Dead Politician Society

Chapter 32: Clare

The office smelled musty, like old paper, with a mild coffee overtone. Clare wanted to open the window, to look down upon the concrete quad that was deserted by this time of night, devoid of students bustling by. But she’d tried the window and it was stuck.

She glanced at Dr. Easton’s cheap vinyl bomber jacket, hung on the back of his desk chair. His tweed, he’d informed her like it mattered, was drying out at home.

But tonight was going well. He wasn’t as pompous one-on-one. He’d paid for their souvlaki dinner on the Danforth, asked Clare questions like he was genuinely interested in knowing more about her. She was pleased with herself for staying fully in cover as she fleshed out Clare Simpson’s East Coast background and gave Clare Simpson’s father—who was dying, like her own—a quick-witted, loving disposition. Like the man her real father could have been, if bitterness hadn’t twisted him into a selfish boring asshole.

She was tempted to snoop through Dr. Easton’s desk drawers, see if she could find anything relating to the Society for Political Utopia. But would that be wise, or stupid? He’d said he was going down the hall to use the washroom. He’d already been gone for what felt like ages.

But she was a cop. She was assigned to be here for this exact purpose. If she didn’t look around, she’d be wasting a prime opportunity. Right?

Ugh. She willed the self-doubt from her mind. If she admitted she had no clue what to do, she’d basically be admitting Cloutier was right that she wasn’t ready for this case.

She took a sip of the wine Dr. Easton had poured for her, swallowed hard, and positioned herself in his chair.

She opened the top drawer first. Nothing special on first glance. Pens, little scraps of note paper, a few business cards. She rifled through the cards but found none that said SPU.

The deeper drawer to the right held hanging files. On students? Clare was suddenly curious to open them to see if he had a file on her. But of course they weren’t student files—this wasn’t the high school vice principal’s office. They were handouts for courses, drafts of tests. Boring professor things. Clare shut this drawer quickly.

In the other large, deep drawer of folders, she found file headings arranged into chapters. Was Dr. Easton writing a book? She’d never slept with an author before. Or a professor. Or anyone with “Doctor” in front of their name.

But this wasn’t about the checklist in her brain—the collection of experiences that Clare wanted to make as broad and varied as possible before she settled down with one man, so at the end of her life she wouldn’t feel like she’d missed out. (Kevin, for example, was both her first electrician and her first Virgo.) Dr. Easton was business, and while part of her grinned to realize he would also be her first slept-with-while-undercover experience, she knew she had to keep her head, keep her analytic mind separate from whatever carnal experience she was about to enjoy. If it went that way.

She thumbed randomly through folder headings. Chapter Twelve: Utopia and Controlled Substances. She leafed through this folder to see articles both in favor and against legalization of marijuana, cocaine, and other drugs. Chapter Two: Utopia and Party Politics. Boring. Skip. Chapter Seven: Utopia and Law Enforcement. This was up Clare’s alley. Didn’t seem like much of a clue, though. She kept flipping.

Final Chapter: Utopia and Death. Why no chapter number? Clare supposed it made sense—death would be a natural last chapter, even if Dr. Easton didn’t yet know how many chapters were in the book. Unless…was this something different, unrelated to the book? Clare wanted a closer look. Not now—he’d be back any second, and if she didn’t hear his steps coming down the hall she’d be caught red-handed. She’d have to find a way back into this room—a reason for him to let her hang out here when he was teaching, so she had a finite length of time to snoop around.

She returned to the couch by the window. Her heart thumped against her rib cage. She gulped at her wine. Pathetic. If she was this nervous when she had neither found anything nor been caught, how would she handle real evidence under real pressure?

Which brought her back to her real fear: that Cloutier might be right, that she might be dead wrong for this job.

As she drained her glass, the door handle turned. He was back.

“What’s wrong?” Dr. Easton stared at her. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Can we open the window?” Really? Her anxiety was that obvious? She’d have to pretend it was sexual tension…an innocent little student nervous about banging her teacher—which unless she was wrong, was what Dr. Easton had planned for her next. “I tried, but I couldn’t—”

“Of course.” He gently brushed past her and struggled until the window came unstuck. “Cheap fucking piece of glass. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Clare said. “The air helps.”

“Sorry to be gone so long.” He poured her more wine and sat beside her on the couch. He took her hand. “You sure you’re fine?”

“I am,” Clare said, surprised by the warmth she felt from his touch. “I’m great. And thanks for dinner. I haven’t had a meal that good since I lived at home.”

“Is your mom a good cook?”

“No.” Clare said, which gave Clare Simpson one more thing in common with her. “But she’s better than I am. Living on my own I tend to dine on coffee and Kraft Dinner.”

“My mother is a terrible cook.” Dr. Easton had a great smile when it came spontaneously. “She boils her vegetables for so long that broccoli and string beans taste the same.”

Clare smiled shyly. She wanted more than just his hand in hers. She hadn’t planned on feeling genuine attraction.

“Hey.” He squeezed her hand gently.

“Hey.” She tried to sound casual. She shifted slightly to face him.

“Are you seeing anyone?” He ran his free hand lightly down her arm until it rested on her outer thigh.

“No.” Clare squeezed back.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

She inhaled deeply. She was uncomfortable in the best possible way.

“Would it be inappropriate if I kissed you?”

The least romantic words Clare had ever heard. And they turned her on more than anything he might have said.

She smiled. Squeezed his hand again. Nodded. “You can kiss me.”