Dead Politician Society (15 page)

The downtown core was mean and gray. Annabel's walk to work, normally her favorite part of the day, loomed like a gloomy chore.

This cold was going to do her in. It was warm out — still technically summer — and here she was bundled up in her warmest fall sweater and scarf. Annabel wasn't one to look for omens — oh, who was she kidding? She was as superstitious as they came. She couldn't help but come to the conclusion that the universe did not want her mingling with Utopia Girl.

But what could she do? She was in it this far. Backing out would only piss the Girl off, make her send her letters to someone else, maybe expose Annabel's involvement and cost her her job in the process. The universe should learn to give its omens at the outset, before a person became so heavily involved in a project.

Her phone beeped inside her purse. Like an addict, Annabel looked around furtively before pulling it out.

Utopia Girl:
You at work yet?

Death Reporter:
I'm walking there now.

Utopia Girl:
Late start? Not so admirable.

Death Reporter:
Shut up.

Utopia Girl:
Good one. Still sick, I take it.

Annabel wrapped her scarf more snugly around her neck. Her fever had broken, but she wasn't a hundred percent yet.

Utopia Girl:
You've been missing a lot of work lately.

Death Reporter:
I missed one afternoon. Big fucking deal. And how do you know?

Annabel felt herself breathing faster. Who knew she'd been off work? Penny? Matthew? Had Utopia Girl been following her, spying on her? She could be anyone, anywhere. And she could poison a public figure without anyone witnessing a thing.

Utopia Girl:
Relax, Drama Queen. You had your email on auto-reply.

Annabel let out her breath. Of course she had.

She caught her reflection in the window of a small café. She looked huddled, and fragile, and old. Did other people see her that way? She wouldn't have thought so — not normally. But maybe she projected those things from the inside — maybe that's why no one Annabel knew gave her any kind of credit or respect.

Even Utopia Girl seemed confident that Annabel could be pushed around. Over the fucking Internet. She had to change things, starting now. She had to grab the reins of their virtual relationship, and not relinquish control no matter how hard Utopia Girl resisted.

Death Reporter:
Do you move in the same circles as these politicians?

Utopia Girl:
I don't stand out at the events.

Death Reporter:
Are you a fundraiser? A caterer? A wife or daughter? A politician yourself?

Utopia Girl:
What do you think?
lol
, maybe I'm another reporter. Maybe we're friends.

Death Reporter:
None of my friends are reporters.

Utopia Girl:
At least you have good judgment on some things. What if I said I was witnessing these crimes, but prefer not to turn the killer in?

Death Reporter:
I would say that makes you as disturbed as the killer. And an accomplice, too.

Utopia Girl:
I think the term is “accessory after the fact.” Which is maybe what you should worry about being considered. But that's not what I am. I am all killer, all the way.

Annabel nearly bumped into a man in a middle-grade business suit hurrying along the sidewalk as she typed.

Death Reporter:
Do you work as part of a team?

Utopia Girl:
Interesting question. I think I'll say yes.

Death Reporter:
A team, like the society that signs those obits?

Utopia Girl:
That's the implication.

Annabel sneezed, and used her scarf to wipe her nose and face. It was kind of disgusting, but the scarf was designer, so she didn't toss it immediately in the garbage like she would likely have done with a cheaper brand.

Death Reporter:
Are you the team member who poisons the victims?

Utopia Girl:
Wish you'd stop calling them victims. Diminishes their culpability. And no comment.

Oh, screw it. She wasn't sick anymore — a couple of sniffles was hardly worth coddling herself for. She ripped the scarf from her throat, and stuffed it into a sidewalk trash bin.

Death Reporter:
Fine. Do you plan to stop killing after you've knocked off all culpable parties on your list? Or do you like it? Are you getting a taste for murder?

Utopia Girl:
No, I don't like killing them. It's what has to be done. Will stop when the mandate is complete.

Death Reporter:
Then what? A life of normality?

Utopia Girl:
What the hell's that?
lol
. You seriously think I would qualify?

Death Reporter:
In your mind you might be perfectly normal.

Utopia Girl:
Shit. I'm not that crazy.

Death Reporter:
The less crazy you are, the more evil you must be.

Utopia Girl:
It's all a sliding scale. And who defines morality? Am I evil because I'm trying to save the world? Or because my method doesn't jive with conventional sensibility?

It was amazing what people could rationalize in order to sleep at night.

Death Reporter:
If your motive was so pure, you could share it with me without all this rigmarole.

Utopia Girl:
Good word. Rigmarole. Makes you sound older, like sixty-five. Where were we before you got judgmental?

