Page 11 of Line of Sight
Hey, the night was young, right? And if some of the idiots I’d already encountered continued asking inane questions, they weren’t going to see the end of it.
Now there’s an idea….
I had to quell the flush of excitement that surged through me. The idea was to fit in, not draw attention to myself. The idiots would make it to the end of the party.
Unfortunately.
The brief for the evening had been to come as a character from a mystery or thriller and to wear their name on a badge, to be used at all times. It had also been suggested we come in character.
Somehow I don’t think they’d like it if I did that.
I’d picked out a smart D&G suit for the evening, along with a Versace shirt and Armani shoes, and everyone kept asking me why I hadn’t come in costume. I’d lost count of how many timesI informed the idiots that I was Patrick Bateman, not that they were any the wiser. When the urge to snap someone’s neck grew too great, I refilled my glass and headed for the corner of the room, where I’d spotted a couple of familiar faces. I’d joined the club on a whim, and so far I’d only attended two or three get-togethers. I’d seen some of the students around campus and at the meetings, but thus far I’d avoided engaging with any of them. However, there was always the possibility the conversation might take an interesting turn.
Yes, I wasthatbored.
There were five of them sitting around, drinking punch and discussing something in an animated manner. I couldn’t help but notice they’d all chosen sleuths, whereas I had gone with a serial killer.
It said a lot about us.
I paused before taking the single remaining empty seat. “Can I join you?”
The guy nearest to me had a mass of red curls, and his badge proclaimed him to be Detective John Kelly, NYPD Blue. I assumed it was a TV show.
He flashed me a smile. “Sure. Take a seat. We’re talking aboutStrangers on a Train. Have you read it?”
I returned his smile. My evening had taken a turn for the better.
“Indeed.” I sat, taking in the costumes. Poirot was easy to spot: The laughable mustaches and walking cane were a dead giveaway. And judging by the number of empty glasses in front of him, Poirot was attempting to drown his liver. I figured the girl in the tweed skirt and jacket, her fingers fumbling as she tried to come to grips with a pair of knitting needles from which hung… something pink and fluffy, was Miss Jane Marple. Sherlock Holmes was there too, complete with deerstalker and cape.
The last student was a girl in gray sweats, the logo FBI emblazoned across her chest. I gave her a nod. “Clarice Starling, I presume.”
She grinned. Then her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know who you’re supposed to be.”
I waved my hand. “It isn’t important.” I indicated my name badge. “Just call me Patrick.” I glanced around the cluster of chairs. “So… what are your thoughts onStrangers on a Train?” It was the perfect location to talk, as far away from the music as it was possible to get.
Any closer and I was certain my ears would begin to bleed.
“We were discussing whether there was such a thing as the perfect murder,” Jane Marple said before scowling. “Shit. I dropped a stitch. My mom makes this look so easy. I don’t know how she does it.” A couple of them chuckled. “I mean, Bruno thought he’d come up with it, but his idea was crap.”
Talk about manna from heaven.
The first idea to flit through my head was to wonder how little manipulation I’d require to nudge the conversation in the direction I wanted.
I slouched casually in my chair, my glass in my hand. “Oh, it wasn’tthatbad. It worked, didn’t it? Guy Haines killed Bruno’s father for him. The only downside was that Bruno ended up dead.” I took a drink before continuing, my heartbeat steady. “He had the right idea, though, to get someone else to commit the murder who had no connection to the victim.”
Clarice snorted. “You make it sound easy.”
I arched my eyebrows. “You don’t think you could kill? Remember what Bruno said—everyoneis a potential murderer.”
She smirked. “Yes, but Bruno wasn’t sane.” That earned her a ripple of laughter from all of them.
Not from me.
I leaned back in my chair. “Come on. Are you telling me you’veneverwanted to kill someone?”
Poirot huffed. “Yeah, the guy who took the last hash browns this morning at breakfast.” More laughter, only this time I joined in. I waited until the laughter had died completely before leaning forward, my elbows on my knees, hands clasped between them.
“What if the murder was ethical?”
