Dead Politician Society (18 page)

Laura thrashed and twisted until her sheets were a mess at the end of her bed. She looked at the clock. 4:15. She had to chair a Brighter Day meeting about its inner city mentorship program in six hours. She'd be useless without sleep, but what was the point of lying there? Susannah hadn't come home since she'd left for school that morning, and Laura was flip-flopping wildly between guilt (for suspecting her) and terror (that Susannah might be a murderer).

She put on her Burberry-lined slippers and padded downstairs. She made coffee. She turned on the news. There was something comforting about wars raging in faraway places. A suicide bomber blows up a schoolhouse in Israel, and Annie the Anchorwoman still has perfect hair and makeup, and helpful answers to the difficult questions that must be forming in viewers' minds.

No local politicians seemed to have died so far that night, which was good. And here was the front door opening now.

Susannah crashed into the hallway and stumbled into the staircase.

“Are you drunk?” Laura had seen Susannah tipsy two or three times, stoned once, and drunk exactly never.

“Yup.” Susannah sat on the stairs and faced her. “Drank them out of Jim Beam at Jake's. That's when I switched to
CC
.”

Laura winced in sympathy, anticipating the pain Susie would be in when this wore off.

“The bars close at two. Where have you been the past three hours?”

“Walking. I'm probably going to break up with you.”

“Let's get you to bed first. You can break up with me in the morning.”

“It's already morning.”

“I'll get some ibuprofen.”

“On second thought, I think I'll break up with you now. Thanks for the offer, but I'll get my own ibuprofen. I'm not sure I can trust you not to poison me.”

Laura wasn't sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry.

“And I'll be sleeping in the spare room tonight. So don't think you can convince me with any cunning cunnilingus.”

Sex was the farthest thing from Laura's mind. She'd never understood how some people could enjoy the mixture of intimacy and anger. Or guilt. Or fear. Or any negative emotion, for that matter.

“The spare bed isn't made up. Take our room, and I'll sort myself out later.”

Susannah stood and began fumbling her way up the staircase.

“I'll use my sleeping bag. Ha ha, and for once I'm not talking about you.”

Laura followed her upstairs.

“Why are you following me?” Susannah turned around to scowl at Laura, and nearly lost her footing. “What part of ‘we're breaking up' did you not understand?”

Laura attempted a smile. “The part where you were too drunk to mean it. But I can see you're angry. We can talk in the morning.”

“Okay. We'll talk about me moving in with a friend. And by friend, I mean someone who doesn't think I'm a killer.”

Clare stared at her wallpaper. She wasn't sure which hurt more: its vivid blues and yellows or her cell phone ringing in her ear.

“Are you alone?”

“Good morning to you, too,” she told Cloutier.

“You hungover?”

“Maybe.” Clare squinted at the sunlight.

“Can you talk?”

She got up and pulled the blinds shut. Lovely day and all.

“Yeah, I can talk. I'm alone.” Was she? There was no one in the room with her.

“Good.”

She lit her first cigarette of the day. Where was her glass of water?

“Please don't tell me someone else is dead,” Clare said.

“Nope. Killer seems to have taken a night off. Were you with the professor last night?”

“I don't think so.” Clare began to recollect pieces from the night before. Was Kevin here? She should be careful what she said. “I'm pretty sure I'm mad at you.”

“Just pretty sure?”

“I had some drinks.”

Cloutier groaned. “Don't tell me you went and got drunk because I didn't pat your head hard enough.”

It did sound kind of stupid, in the painful light of morning. But then she remembered how dismissive he'd been with her first bit of solid evidence, and her anger came back in full force. She gritted her teeth, and said nothing.

“Good work, Clare. Keep it up. Knew you could do it. Is that what you want to hear?”

“I'd prefer it if you meant it, but it's along the right lines.”

“Fucking hell. I never took a babysitting course.”

“Why did you call?”

Clare looked around for her glass of water, and found it half-full on the milk carton she used for a bedside table. Chalk up one more point for authentic-looking student décor. She gulped half of the water down in one sip.

“The inspector's interested in Diane Mateo. You friendly with her?”

“Not really.” Clare knew she shouldn't have played along with Jessica in the subway. Common decency aside, it was foolish, in her job, to alienate anybody. “I don't think Diane is friends with anyone.”