Death Reporter:
Your future.

Utopia Girl:
Right. I see my future holding one of two things. If I feel vindicated after the eliminations, then I go on and live a productive life. And hopefully our political climate is dramatically improved. If everyone dies and I still feel like the world is crap, then I'll write one more obituary.

Death Reporter:
You mean yours?

Utopia Girl:
Great story, right? I'd be dead and you'd be famous.

Death Reporter:
And if you get caught?

Utopia Girl:
Your second best scenario. I'll give you an exclusive from my prison cell.

Death Reporter:
Why me?

Utopia Girl:
Your job. Believe it or not, I wanted that first obituary printed.

Death Reporter:
So why not my boss, the actual obituary editor? I'm only the assistant.

Utopia Girl:
Sometimes it's about who you know.

Death Reporter:
Who do I know?

Annabel was drawing a total blank.

Utopia Girl:
Not going to spoon-feed you.

Laura slid her fingers around behind the seat cushion, but found nothing. She lifted the cushion; still nothing. She raised each of the other two large cushions in turn. After feeling along the rim at the back of the sofa, then peering at the floor underneath, she acknowledged that the spu card was gone.

“Looking for something?”

Laura turned quickly, and saw Susannah leaning against the banister. She must have just come downstairs.

“I think I dropped my earring.”

“Oh.” Susannah remained leaning with her arms folded. “Well, good luck.”

Laura tried to seem unconcerned as her heart began thumping audibly. At least, it was audible to her. “It may have fallen out somewhere else.”

“Which pair is it from?”

“Um. They're gold . . . with . . .”

“Oh, give it up. You're a terrible liar. Is this what you're looking for?” Susannah produced the
SPU
card from the back pocket of her jeans.

Laura stared. She felt the life drain from her face.

“Where did you find it and what do you think it means?” Susannah spoke calmly. She looked half-amused, but then she sometimes looked that way when she was extremely angry.

“Um. I . . .”

“Good words you have.”

“In your blue jacket,” Laura said, a moment later, “with the mustard stain. I was taking a load to the cleaners.”

Susannah put the card back in her pocket and folded her arms again. “So that's the first part answered. But actually it's the second question that has me more curious. What could you possibly think this card might mean, that you would thrust it under the couch cushion as soon as I walked in the door?”

Laura didn't know what the right answer was — nor what the truth was, when it came to that. Did she think Susannah was the killer? She had no idea.

“I alibied you for last night,” Laura said finally. “In case anyone asks. The police phoned when you were in the shower. They wanted to know what both of us were doing when Manuel Ruiz died. I told them we were at the movies. I didn't say I'd fallen asleep.”

“Oh, that's rich.” Susannah uncrossed her arms and moved them to her hips. “So what you really think happened is you fell asleep, I snuck out of the theater to kill Manuel, then crept back in time to wake you for the credits.”

“I . . .” Laura was horribly confused.

“I suppose I probably drugged you, to make sure you didn't wake up and notice I was gone. Nothing to do with the Scotch you were pounding back in the afternoon, when one glass of wine is normally enough to do you in.”

“I'm sorry,” Laura said. “But when I found this card . . .”

“When you found this card what? I don't understand the significance.”

“I found another one,” Laura said. “It was identical. Only it was in one of Hayden's suit pockets and it had the words
Your death will be your greatest public service
typed onto the back. Oh, Susie!” Laura looked at her girlfriend and was stricken with remorse. “You don't think the killer gave you a card, too? Your life could be in danger.”

Susannah rolled her dark brown eyes. “I'm not the next victim. Even if I were famous or important enough, there's a simple explanation. I'm in a club. This is our calling card. The cops showed us one like you described, with the same message on the back, but it was found at Libby Leighton's house. I guess all the dead politicians are receiving them.”

Laura was still having trouble finding words.

“So that we're straight, are you trying to say that when you found this card in my pocket you thought I was the killer?”

“No! I didn't
think
you were.”

“You were just afraid I might be.” Susannah brushed past Laura, and grabbed her keys from the hall counter. “I'll be back this afternoon. If somebody dies while I'm at school, tell the cops you saw me cackling over the body as I gently laid my calling card beside it.”

Thank god I found you.” Clare rushed up to Matthew as he walked through a grassy quad in the middle of campus. She touched him lightly on the arm, then pulledaway. “Sorry. Forgot we're in public.”

Matthew cracked a smile. “They can't fire me for letting a student touch my arm.”

