17 page)

Clare tossed her cigarette onto the sidewalk in front of the donut shop, and didn't bother to squish it out with her boot. Let it burn. Let the wind pick it up and drop it burning into a nearby tree, and let a fire devastate the whole damn neighborhood.

She watched Cloutier get into his lame old Hyundai and drive away. Who the fuck did he think he was? Clare had gone in hard, come out with some serious information, and Pete fucking Cloutier could only shrug his big dumb shoulders and ask if she'd found out anything he hadn't already learned that afternoon from Susannah Steinberg's statement.

She'd given him a list of society members, past and present. Yeah, Susannah had done the same, but what was her reason for that? Wasn't it at least mildly reassuring that Clare had confirmed the list more conclusively?

She'd figured out — she was fairly sure — where the next meeting was going to be held. Two days from now. Cloutier said two days was the equivalent of two years in investigation terms — did Clare plan to sit around and do nothing until then, with a killer on the loose? Yeah, and she planned to start sucking her thumb again, too.

And she'd figured out why Matthew didn't have any clippings of Elise's story in his “Utopia and Death” file — he must have had everything ever written about her locked away in that secret drawer. Cloutier said he'd make a note of this, but he didn't see it as relevant to the current case.

She started her bike. When she was sent back to uniform — which was inevitable; this mission was doomed — she wasn't going to smile and be okay. She would tell Cloutier exactly what she thought of him, which was that he was a sleazy unfair fuckface who wouldn't survive a day undercover himself. Then she would quit. She would have to — it would be a million years before she was given another undercover assignment, and Clare could not endure another sob story about ugly stolen jewelry without screaming from boredom.

She raced along Bloor Street, weaving her motorbike in and out of traffic so that she didn't have to slow down. She hadn't had too much to drink, but she intended to. It was Friday night, and she had no plans except to get hammered out of her brains.

Clare parked her bike at home, but didn't bother going inside her apartment to freshen up. She either looked fine or she didn't. Her jeans were tight and that was all the men around here noticed.

She lit a smoke, and walked the half block to the Lamb to the Slaughter.

“Hey,” Sandy greeted her. “Why do you look like you want to kill someone?”

“I'm pissed off at one of my professors.” Clare figured this was close enough to the truth. “I decided to get drunk instead of finishing his damn assignment.”

“You're in school? I thought you were a cop. Or a mechanic.”

“I was.” Clare didn't clarify which one. “But I sucked at it, apparently. I quit and went back to school.”

“Good move. You want a Bud?”

“And a Jack.” Clare set her helmet on a bar stool, and sat on the one beside it.

“Seriously?” Sandy eyed her.

“I'm pretty fucking angry.”

“Man. Did your professor try to molest you or something?”

“No such compliment.” Clare snorted. “He treats me like I know nothing about anything.”

“So you want to prove him right.” Sandy gave Clare the beer and started drying a tumbler for the Jack. “You want ice in this? Maybe some Coke?”

“No.”

Sandy poured a little more than an ounce, and set the Jack Daniels beside the beer. “Hey, you know that guy you took home the other night?”

“Kevin.”

“Right. He was in here last night asking for you.”

“He was?” Clare wondered why he wouldn't have just called her.

“I didn't give him your number. Obviously. Because I don't have it. But he left his for you. I also told him you're a regular. I hope that's okay.”

“It's fine.”

Clare tasted her Jack. Strong, but the burning sensation felt good. She had another, larger sip, and screwed up her face as it went down.

Sandy opened the drawer beside the till. “I'm sure his number's in here somewhere.”

Clare got up and went to the jukebox. About twelve Elvis songs were lined up. She put in a toonie and added some Bon Jovi, Britney Spears, and Bonnie Raitt — the jukebox was alphabetical by first name, and she was too lazy to move past the Bs. She returned to her seat right as Sandy was pulling a piece of paper from the drawer.

“Victory,” Sandy said. “Here ya go. Your lucky night.”

Clare frowned. “I'm not going to call him.”

Sandy's face fell. “I thought you said you liked him.”

“I do,” Clare said. “But he lost my number. How important could I be to him?”

“Not ‘The Rules.'” Sandy poured herself a small glass of draft and leaned on the bar opposite Clare. “You're a free-wheeling biker chick. ‘The Rules' are for those manicured little
Cosmo
girls with nothing interesting to say. Another Bud?”

Clare looked at her empty. “Thanks.”

Sandy set Clare's second beer in front of her. “Come on. The guy's adorable. Why won't you call him?”

“Cute, isn't he? We went on a date the other night.” Clare sipped her Jack Daniel's again. She decided this time that she hated the taste, so she downed it. “Do a shot with me.”

Sandy lined up two more Jacks, this time in shot glasses. “You realize that you're not hurting your professor by getting drunk tonight.”

“I get that. What are you, someone's mom?”

“I have a six-year-old. Want to see a picture?”

“I'd love to,” Clare said.

“Another day.” Sandy handed Clare her shot. “When you're less angry. Cheers.”

They drank.

“So what do you think about that dead mayor?” Clare started to work on her Bud label.

“And the rest. There's three of them dead now in under a week.” Sandy moved down the bar to set new beers in front of the two men at the end. She touched the computer screen a few times, and returned to Clare. “It would never happen in the States. Their politicians have too much security. You think Toronto cops will amp up security now?”

“Probably not. They're so fucking stupid.”

“Wow. You hate everyone.”

“I don't hate you.”

“That's because I'm your lifeline to liquor. As soon as last call hits — bang! — you'll hate me, too.”

Clare grinned. “Let's do another shot.”

“At least you're smiling. Which is good, because here comes Kevin.”

