Dead Politician Society (10 page)

Penny. Hi. It's Annabel Davis. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“I'm the editor of a national newspaper. It's always a

bad time.”

“There's another letter.” Annabel sipped her tea and nearly burned her lip. “From Utopia Girl.”

“Don't say that name out loud.”

“Sorry.”

“Walls have ears. Never forget that. Have you read this new correspondence?”

“No,” Annabel said. “But the title —”

“Good. Don't. I want you to forward me the message immediately. Then delete it from your own computer.”

“Do you want me to keep a copy as a backup? At least until we've passed it on to the police.”

“It's not secure on your server. And I don't want you reading it down there where anyone can look over your shoulder. I have an office I can lock.”

“Surely you don't think anyone who works here would —”

“I'm not accusing my staff of subterfuge. But we can't afford to play fast and loose with security, Annabel.”

“I see your point. Should I come up to your office and read the letter with you? It was sent to me, after all.” Annabel immediately regretted the boldness of her statement.

“Just carry on. I'm sure your regular workload is enough to keep you busy. I'll contact the police.”

“Okay.” Annabel didn't even resemble sassy. “Let me know if there's anything I can do that's helpful.”

It was the third day of school. The second Poli Real World class, and Clare was late.

The night before had been incredible. Kevin came over, and Clare had barely offered him a beer before they were naked on her ugly sofa. (So much for wholesome, but it had certainly broken the ice.) After exhausting each other in Clare's living room and then in the shower, Kevin insisted that they go for a walk.

They headed south, toward Bloor Street and High Park. They stopped once for food, twice for coffee, and about twelve hundred times to make out like love-starved teenagers. After walking through parts of the city Clare hadn't known existed, Kevin had dropped her off at her door about an hour before her alarm was set for school.

None of that helped her head feel clear today. Clare felt like she'd been driving forever to find a parking spot, which was practically unheard of on a motorcycle — she could almost always find room between two cars. When she finally found somewhere to park, it was three blocks from class, with no coffee shop on the way. She contemplated a Starbucks detour — she thought she remembered seeing one on Harbord Street — but decided not to incur any more of Dr. Easton's wrath than she had to. At least her homework was done. Between six and eight that morning, Clare had drafted a bill suggesting the criminalization of cigarette production and sales. She knew it was unoriginal, and mildly hypocritical given that she smoked a carton a week. But it was the first thing that had come to her, and she was rushed. When she got to class, she placed her assignment in the pile with the others.

“Ah. Simpson. I hope you enjoyed a leisurely breakfast and a stroll before deciding to join us for class.”

“Sorry I'm late.”

“Are you late?” Dr. Easton glanced at his watch. “Oh! So you are. Well, that must be why we started without you.”

Clare found the seat she'd been saved in the back row of the Commie section.

“Did you hear?” Brian whispered as Clare was pulling out her notepad. “The cops are interviewing the entire class.”

“Why?” Clare's surprise was genuine.

“It's something to do with Libby Leighton. They're speaking with us one by one, and we're not supposed to talk to each other until the interviews are over. But how could we not? It's too exciting. I haven't been yet, but apparently they're showing us this business card. As in, real evidence.”

“Who's Libby Leighton?” The name was familiar from Clare's late-night Internet session where she'd attempted to learn all things political. But she couldn't place it into any context. Maybe she needed another session. Maybe she needed some sleep. Her normally strong stomach began to feel queasy.

“You mean who
was
Libby Leighton? Wow, you're not from here, are you?”

Clare shook her head, glad that she and Kevin hadn't been drinking much the night before. Just the one beer at her place and then . . . ah, but back to reality.

Clare whispered to Brian, “Do you mean that she's . . .”

“Dead,” Brian said it for her. “Murdered, is everyone's guess. She choked and died at a party last night, and now the cops are here.”

“Like Hayden Pritchard.”

Brian nodded. “Less vomiting, I think. But yeah. Too close for comfort. Or coincidence.”

“What does that all have to do with us?”

“Do you have something you'd like to contribute to the group discussion, Simpson?” Dr. Easton was glaring at her.

“No,” Clare said. “I'm just talking to Brian. But thanks.” Damn. That was out before Clare realized how rude she sounded.

“Fine. Then at least keep it down, so that those of us who
are
participating can hear each other.”

“Absolutely. Sorry.” There went her participation mark — along with her chance to blend in. Clare turned back to Brian, in a whisper this time. “Has anyone come back yet?”

“Two people have already gone. Jonathan's with them now.”

Clare wondered why Cloutier hadn't been in touch about this new death. She pulled out her phone to check for messages or missed calls, and found the battery dead.