“Good to know.” Clare stepped into pace with him. “I also don't want you to think I'm placing too much importance on one night of fun.”

Matthew frowned. “What if that one night had importance to me?”

“Then that's cool.” Clare was strangely moved, before she reminded herself not to be. “But that's not what I'm here to ask you about.”

“Enlighten me, then.” Matthew lifted his eyebrows.

Clare inhaled deeply. “I have a seriously outrageous favor I need to ask you.”

“Outrageous can work. What do you need?”

“Is there any way I could crash out in your office for a couple hours? I have a wicked headache — I think it's a migraine coming on — and I don't want to go home and miss my class this afternoon.”

“Of course you can use my office. I'm heading there now, then I'm off to teach my introductory class. I'll grab some notes, and the room's all yours for the rest of the morning.”

“Thank you.” Clare kept pace with Matthew as he led the way out of the quad and onto the busy St. George Street. “I promise I won't make this a habit.”

“Getting a migraine?” He stopped walking to analyze traffic, then began to cross the street.

“No.” Clare followed. “Taking advantage of your — of our — you know.”

“Ah.” Matthew's tone was light. “You think I'm only being decent to you because of that number you did on my cock last night.”

“No — I —”

They climbed the steps to Sidney Smith Hall.

“You must be sick.” Matthew held the door open for her. “I don't get the impression that you're often at a loss for words.”

“I'm in a lot of pain.” Clare winced.

They rode the elevator to the poli sci floor. In the hall outside his office, Matthew introduced Clare to a gray-haired woman who was walking by.

“Shirley, this is Clare. She's one of my students. I'm letting her sleep off a headache in my office for the next couple of hours. Clare, this is Dr. Rosenblum.”

Shirley nodded at Clare. “Pleased to meet you. Clare Simpson, by any chance?”

“That's right.” Clare wasn't sure she liked having her cover name on the tip of the department head's tongue. “Um, how did you . . . ?”

“I received the call from the Registrar on the first day of school. Asking if there wasn't one more spot in Dr. Easton's celebrated class.”

“Oh. Well, um. Thank you. For whatever strings you pulled. I love the class.”

“As long as that's all you fall in love with.” Shirley glanced pointedly at Matthew.

“Shirley, please!” Matthew's voice rose in pitch. “The girl has a headache. I'm not going to be in the room with her.”

Shirley gave them both a half-smile. “Fine. If you need anything while Dr. Easton's out — you know, an aspirin, or answers to any questions you might have — my office is down the hall.”

“Thanks.” Clare squinted, then shielded her eyes from the bright overhead light. “I just took two Advil. I'm sure a dark room and some quiet will do the rest.”

True to his word, Matthew spent less than five minutes in the office before leaving Clare on the sofa with the lights out. She waited another ten minutes in case he returned, then she got up and went to the filing cabinet she'd been dying to search since the previous night.

She didn't turn the light on. Dr. Rosenblum had made a point of saying she'd be around, and there was more than enough daylight coming through the dirty window.

Clare sat at Matthew's desk, and opened the top drawer. She flipped through the business cards one more time. Like the previous evening, she found no match for the
SPU
card. But one did jump out: Elly Shore, from Elly's Epicure.

Clare was almost positive this was the firm that had catered the first two events, where Hayden Pritchard and Libby Leighton had died. But why would Matthew have the card? She wrote down the phone number and stuck it in the pocket of her jeans.

She pulled out the folder marked
Final Chapter: Utopia and Death
. Clare had never written a book before, but it seemed strange to her, in this age of computers, to have chapters arranged in such a primitive fashion. Inside the folder were a bunch of newspaper and magazine clippings, with dates and publication names written carefully in pen. There were several articles about euthanasia, a few on abortion, and one philosophical discussion about the morality of murder. She scanned the bylines, but none were Matthew's own.

She skimmed the articles for content. The article about murder made no sense — some ethics professor jerking himself off in a lame attempt to sound important. The rest were more interesting to Clare: the bombing of an abortion clinic, the subsequent fire set at the pro-life headquarters, the man who was sentenced to ten years in jail for the mercy killing of his daughter. Nothing about Elise Marchand, and Clare wondered if she should take its absence as a clue.

But she was reaching. None of this necessarily reflected Matthew's own views, which were what Clare had been hoping to get at. She replaced the articles and the folder, and returned to the couch to gather her thoughts.

