Dead Politician Society (11 page)

Jonathan loved the way the sun felt on his head. It was the first pleasant feeling he'd had all day. It had been a late night at work again, and when he'd finally fallen asleep he'd had nightmares.

“Are you dating Jessica Dunne?” A shrill voice came up from behind.

“Go away, Diane.”

“I have something you might like to know about her.”

“I'd like to know everything there is to know about Jessica,” Jonathan said. “But I want to learn it from her.”

“We're being targeted, you know.”

“We?” Jonathan walked faster.

“The society. This year's society, to be specific. You have to wonder who wants us in the spotlight.”

“We're not in the spotlight. We're being interviewed by the police because of some card they found.”

“The card looks just like ours. Right down to the off-center letters from that discount printer we used.”

“I know what our cards look like.”

Jonathan turned abruptly at the corner of a building, and Diane kept perfect pace with him, though it meant some scrambling on her part.

“What's your beef with me?” she said.

“Where should I start?” Jonathan threw his hands in the air. “I hate what you did to Dr. Easton in your first year. Your ideas for the society are small-minded and not nearly radical enough to be considered anything other than mainstream. I could go on, but why be cruel?”

“You don't think taking over the campus radio to get our message across is a cool idea?”

Jonathan wondered if it was a coincidence that the sun had gone behind a cloud as soon as Diane had approached him. “It's juvenile. Plus none of the rest of us agree with you that Jesus is the Way.”

“You must agree that getting kids back into religion — making it hip and fun — is a better alternative than letting them run wild with gang violence.”

“Must I?” Jon shifted his oversized knapsack. “Then you must agree that churches should take some of that money they extort from their congregations, and put up their fair share of property taxes.”

“Hmm.” Diane put a finger to her chin. “We'll agree to disagree. Are you willing to discuss the Tree-Huggers' support of Susannah Steinberg's Commies?”

“Have you considered changing your major to political journalism?”

“How did you know?”

“You'd make a better rabid dog than electable member.”

“You're so sweet. Has Brian Haas approached you yet?”

“About supporting the Commies? Would you give it up already?”

“He wants into the society.”

“How does he know who the members are?” Jonathan looked at Diane accusingly.

“He's approaching everyone. Even Dr. Easton.”

“That's a little weird.” Jonathan slowed his pace.

“He's desperate. Something to do with his father and some manifesto.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing. Obviously. Nor will anyone. He's not getting an invite, and that's final.”

“Final according to you?” Jonathan made up his mind to help Brian.

“Final according to everyone. Brian has an agenda he wants us to follow. Plus, he's annoying.”

“How is that different from you?”

Diane rolled her eyes. “Well, thanks for your time, Jon. You've helped me out a lot. Gotta run.”

Matthew gazed out his weathered office window. At least he had a view across St. George Street, onto the older, more stately part of campus. Most of his colleagues had views of an ugly brick lab building.

And why did he care about stately? At what point in his life, from his basic middle-class upbringing to his — screw what his mother said — successful academic career, had he turned into this pompous ass, this pathetic man who aspired to the finer things but didn't care to open his wallet to pay for them? Not that his wallet held anything impressive, when he did open it. But he could afford to be more relaxed about his spending. And less pretentious about his taste.

He sent a text to Annabel asking if they could cancel dinner. She'd think the worst — she always did — but Matthew couldn't care about her paranoid jealousy right then.

A knock on the door.

“What is it, Shirley?”

The door opened.

“Why so welcoming?”

Matthew swiveled in his desk chair. “I'm working.”

“Your computer isn't on.”

“You can see the screen from there?”

“I can see the power bar.”

“Oh. Well, I was gathering my thoughts to work.”

“On your book?”

Matthew nodded.

“Well, I'll be brief. The police came by. Have they seen you yet?”

“They've seen me, and my entire Poli Real World class.”

Shirley took the seat opposite Matthew's desk. “Are you in trouble?”

“Of course not. They're interviewing everyone.”

