Dead Politician Society

Chapter 49: Annabel

Evening sun beat through Annabel’s floor-to-ceiling windows. The city sparkled with the reddish-orange of almost-sunset. Annabel had slippers on her feet, a glass of Sauvignon Blanc at her lips. The world looked good from here.

Until her BlackBerry chirped.

Utopia Girl: Closing in on my conclusion. Well, technically only halfway there, but the hardest work is done.

Annabel blew out a sigh. Her flu was clearing up, and she was left with the hungover feeling of having done something incredibly stupid while under the influence. Was that why they called it influenza? Because the flu was like booze or drugs, and made people do crazy things? She’d need a great lawyer to make that hold up in court. Especially since the real court she’d have to stand up in would be a moral one, and the judge would be her own conscience.

And anyway, she couldn’t blame the flu for getting herself into this. She’d been healthy and sober the night she’d sent that first email. She had to see this through, and maybe get a clue that could help the police. And help Matthew.

Death Reporter: You want me say congratulations?

Utopia Girl: Oh, I don’t care. Good news for you is I’m ready to say more re: motive. Cryptically, of course. Always liked guessing games.

Annabel waited for more, but nothing came.

Death Reporter: You want me to start guessing?

Utopia Girl: Sure. Here’s clue #1: The dead politicians all have something in common.

Annabel rolled her eyes.

Death Reporter: Is it their policy? Or their personal lives?

Utopia Girl: Neither.

Death Reporter: How is that possible?

Utopia Girl: Think harder. Hey, I was on the streetcar with you yesterday. You went to The Beaches to see your boyfriend.

What? Annabel’s breath sped up. She’d never had a panic attack in her life—always found people who did have them a bit weak. But while her chest constricted and she had to gasp deeper for each breath, she finally understood what one felt like.

Calm, she told herself. In through your nose.

She focused on the sentence, word for word, to force away the fear.

Beaches. Utopia Girl called Matthew’s neighborhood The Beaches, not the more politically correct Beach, which Matthew used without fail. So unless the slip was deliberate, this was not Matthew.

So who would have followed her there?

Or was Utopia Girl bluffing? Was there some other way she could know that Annabel took the streetcar to see Matthew last night?

Her chest sank. There was definitely another way. If Utopia Girl was a student Matthew was sleeping with, he might have canceled a late-night rendezvous with the truth: that another woman had come over. On the streetcar.

Utopia Girl: Followed you halfway down Kenilworth Avenue. You were so cute. The way you turned around to see if anyone was following you. If you actually want to catch someone, you might not want to stop walking and freeze for three seconds before you gather courage to turn around. Gave me ample time to slip behind hedge.

Annabel leapt off the couch and shut all the blinds in her living room. She checked her front door. Locked. Good.

She wanted to throw her BlackBerry as far as she could away from her. She wouldn’t, of course. She had no land line; this was her only connection to the world. If a rat could collapse its rib cage to crawl through a crack the size of a quarter, Utopia Girl could find her way into Annabel’s safe place.

Was she already inside?

Annabel tiptoed to the bathroom door and pushed it open. No one inside. She pushed the shower curtain all the way back to make sure, but it was clear.

She tiptoed to her bedroom door. Opened it. No one.

Under the bed. No one.

The closet? It was open a fraction, and her body wanted to run away fast, run downstairs and grab a cab to somewhere else, somewhere safe.

But where was safe?

She pushed open the mirrored closet door and sank to the floor with relief: no one inside.

Thank god she had a small apartment.

She picked up her BlackBerry.

Death Reporter: What do you want from me? You want me to leave Matthew alone? You can have him. All to yourself.

Utopia Girl: Oh, you’re funny. Like you could leave him if you tried.

Okay, she had to be a bit careful, in case this was Matthew. He might have been watching from his second floor window as she walked down the street toward him.

Death Reporter: You’re scaring me.

Utopia Girl: Good.

Death Reporter: Do you threaten your victims before you poison them?

Utopia Girl: Stop calling them victims. And of course I don’t warn them. I don’t want them to see me coming.

Death Reporter: So you’re not planning to kill me?

Utopia Girl: I’m actually laughing at that question. You think you’re important enough that your death would change the world?

Great.

Utopia Girl: Your life is not in danger unless you do something to seriously piss me off. Like if you rip me off for book royalties down the road.

Death Reporter: Have we met in real life?

Utopia Girl: Real life. Cute expression. Like part of this is just a dress rehearsal.

Death Reporter: Have we?

Utopia Girl: Ha ha. So first you think I’m sleeping with your boyfriend. Now you wonder if I am him?

Death Reporter: I guess. Though he’s not technically my boyfriend.

Why had she said that? In case it was Matthew?

Utopia Girl: Dr. Easton is one of several people I could be.

Death Reporter: God, will you please just tell me. If this is you, Matthew, I promise I won’t turn you in. I’ll delete all these messages, figure out how to get you help.

Utopia Girl: Help fulfilling my mandate, or psychological help because you think I’m nuts?

Death Reporter: The latter. I won’t help you kill.

Utopia Girl: How do you know you aren’t already helping me kill?

Death Reporter: You said you were willing to tell me something new. A clue.

Utopia Girl: See, the fact you call it a clue alarms me. Means you see yourself as a sleuth. Which means you’re trying to solve this case.

Death Reporter: Wouldn’t you be?

Utopia Girl: No. I’d be minding my own business so the killer could fulfill her mandate. Because that’s where the book is.

Annabel had to admit there was logic in that. But her book craze was over. All that mattered now was getting out of this. Alive.

She poured the rest of her glass of wine down the sink and boiled the kettle for tea.

Utopia Girl: Okay, see you. Have to go get ready now. If you open your blinds, you might even see some of tonight’s action.