Dead Politician Society

Chapter 46: Clare

Clare propped open the hood of a Volkswagen Passat. Her head still felt like a marching band was using it as a training camp. A grade school marching band with no talent. She said, “Whoever invents a hangover cure that actually works is going to be the richest scientist on Earth.”

“Hair of the dog works just fine for me,” Roberta said. “There’s a beer in the fridge if you want one.”

“Do you have any Jack?”

“That what you drank last night? I thought you hated the stuff.”

Clare climbed into the driver’s seat and drove the car gently up the ramps. She put the parking brake on, jumped down and said, “I wanted the foul taste in my mouth.”

“What’s wrong now?” Roberta frowned at the alternator parts spread in front of her.

“I don’t know. Everything. But at least there was a good man in my bed when I woke up. A real man. Not the kind who would cheat on his girlfriend and let her be the last to find out.”

“Ah, youth.” This sounded funny coming from Roberta. She’d never struck Clare as having an age. “Is he someone I know?”

“Kevin? No. I met him the night before I got this assignment.”

“You’re dating a new guy while you’re undercover? I’m no cop, but doesn’t that break every rule?”

“No. My handler knows. And I’m trying to keep Kevin out of the picture until I’m back to being myself.” Clare placed a chock behind the Passat’s rear tires.

“You’re not trying at all, if you woke up with him this morning. But it’s your job. Mess it up how you please. Lord knows I’d be thrilled to have you back working for me anytime.”

“Thanks. Good to know I’m useful somewhere.”

“You’ll be useful as a police woman, when you stop using your own weapon to shoot yourself in the foot. How’s the other man in your life? The 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. The way he slipped her clothes off, the way he treated each part of her body like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“We were only together once,” she said as she began to remove screws from the plastic underbody cover. “I’m hoping for a repeat performance, though.”

“And the rest of the case? How’s that going?”

“Honestly? It would be going really well—and sometimes it is—but you’re right. I keep making stupid mistakes.”

“So learn from them. There’s a reason they’re called rookie mistakes.”

Clare set the cover aside and put the last couple screws into the old coffee mug she was using to store them while she worked. “Maybe I want this too badly.”

“Want what? To solve the case?”

“A permanent transfer to UC. I feel like if I don’t get it, I have no idea if I even belong in the police force. I’m not good at routine. I don’t care about saving the world from vandalism and break-ins. I mean, I’m glad people work those beats, but I’d rather work on cars.”

“Don’t make my life sound so glamorous.”

Clare swallowed. “Sorry.”

Roberta picked up the voltage regulator and started to open it. “Why shouldn’t you be a great undercover cop? You’re creative. You read people well. You can be lovely when you decide someone’s worth your time—which makes me think you’re probably quite pleasant to the suspects. And your brain is as sharp as anyone’s.”

“Tell that to my handler.”

“Show that to your handler.”

“That’s the problem. I get stupid around him. I either come across as a complete ditz or I get angry and say things I shouldn’t.”

Clare assessed the car to decide whether to go at the oil filter from underneath, or to remove the coolant reservoir from its housing and come in from the top. Underneath seemed like less work.

“What makes you angry?”

“My own stupidity. So when he picks at me for things I already know I’ve done wrong, I lose it at him.”

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

Clare frowned. “You think I’m self-centered?”

“You? Never.”

“Come on, Roberta. I’m being serious.”

“Okay, no. You’re not self-centered. Usually. But you might have your head flipped around on this one. Try to focus 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. “I’m obsessed by the task, more like. I can’t fall asleep at night because scenarios about the case play themselves over and over 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. “I’ll join 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.

“Your dad was a good teacher.”

Clare got back on the ground and found the drain plug on the oil pan. She slid a drip tray under it and opened the plug. She loved to watch the oil gush out, liberated from its dirty prison. She lay there watching it for a full minute before 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 to the sink to wash her hands.

“You were great.” Roberta took a healthy glug of beer. “Eddie had just walked out. Lance was fourteen and being a hell-raiser. I was pulling out my hair figuring out 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 a smile on my face.”

Clare took a long, slow sip of beer. The bubbles soothed her raw throat. “I was terrified of you when I first met you.”

“Of me? Why?”

“Your big red hair. Your arms, with their man-muscles. I thought you could crush me. I thought you might.”

Roberta flexed a muscle and eyed her own arm with appreciation. “Still could, probably.”

“Yeah, but you won’t. I’d arrest you.”

“So there you go. You want to stay safe, you better find a way to keep that badge.”