“They were asking a lot of questions about you. Especially the small man. The inspector.”

“What were they asking?” Matthew wanted Shirley to leave him alone, so his thoughts could scream in private. But he had to know everything she could tell him.

“Mostly basics. Like when did you start working here, how did the rest of the department react when you got tenure so early. That kind of thing.”

“Okay.” So they were interested in him. That wasn't good, but it was hardly a conviction.

“And then he asked me about the society.”

“The society?” Innocence first, obviously.

“Come off it, Matthew. The society you founded the year you started working here. The political utopia whatsit.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“I think it's wonderful, the way you challenge the students, make them see that they can make a difference. I haven't told you before because I can't officially condone it — the illegal parts, that is.” Shirley paused, appearing to search Matthew for a reaction. “It's why you have tenure, Matthew. The society is why I fought so hard for you in that committee. Universities need original thinkers — both students who embrace it and professors who encourage it.”

“Thanks.” Matthew found room, in his spinning head, to feel flattered. Did she know about Elise? Surely the department head wouldn't have supported a group with links to the hospital murders, even if they had been mercy killings. Maybe Shirley was more radical than Matthew had given her credit for. And maybe she was fishing. “I mean, thanks for taking my side, helping me get tenure. But the society is nothing more than a rumor.”

Shirley stared at the bookcase. “I'm here to help you, Matthew. Are you in trouble? Just tell me yes or no.”

She made it so tempting. Was it time to give the whole thing up? The society, the secrecy, the rest. Or was he being ridiculous, crumbling at the first sign of pressure?

Maybe if he got to the police first . . . retracted his statement in favor of the truth . . . But why would they believe anything he told them?

“No,” Matthew said. “I'm not in trouble.”

Nice place.” Clare couldn't tell if Cloutier was sarcastic or serious. “At least the beams are real, not slapped up to create that fake English pub look.”

“I had to miss a caucus meeting to see you here,” she told him.

“The Lion and the Shrew. It's not your local or anything.”

Clare tugged at the label of her Bud. “Do I look like an idiot, or is that your preconceived notion?”

“Christ, kid. You still pissed because I couldn't read the briefing notes about that secret society?”

“Yup.”

“You gotta loosen up. You ever try reading Inspector Morton's handwriting? The world missed out when he passed up med school.”

Clare glowered. “So how did the interviews with my classmates go this morning?”

“Classmates.” He grunted. “You planning to quit the force and stay in school after this case?”

“Did Morton and Kumar get any names for the society?” Clare wondered if Cloutier was being obtuse on purpose.

“Not officially.” Cloutier took a gulp of draft. “Everyone acknowledged hearing the rumors, but no one gave any clues about who they thought might be a member.”

“So what did you call this meeting for?” Clare didn't care if she sounded disrespectful.

“To tell you who the inspector wants a closer look at. Kumar flagged four people — five, including the professor — who he thinks were lying about the society. Strange thing is, they were all at one or both of the events where the deaths occurred.”

“How is that possible?” Clare pushed her beer away. She should have ordered coffee. “Are these kids just ridiculously well-connected?”

“Susannah Steinberg worked the benefit — this we already knew. Diane Mateo was at the Leighton/Cray house party — she says briefly, but how long does it take to poison a politician?”

“Sounds like the start of a joke,” Clare said.

“Jessica Dunne and Jonathan Whyte worked as cater waiters for both events.”

Clare poked at her cigarette pack.

“And the professor claims to have been at neither event. Though Mateo thinks she saw Easton's car parked in the back alley of Leighton's house last night.”

“What does Dr. Easton say?”

“What do you think? He says no way he was anywhere near there.”

“Did Kumar think he was lying?”

“No read either way.”

“Hmm.” Clare opened her pack, slid out a smoke, and started playing with it. “Is that normal? I mean, I thought Kumar could sniff out a liar three counties over.”

“The guy's not God.” Cloutier scowled. “He can't say ‘Are you the killer?' to a bunch of people until we can make an arrest.”