Maybe she'd been looking for the wrong sort of information. If there was a society, then Matthew was probably its leader. Brian Haas and Inspector Morton both thought so independently, and Clare agreed intuitively with their reasoning. If there was a society, then there also must be some kind of paperwork. Minutes of the meetings, proposed schemes, a list of members. This paperwork was probably with Matthew, as opposed to with one of the members, and Clare guessed it would be here, rather than at his house. At home he had a roommate whom he'd mentioned. His office was his lair.

Matthew hadn't seemed at all put out when Clare asked to crash in his office, which probably meant that the society paperwork was well hidden, locked away, or both. But where? Clare had been through all of his drawers, and there was nothing that required a key.

Would he have the society stuff in his briefcase? He did guard the thing rather closely, and Clare had watched him use a combination to open it. Still, four years of society activity probably meant that there was more paperwork than anyone would want to constantly carry around. Clare was sticking with her original guess: there was something tangible here in this room.

She checked her phone. Matthew had been gone for half an hour. His class was two hours long; she had plenty of time.

There was a vent on the wall. Clare studied it, but the screws were rusted over, and she didn't think anyone had opened it in recent history. She looked under the couch: nothing. Clare pounded her fist against the side of her head. It couldn't be this difficult.

Clare's phone rang. It was still in her hand, and it startled her.

“Susannah's in the club.”

“Hello to you,” she told Cloutier.

“Can you talk?”

“No.” She glanced at the door. “I'm lying down. I have a headache.”

“You're taking the day off for a bloody headache.” Cloutier's voice sounded like it could explode right through Clare's tiny phone. “You seemed fucking fine to me this morning.”

“I'm in Dr. Easton's office. He let me use his couch.”

Cloutier's tone changed. “No shit? You alone in there, or you in for an afternoon romp?”

“Alone. But I really can't talk. I have to get some sleep before my next class.”

“Fine. Don't say anything. But listen: Susannah's in the secret society.”

“Thanks for understanding. I'll call you after school.”

“She came in half an hour ago. To her local station.”

Clare was silent.

“Listen, she came in voluntarily, allegedly to tell us all she knew. Gave us a list of all the club members dating back to the origin of the society. But Laura Pritchard, or Sutton, or whatever, had already put two and two together. She knew Susannah was in the club. Susannah came in about an hour before we got a phone call from Mrs. Pritchard.”

Did Laura Pritchard suspect her girlfriend of murder? Or was it the other way around?

“Mrs. Pritchard was careful not to accuse Steinberg of anything, but the inspector thinks she's worried. Anyway, I get it; you can't talk now. Call me as soon as you can. I have a list of names.”

“Okay.”

“And search that room like crazy. The professor is on the list.”

Cloutier hung up.

Of course Matthew's name was on the list. But why did Morton and Kumar have to find out before Clare made the discovery? Clare had to find something while she was in here. If this case was cracked and it had nothing to do with her, it would be back to the uniform, the break and enter calls, the paperwork, the excruciating routine of it all, for years and years to come. If she could even stand it.

Clare put her phone away and sat on the couch.
Where?
Where in this room would Matthew think was the perfect spot for his perfect secret?

She got up again and studied the vent. In her favorite
TV
show, the vent was where the killer hid his trophies. She poked at the screws keeping the grate in place. The rust felt real. She pulled her Swiss Army knife from her knapsack, and used one of the blades as a screwdriver. She glanced at the door, but glancing wasn't going to help her if Matthew or Shirley walked in and wanted to know what she was doing.

Clare worked fast. Though the screws were difficult, especially with the wrong tool, she got the grate off the vent and put her hand inside, feeling around the ledges beside the opening. Nothing. She got a small flashlight from her bag, and shone it inside the vent. Nothing in any direction. She refastened the cover — hopefully making it look as though no one had touched it — and sat down again on the couch.

Motherfucker. She could picture Matthew grinning at the futility of her efforts. Like a child with a magic act, he would be thrilled that someone searching for his treasure could be so close and yet so far.

And then it was so obvious. Child — magic trick — presto.

Clare checked the time, and ascertained that she had a conservative forty-five minutes before Matthew's return. She went to Matthew's desk, and looked and felt around until she found the hidden drawer.

The drawer wasn't even that well hidden. It opened from the back of the desk, which was the side facing out. It would please Matthew, Clare guessed, to know that a student or colleague sitting opposite him — like Clare herself, the previous night — would be staring right at his secret, without knowing what it was.

Of course there was a trick to opening it. A lock (easily picked) under the belly of the desk released a latch that allowed the trick drawer to slide open.

Clare could happily have sat there triumphantly for her remaining minutes of safety. But ambition brought her back to the moment, and she pulled the papers out carefully, one by one, and committed as much as she could to memory.