Dead Politician Society

Chapter 73: Clare

Clare could hear Cloutier munching on something that muffled his voice. Probably a donut stuffed into his fat face. Definitely too soft to be a carrot stick.

He said, “Didn’t I already tell you to clean out your locker?”

Clare rolled her eyes at the high end Bloor Street storefront she was walking past, one of many where the mannequins were more glamorous than Clare could ever hope to be. “You don’t have lockers at university.”

“A week of education and already you’re dumber. You never heard of a metaphor?”

“I’m sorry,” Clare said. “I guess I was waiting for Morton to make it official.”

“Where are you now?”

“Yorkville. I took a walk from class. I think I’ve ventured out of my comfort zone.”

Cloutier snorted. “Too bad you’re never going undercover again. I’d make sure to send you somewhere ritzy, for my own amusement.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’m leaving the force anyway.”

“Yeah?” Cloutier sounded skeptical. “What for?”

“I was hoping I could stay in school. I know I’m not enrolled through normal channels, but maybe I can talk to someone in administration…”

“You’re going native, kid.” Cloutier clucked his tongue. “Rookie mistake. Trust me: take away the spy games and school’s not gonna be as fun as you think it is.”

“So it’s a rookie mistake. I don’t care, I’m not going to be a cop. Congratulations on solving the case.”

“Thanks, but it wasn’t my fine efforts that nabbed the kid. I’m your handler, remember? You fail, I fail.”

Clare crossed Bloor to walk south on Yonge, where the shoe stores were all discount and the electronics stores were cheap and crappy. She felt at home almost instantly.

“Please,” she said, “stop rubbing it in. I feel awful about those deaths we could have prevented. If I’d been smarter about my job. I know I had crappy guidance, but I’m done with blaming other people.”

“You had better guidance than I got, my one stint in the field.” Cloutier grunted like that was supposed to please her. “And we know at least two murders were stopped.”

Clare’s eyebrows shot up. “How do you know?”

“We found two unsent letters in Jonathan’s home computer,” Cloutier said. “Simon McFarlane and Marisa Jordan. Same format as the first four. Same you’re welcome. Just no bodies.

“I guess there’s no doubt Jonathan’s our man,” she said.

“Not for me. The courts will decide if he did it.”

Clare rummaged in her knapsack for her cigarettes. “So what do I do? Come into the station and resign in person?”

“Talk to admin. I dunno.”

“Okay. And who do I talk to about asking the registrar to let me stay on as a student?”

“Admin, too, I guess. Or Morton. He’ll know who our point person is with U of T.”

“Thanks.” Clare fingered her unlit cigarette, toyed with quitting for a brief second, changed her mind and took a deep inhale.

“Good luck, kid.”