“Then it should be easy to get close to her. Her alibi for the Ruiz killing doesn't check out.”

“She wasn't home studying? I thought her two roommates confirmed that.”

“Home studying, maybe. But not all night. According to Jonathan Whyte, she was at the speech where Ruiz died.”

“Why would Diane lie about something so obvious?” Clare thought it more likely that Jonathan was wrong.

“Right. Why?”

Clare's bedroom door opened, and Kevin walked in, wearing nothing and carrying two cups of coffee.

“I have to go.” Clare held up one finger and smiled at Kevin. “A delicious man has just brought me a coffee.”

“You said you were alone.”

“I thought I was.” She clicked to end the call, and turned to Kevin. “Now this is the way to wake up.”

“You don't have a hangover?”

“I do,” Clare said. “But the sight of you naked makes it that much more bearable.”

“Was that your boss, or your professor?”

“God, what did I tell you last night?”

“Nothing.” Kevin cleared a spot on Clare's bedside milk crate, and set a book down as level ground for both coffees. “Only that you were pissed off at both of them.”

Clare hoped that was all she'd said.

“This was my boss. He kind of apologized.”

“Do you forgive him?”

“Yeah.” Clare sipped her coffee, but it made her throat hurt. “For now.”

Laura stared blankly at her tomato plant. She set the pruning shears down. She didn't care about side shoots at the moment.

Susannah was gone. She hadn't taken all her things yet, but she'd made it clear in the morning that she'd meant what she'd said about leaving.

Laura didn't know what to feel. If Susannah turned out to be innocent — which of course she would; she wasn't cruel or heartless — then Laura may have made the biggest mistake of her life.

But that damn
SPU
card kept nagging — and another one had been found at Libby Leighton's house. Susie must, at the very least, know the killer. Until Laura knew the truth, how could they share a bed, or a life?

Laura sipped the coffee she'd brought with her into the garden. It was rich and dark — she'd used the espresso machine instead of the family-sized brewing pot.

She eyed the garden hose, curled up like a sleeping snake at the side of the house. It had rained heavily on Wednesday, and then lightly the night before; the watering could wait a couple of days.

But what could she do? Not gardening, clearly. She set the shears down on the patio table, picked up the phone, and fished out the phone number she'd been carrying around in her pocket.

“Is it too late to change my mind about playing detective?”

“Laura!” Penny's voice held something unusual. Was it warmth? “You sound like you're two inches tall.”

“That's about how high I feel. Susie left.” Should she be saying this? “I need a project, and pretending we can find out who killed Hayden seems about as good as any.”

Penny laughed. Sincere? Ah, who cared? “I hope we won't be pretending.”

“If you want to come over, I have another card I can show you,” Laura said.

“What a perfect start to the weekend.” Laura imagined Penny clapping her hands with glee. “I have plans for today. But this evening works. Are you still in that quaint little cottage on Amelia Street?”

“I am.” Laura was quite sure Penny had never been inside her house.

“On second thought, why don't we meet at my office around five? We can start by poking through the archived articles.”

“What for?” Laura took a small sip of her coffee.

“Connect the victims. We have a much more sophisticated system than typing some names into Google.”

“You sound like you've done this before.”

“I began my career as an investigative journalist,” Penny said. “You'd be surprised how similar that job is to an amateur sleuth's. Will I see you at five, then?”

“See you at five.”

Laura picked up the shears. This plant wasn't going to prune itself.

Did I tell you how much I hate hangovers?” Clare said, as she propped open the hood of a Volkswagen Passat.

“Hair of the dog,” Roberta said. “There's a beer in the fridge if you want one.”

“Do you have any Jack?”

“That what you were drinking? Thought you couldn't stand the stuff.”

“I was blowing off some steam.”

Clare got into the car and drove it gently up the ramps. Then she climbed out of the driver's seat and jumped down.

“What's wrong now?” Roberta frowned at the alternator parts she had spread out in front of her.

“I don't know. Everything. But at least I didn't wake up alone.”

“Ah, youth.” This sounded funny coming from Roberta, who didn't strike Clare as having an age. “Is he someone I know?”

