Dead Politician Society

Chapter 26: Clare

Clare watched Cloutier scan the small pub she’d suggested. Anyone looking would know he had cop’s eyes. They automatically stayed on the lookout for things out of place, odd body language, trouble brewing. A good criminal did the same.

She’d once heard someone say that a cop and a criminal had the same psychological composition—whatever that meant—and your upbringing determined which side of the law you ended up on. She’d heard the same said about politicians and actors—which maybe explained why they’d been partying together at Libby Leighton’s house party the night before.

“Cute place.” Cloutier grunted. “At least the beams are real, not slapped up to create a fake English pub look.”

“Glad you like it.” Clare didn’t give a shit what Cloutier thought of the architecture. She was missing a caucus meeting to be there, had class in the afternoon, and wanted him to get to the point.

“The Rebel House. Name suits you. It’s not your local or anything, right?”

Clare tugged at the label of her Bud. “Do I look like an idiot? Of course I didn’t bring you to my local.”

“Christ, kid. You still pissed because I couldn’t read the briefing notes about that secret society?” Cloutier’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.

“Yup.”

“You gotta loosen up. You ever try reading Inspector Morton’s handwriting? My doctor writes clearer than he does.”

Clare clenched her hands like claws around her beer. She reminded herself that Cloutier was merely an obstacle to the job she’d always dreamed of, since she was a little kid and stayed up ultra late to watch Charlie’s Angels reruns after her parents eventually stopped drinking and passed out. She wanted to be all the Angels at once: smart like Sabrina, a sexy tomboy like Jill, and compassionate like Kelly. More than anything, she’d loved how the Angels had slipped into a new skin for each episode, pretended to be airline stewardesses, prison inmates or cruise ship passengers in their quest to find the bad guy.

So she put on the fake smile that any Angel could produce on demand and asked, “How did the interviews with my classmates go this morning?”

“Classmates.” Cloutier grunted again. She wondered if he was from bulldog stock. “You planning to quit the force and stay in school?”

“Did Morton and Kumar get any names they want me to look closer at? Isn’t that why you called this meeting?”

Cloutier took a gulp of draft beer. He leaned in closer and said, “Kumar flagged four students plus the professor who he thinks know more than they were saying. All four students were at both events where the deaths occurred. And the professor may or may not have been—one student thought she saw him in the back alley of the Leighton/Cray house party.”

“What does Easton say?”

“Says he wasn’t there. Kumar thinks that’s a lie.”

“Were the students all cater waiters?” Clare took a small sip of beer and wished she’d ordered coffee instead. On zero hours sleep, the beer made her want to crawl into bed, not go back to school and stay awake through some dull class.

Cloutier nodded. “All except Diane Mateo, who worked the benefit but not the party. But she admits to stopping by the house briefly. She claims it was to drop off her clean uniform so another server could use it that night, but how long does it take to poison a politician?”

“Sounds like a start of a joke,” Clare said. “Who are the other three students?”

“Susannah Steinberg, Jessica Dunne and Jonathan Whyte.”