Dead Politician Society

Chapter 41: Clare

Clare tossed her cigarette onto the sidewalk in front of the donut shop. She squished it out with her boot, pretending it was Cloutier’s face.

She watched Cloutier heave his bulk into his lame little Hyundai and drive away.

Clare had shown him all her photographs, all the info she’d discovered in Matthew’s office.

His reaction? To shrug his big dumb shoulders and ask if she’d learned anything they didn’t already know.

Because Susannah fucking Steinberg had gone into her local cop shop and given up a list of society members, past and present. But wasn’t it at least a little bit helpful that Clare confirmed those names with real evidence?

She’d also found out where the next society meeting was going to be held. A cafe called Kensington Hideaway had a back room where they planned to meet. In two days.

Cloutier’s response? To inform Clare that two days might as well be two years if more politicians died in the meantime. Not even a single Good work, kid.

She’d figured out why Matthew didn’t have any clippings of Elise Marchand’s story in his Utopia and Death file. He must have had everything ever printed about her locked away in that secret drawer. Cloutier said he’d make a note of that, but he didn’t see it as relevant to the current case.

She slung a leg over her bike, turned the key and felt the engine rev. She pulled the throttle to make it louder, meaner, scarier.

She raced along Bloor Street, weaving between cars so she wouldn’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. Since no one seemed to care if she had a brain anyway.

She parked her bike at home, but didn’t bother going up to 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 Lamb to the Slaughter.

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

“Because I do. My, uh, professor is making me crazy.”

“You’re in school? I thought you were a cop. Or a mechanic. Or something cool and butch.”

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

“Good move. I’ve been meaning to do the same for going on twenty years now. Want a Bud?”

“And a Jack.” Clare set her helmet on a bar stool and sat on the one next to it. “I need to take this edge off. Liquor’s the only medicine that will work.” She wasn’t sure if that was a line she’d once heard in a country song or if she was corny all on her own.

“Man. What did your professor do to you?” Sandy leaned in closer and said in a quieter voice, “Did he try to molest you? If so, I’ll kill him myself.”

Since Cloutier, not Matthew, was the object of her rage, she said, “No such compliment. He treats me like I know nothing about anything.”

“Okay, well, um, the school year just started. So maybe that’s true.” Sandy popped the beer cap and set the bottle in front of Clare. She started to dry a tumbler for the Jack. “You want ice in this? Maybe some Coke?”

“No.”

Sandy poured a little over an ounce and set the Jack Daniels beside the beer.

“So does this professor favor other students? Treat them like they’re intelligent?”