“Where?” Clare spun around.

When Kevin's eyes met hers, they lit up unabashedly. It would have been sweet, had Clare been in a better mood and remotely glad to see him.

“Hey! I was in here last night. I lost your number, or I would have called.”

“It's only been two days.”

“Yeah, but we had a great time.” Kevin moved Clare's helmet to sit on the stool beside her. “We did, right?”

Clare found a smile that she knew came out as phony. “We did. It's just . . . I don't know if I can do a serious relationship right now.”

“Who said anything about serious?” Kevin ordered a Bud for himself.

“Oh my god. One day you want to take a long walk through the city where we spill our souls to each other, and two days later you only want a casual hook-up? I can't fucking read you.”

“Relax.” Kevin was laughing. What was so damn funny? “We can take it as fast or as slow as you want. I like you that much. You want me to fuck off and call you in a few weeks?”

“Yeah? That sounds perfect.” Shit. Why didn't her speech filter work like a normal person's? “I'm kidding. Of course you can stay.”

“Great.” He shrugged his coat off, and slipped it over the back of his stool. “So how have you been since yesterday morning?”

“Actually.” Clare drained her second beer. “I'm not having the greatest day.”

“I never would have guessed.” Did he plan to stop smirking soon? Ever? “Are you angry at someone in particular, or is the world just not going your way?”

Clare ordered another beer from Sandy. “I go back and forth. Sometimes I think it's the world, and sometimes I think it's this asshole Cloutier.”

“Cloutier? Is he your French mystery lover?”

“No.” Why was she talking? Clare hoped she didn't put the whole investigation in jeopardy. “He's my anything-but-mystery hater. He's my boss, and he treats me like I'm four years old and stupid.”

“I thought you were pissed at your professor.” Sandy showed up with Clare's third beer.

“Yeah.” Clare had to shut up. Angry and drunk didn't work so well with undercover. “It's all kind of intertwined and complicated.” She turned to Kevin. “So tell me about
your
day. Do you have any weird and wild electrician stories?”

Annabel flipped her cell phone shut and wondered why she bothered. She closed her umbrella — was there a graceful way to do this, without water flying everywhere? — and got onto the streetcar. She would show up unannounced; she had no choice.

Annabel found a seat near the back with as few people around her as possible. It was nine o'clock at night, and though the car was half-empty, it still felt overcrowded. She hated public transit. She lived and worked downtown, and could walk to anywhere worth going. If she left the downtown core, it was usually with Matthew or Katherine, both of whom had cars. At worst she'd take a cab.

But today she was feeling crunched for cash — a notice slipped under her door had informed her that her condo fees would virtually double the following month — so she figured she'd better save twenty bucks everywhere she could.

The man behind her coughed. It was loud, phlegmy, and actually more like a hork. Annabel turned and glared at him, but he seemed oblivious to her scorn. Fuming, she stood up and moved to the center of the streetcar, where she could stand with her back to the window and observe anyone who tried to get too close.

By the time she got off the streetcar in the Beaches, Annabel was shaking. She would not be at all surprised if people who commuted by public transit suffered from earlier deaths, or at least a high rate of anxiety. As she began to walk down Matthew's street, alone and uninvited, she wondered if she was making a huge mistake.

At least the rain had stopped. She tried phoning again. She could see Matthew's house. By showing up unannounced, she would be breaking one of the cardinal rules of a non-exclusive relationship. But while she didn't want to lose him, she also feared for his safety.

No response. She put her phone back into her purse, and strode purposefully down the sleepy residential street.

Was she being followed? She glanced behind her but didn't see anyone in the half block between herself and Queen Street, where she'd gotten off the streetcar. She was probably just feeling jumpy. She'd be at Matthew's place soon. He might not be glad to see her, but he wouldn't turn her away.

Would he? Annabel didn't know if she could handle the rejection if Matthew refused to let her inside his house. She would definitely be taking a cab home — that had been her first and last streetcar ride of the century. Anyway, if he turned her away it was his problem. Annabel was coming over to do him a favor, not to be some clingy girlfriend who didn't get the point. She could live with not sharing information with the cops. But if Matthew was involved — if Utopia Girl was one of his students — Annabel couldn't justify keeping him in the dark.

She'd arrived at his house. Annabel took a deep breath, then ran up the stairs and rang the doorbell before she could change her mind.

“Ethan!” She hadn't counted on Matthew's roommate answering the door.

“Annabel!” He seemed equally surprised. “Does Matthew know you're coming?”

“I couldn't reach him. But it's important.”

“I'll go . . . see if he's . . . awake. One sec.” Ethan moved to close the door.

“Um . . .” Annabel didn't want to admit that she was too afraid of an imaginary killer to be left alone on the porch.

“Oops.” Ethan opened the door and gestured for Annabel to enter. “Sorry. Don't know what I was thinking. Of course, come in.”

“Thanks.” Annabel waited in the front hall while Ethan ran upstairs and spoke with Matthew in a low voice.

A few minutes later, both men came downstairs together. Matthew wasn't tucking in his shirt, which was a good sign. He rushed over and gave Annabel a hug.

“Come in. I'm sorry my boorish roommate has never heard of hospitality. It's great to see you. Would you like a drink?”

“Yeah.” Annabel relaxed in the warmth of his arms. “And then we need to talk. I think — Matthew, I'm sorry for coming over unannounced. I've been trying to call but — I'm worried that you're in some kind of danger.”

“Danger?” He smiled like this was an amusing and faraway concept. For the first time, it occurred to Annabel that Matthew might
be
Utopia Girl. The connections were certainly all over the place.

But she had to press forward. “I've been receiving these letters.”