“Kevin? No. I've seen him a couple times. I'm trying to hold him back until I finish the case.”

Clare placed a chock behind the Passat's rear tires.

“You got involved with a new guy while you're on the case? I thought you were getting busy with your professor.”

Thinking of Matthew made Clare smile. So maybe he was implicated in one of the biggest murder cases the city had ever seen, but Clare wanted more of him. There was something so . . . sexy . . . about the way he'd slipped her clothes off, the way he'd treated each part of her body like it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

“I met Kevin the night before I got the assignment. Problem is, I don't know what I told him about what I do for a living. I'm going with the cover story, but I'm not sure he believes me.”

“Lots of drunken nights for you lately?”

“Just the two.” Clare started removing screws on the plastic underbody cover.

“How's your case going?”

“I keep making stupid mistakes.”

“Why?”

“No idea.” Clare set the cover aside, and put the last couple of screws into the old coffee mug she was using to store them while she worked. “Maybe I want this too badly.”

“Want what?”

“A permanent transfer.”

Roberta picked up the voltage regulator and began to open it up. “Why shouldn't you want that? You'd make a great undercover. You're creative. You get along with people. And you're fucking intelligent.”

“Tell that to my handler.”

“Show that to your handler.”

“That's the problem. I get stupid around him. I either come across as completely ditzy, or I get angry and say things I shouldn't.”

Clare assessed the car, trying to decide whether to go at the oil filter from underneath, or remove the coolant reservoir from its housing and come in from the top. Underneath seemed like less work, which was a good thing when her brain was fried.

“What do you get angry at?” Roberta asked.

“Myself, probably. For sounding stupid in the first place.”

“Well, there's your problem.” Roberta studied the brush she'd taken from the regulator. “You're thinking about yourself too much.”

Clare frowned. “Are you saying I'm self-centered?”

“You? Never.”

“Come on, Berta. I'm being serious.”

“Terribly sorry. Okay, no, you're not self-centered.
Usually.
But I think you might have your head flipped around on this one. Try focusing on the task, instead of on your own performance.”

“I
am
focused on the task.” Clare found a drainage pan, and stuck it under the filter. “If anything, too much so. I can't fall asleep at night, because scenarios about the case play themselves over and over again in my mind.”

Roberta was quiet. Was she waiting for Clare to say more?

“Maybe I could have that beer now.”

Roberta opened her fridge. “Maybe I should have one with you.”

“Alternator pissing you off?”

“Confusing me.” Roberta opened a beer and passed it to Clare. “It's not a brush problem, like I thought it was.”

“You? The great mechanic? Confused by a mere alternator.”

Roberta cracked a beer of her own, and shut the fridge. “A mechanic is only as great as her latest repair job.”

“My dad used to describe you as gifted,” Clare said.

“Used to?”

“When you worked for him. He said you could get right into a headspace that let you solve almost any problem.”

Roberta smiled, and Clare thought she was trying not to appear flattered. “Your dad was a good teacher.”

“
Was
being the operative word.”

Clare got back on the ground and found the drain plug on the oil pan. She slid another drip tray under it, and opened the plug. She loved the way the oil came gushing out, liberated from its former dirty prison. She lay there, watching it, for a full minute. Then she got up, to give the rest of the oil time to drip out.

“Don't be stubborn, Clare. It was cute when you were twelve, but it's time to throw that out.”

“You thought I was cute when I was twelve?” Clare went over to the sink and washed her hands.

“You were great.” Roberta took a healthy glug of beer. “Eddie had just walked out. I was all alone trying to bring up that hell-raiser of a Lance. And I was pulling out my hair figuring how to make the trailer payments each month. Then your dad gave me that job — and whatever he says, I did
not
start out as a gifted mechanic — and you came around the shop like a crazy little monkey, maybe knowing a bit too much about cars for my comfort, but always —
always
— you could get me to laugh.”

Clare picked up her beer and took a long sip. It was funny how people's memories of the same situation could be so completely different. “I was terrified of you.”

“Of me? Why?”

“Your big red hair, maybe? Your arms, with their man-muscles?”

“You think you're funny.” Roberta flexed a muscle and eyed her own arm appreciatively. “So what's your new guy like?”

“Sexy,” Clare said. “I could do him every night and not get bored.”