“So is everyone okay?” she asked Brian. “No one's missing from class, or anything, are they?”

“Everyone's fine,” Susannah turned from the front row to say to them. “Can you guys keep quiet? I'm trying to prepare my rebuttal.”

“Rebuttal?” Why did it feel as if everyone here spoke in code?

“For the bill we're debating. It's Jessica's.” Susannah passed back the extra copy she must have been saving for Clare. “It's about hospital administrators being personally accountable if a patient dies waiting to be seen.”

“Sounds personal.” Clare glanced at the page. “Is it well-written?”

Susannah shrugged. “I find it convoluted and illogical.”

Dr. Easton called upon the Commies, and Susannah stood up. She barely had a sentence out when the door opened. Jonathan came in quietly, but all eyes turned his way.

“They want whoever's next.”

Dr. Easton consulted the class list. He was clearly going in random order, because he made a tick toward the bottom of the page and said, “You go, Simpson. There are people in the next room who will actually be pleased to hear your nattering.”

In the next room, Clare found Detectives Morton and Kumar. She would have been thrilled to see Morton, to thank him for taking a chance on her, if she didn't feel like she'd screwed up royally by letting her phone battery die.

Clare shut the door behind her. “Is this about . . .”

Morton nodded. “Libby Leighton.”

Clare's body sank limply into the chair across the table from the detectives.

“Was another letter sent to the
Star
?”

“Sergeant Cloutier has been trying to get in touch with you.”

“My phone's been dead.” Clare felt stupid even saying it.

“I see.” Morton's eyes said he agreed.

Morton nodded to Kumar, who glanced toward the closed door before passing Clare a copy of the second obituary.

Clare set down the page, and looked back and forth between the two detectives.

Morton spoke Clare's thoughts. “We think the killer is in this department, either as one of the students, or a professor.

Clare nodded. “By professor, do you mean Dr. Easton?”

“Not necessarily. It could be someone who wants him gone.”

Kumar showed Clare a business card protected by a plastic evidence bag.

“
spu
.”
Clare flipped the card over.
“Your death will be your greatest public service.
What's this?”

“We've been showing it to the students, trying to gauge their reactions.”

Clare passed the card back. “Is it evidence?”

“Laura Pritchard found the card in her husband's belongings, but we're not telling the students that.”

“Her girlfriend is in my class. Susannah probably knows about it.”

“We know,” Morton said, adding one more thing Clare was pissed at Cloutier for not briefing her on. “And for whatever reason, Mrs. Pritchard hasn't told her girlfriend that she found it.”

Clare wasn't so sure she believed that. But okay. “What are you telling the students, then? When you show them the card?”

“We're saying Sam Cray found it, in Libby Leighton's belongings.”

“Smart,” Clare said. “Any strange reactions yet?”

“No. But you're only our fourth interview. Assuming you can get that phone charged, Sergeant Cloutier will brief you once we've had a chance to consider everyone's statements.”

Yeah right. Cloutier would hold something back, like he had when he'd briefed her in the first place. It was like he had something against Clare succeeding.

“It was good work — or inadvertent good luck — that you overheard that conversation yesterday.”

So Cloutier
had
deemed it important enough to pass on. At least she was getting kudos — or inadvertent congratulations — for something.

“I got the sense that Dr. Easton was holding back,” Clare said. “Maybe not lying to Brian directly, but he was cagy. And he kept looking back at me. Though I don't think he noticed me noticing.”

“Right. Sergeant Cloutier said all that. We agree with Brian, by the way. We think Matthew Easton is the society's founder.”

“Does Cloutier know that?” Clare felt her blood approach its boiling temperature. She was determined not to let it come to the surface.

“Of course he knows.”

“Fucking jerk.” There went her determination.

“Are you all right?” Morton eyed her strangely.

“I'm fine.” Clare gritted her teeth.

“You were practically beating down my door for this opportunity. Don't make me think I made a mistake giving it to you.”

“I'm sorry.” Clare slumped in her chair. She felt disoriented. She needed sleep. “You're right. I'm sure Sergeant Cloutier either told me or he meant to.”

“Fine,” Morton said.

Clare straightened her posture. She had to show them she was serious. “So should my main focus, as well as gathering information, be to penetrate the society?”

“If you can. Although if Brian Haas has been trying to get in for years, it may not be as easy as you think.”

“You should get back to class,” Kumar said, looking at his watch. “It doesn't look good if you're longer than the rest.”

“Okay.” Clare got up. “I'm, um . . .” She was about to say she was sorry for her outburst, but thought it was better to leave on a positive note. “I'll do my best to get into the society.”

“Good luck.” Kumar tossed her a skeptical smile.