“My money's on Diane.” Clare told Cloutier about Diane's failed campaign to get rid of Dr. Easton.

“Kids' stuff. Find me someone torturing puppies, okay. Being arrogant and whiny doesn't make someone a murderer.”

“You said it yourself. This killer is cocky. They want to be known, but not necessarily caught.”

“Doesn't fit what you've told me about Diane.”

“So you're a profiler now?”

“I'm sorry, but did you even go to the training session that taught you how to speak to your superiors?”

“I was sick that day.”

“Well, if you plan to advance in the force, you might want to go back and learn it.”

“Thanks for the advice.” Clare shook her head at the waitress, who was motioning toward her almost-empty beer.

“Have another, if you like. The station's paying.”

“Have another yourself. I'm in the middle of a work day and I'm running on about twenty minutes' sleep.”

“Not my problem.” Cloutier motioned for the bill. “Look, Vengel, you're gonna have to get past your hostile perception of me. I might not like you all the time, but we're working together here. You're gonna need to trust me.”

“Okay,” Clare said slowly. She wished her head wasn't in such a fog. “I maybe was overreacting.”

“Which time?”

“I don't think you're sabotaging my assignment.” Clare was tempted to apologize, but, as with Morton, she guessed that Cloutier would rather see that than hear it.

“You want to smoke?” Cloutier said. “I'll go with you.”

“You still have half your beer.”

“I can live without it. I can see you're anxious for your fix.”

Cloutier paid, and Clare led the way to the back alley, where her bike was parked.

“I'd worry about being overheard here.” Cloutier glanced toward the open windows in the second floor apartments.

“So let's walk.” Clare allowed Cloutier to light her cigarette for her, then waited as he lit his own. “We can go around the block and come back in the alley from the next street.”

“You know your way around pretty good. You sure you're not a regular at this place?”

“I've been here once, with someone I don't even know anymore.”

“He still come here?”

No, he lives in Orillia, Clare thought, and is about to marry the stupidest woman in the world.

“Like I said, I don't know him anymore.”

They walked around the corner, onto the residential street.

“I heard a rumor that Dr. Easton sleeps with his students,” Clare said slowly, forming her thoughts as she expressed them. “Since he seems to be at the center of things, I thought I should maybe, you know . . .”

“What? You should sleep with him?”

Clare shrugged. “I mean, if I can, it would be helpful, right?”

“I never saw you as the seductress type.” Clare thought she saw a grin tug at Cloutier's mouth. “Besides, I think most professors who sleep with their students are interested in the adoring young ingénue.”

“I think I can find a way.” Was it so ridiculous that Dr. Easton might find her attractive? There was already an undeniable tension between them. Clare just had to switch it from hostility to intrigue. “If he does head up this society, it might be the most direct route in.”

“No arguments here. Just make sure you don't alienate him by trying too hard to get close.”

“Can you stop treating me as if I know nothing about anything?” Clare stopped herself short of stomping her foot.

“Can you stop with the assumption that this case is all about you?”

“I thought we were negotiating a truce.”

“We're still negotiating.”

“Good to know.” Clare shouldn't try to work on so little sleep. It was turning her into someone she wouldn't want to work with. She reminded herself of her end-goal — a career that wasn't a dead bore — and offered her most dedicated smile. “So who's the prime suspect?”

“There really isn't one.” Cloutier tossed his cigarette into the road. “But I got some theories if you want to hear them.”

Clare nodded.

“Typically, it's men who crave the spotlight. So because of the newspaper letters, your professor's a good start, as are Jonathan Whyte, Brian Haas, and maybe don't discount Susannah Steinberg.”

“Men and lesbians?”

“You said it.”

“But also typically, it's women who use poison,” Clare said. “Does that point to Susannah, 'cause she's on both lists?”

“Maybe it does.” Cloutier looked thoughtful.

“Maybe they're working as a group.”

“You won't let that go, will you?”

No, she actually wouldn't.