Page 6 of Line of Sight (Second Sight #4)

The party for the Mystery/Thriller Club, UMass, Boston, MA

I GAZED at the attendees, and damn, it was hard to hide my horror at some of the dreadful costumes. Thankfully someone had spiked the fruit punch, which made the party a little easier to bear.

Why am I here?

Except I already knew the answer. I was bored out of my fucking skull.

This shindig isn’t any better than the last one they organized.

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 times I 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 was that bored.

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 about Strangers 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 on Strangers 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’t that bad. 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— everyone is 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’ve never wanted 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?”

Silence fell, only to be broken by Jane Marple’s dismissive snort.

“There’s no such thing.”

I held up one hand. “No, hear me out. What if someone was in your way? Blocking either your financial security, your chances of a career, of success, fame, glory…. And if you removed them, the way ahead would be clear.”

Clarice grinned. “So I could kill Professor Martindale? She gave me a C for my last paper. I call that standing in the way of me getting my degree.”

John laughed. “I’d be murdering half the teaching faculty in that case.”

Sherlock nudged him with his elbow. “You’re not doing that badly, and you know it.” He lowered his voice. “Besides, you’ve found something most of us would kill for.”

“And what’s that?”

Sherlock’s gaze softened. “Love?”

John’s face flushed. “Not gonna argue with that.”

“I know who I’d kill.” Poirot’s voice was quiet and a little slurred.

Sherlock chuckled. “You don’t need to kill anyone. You just employ your little gray cells a bit more, Hercule,” he said in an exaggerated French accent.

Something in Poirot’s demeanor intrigued me. I shifted in my chair until I faced him. “Tell me. Who would your victim be?”

Poirot didn’t even miss a beat. “My stepbrother, Scott.”

Clarice’s breathing hitched. “What’s he ever done to you to warrant wiping him out?”

Poirot scowled. “Forget I said anything.” He glanced toward the refreshments table. “Any punch left?”

Miss Marple frowned. “I think you’ve had enough. Maybe it’s time to leave.”

I wanted to tell her to shut the fuck up , but I bit my tongue.

“No, let him speak.” I shuffled my chair closer to him and leaned forward. “You started this. Tell us.”

He shrugged. “Not much to tell. My mom married this tycoon. Rich as Croesus, with a kid my age. Real Goody Two-shoes.”

“Your stepfather?” I asked.

Poirot rolled his eyes. “No—my stepbrother, Scott.”

Sherlock’s brows knitted. “That isn’t a reason to want to kill him. Just ’cause he’s a good guy.”

Poirot glared at him. “Let me finish, okay? Anyway, my stepdad is all right. He paid for my studies ’cause he said that’s what my dad would’ve done if he’d still been alive.

Then when I reached twenty-one, he called me and Scott into his office and told us one day he’s gonna step down, and the pair of us will run all his companies.

His empire , and that isn’t an exaggeration. ”

Miss Marple gasped. “Wow. That’s awesome.”

He nodded. “I know, right?”

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed. “You mean we’re sitting here with a potential megarich dude? Remind me to stay in touch with you after we graduate.”

Poirot rolled his eyes. “Yeah, it sounds great, but here’s the kicker.

I’m sitting there, rubbing my hands, thinking about how my life is going to look, and Scott?

Once his dad’s nowhere in sight, he’s talking about selling off the companies, donating it all to charity, shit like that.

Saying how he’s not like his dad, and no one should be that rich, not when there are millions of people starving out in the world. ”

“He couldn’t sell if you didn’t agree, though,” Sherlock remonstrated.

Poirot sighed. “But that means it would get messy, and I fucking hate mess.”

John laughed. “Now that I don’t believe. I’ve seen your room.”

Miss Marple tilted her head to one side. “You made it sound is if your stepdad doesn’t know about Scott’s plans.”

“That’s because he doesn’t. I think I’m the only one. And I only think Scott told me because he feels like I’m the same kind of guy.” His lips twisted into a grimace. “Yeah, right.”

“Wait a sec.” John frowned. “I’m confused. How would killing him help the situation?”

Poirot gave another eye roll. “Duh. Think about it. Scott dies, I step up to the plate, and Owen passes everything to me—eventually. Sole owner. I get the lot.”

I leaped at the chance to play devil’s advocate.

“There’s no guarantee your stepfather would pass it all to you, you know. He might bring in someone else, someone already senior in the company.”

Poirot glared at me. “I know that, okay? Don’t you think I’ve considered that? But I’d have time to work on him. Butter him up. Dazzle him. By the time I’m finished with Owen McCarthy, he won’t hesitate to give me full control.”

Miss Marple dumped her knitting on the table, then folded her arms. “Okay, Mr. Wannabe Tycoon. How? How would you do it, without incriminating yourself?”

Poirot raised his eyebrows. “What reason would I have for killing him? No one’s gonna even look at me.

I’m talking about a long game here. It might be ten, fifteen, hell, even twenty years before Owen decides to hand over the reins.

But that doesn’t matter, not if it’s all coming to me.

So there’d be nothing to point to me as a suspect.

I wouldn’t have a motive, as far as the cops would be concerned. And motive is everything, right?”

Lord, he seemed so smug.

John finished his punch. “You still haven’t told us your plan for the perfect murder.” His eyes twinkled. “Come on, admit it. You don’t have a clue, because you couldn’t do it. This is the punch talking, isn’t it? You couldn’t really kill someone.”

Poirot gave him a thin smile. “Well, that’s where you’re wrong, see?

Scott’s this fitness freak. Always doing something—swimming, cycling, running…

. So here’s what I’d do.” He leaned forward, glancing around him as if to ensure no one was listening, then spoke in a low voice.

“I’d wait until he went on one of his early morning runs, hide in the bushes in a place where there’s no one around, then push him into the Charles River—or Crystal Lake, whichever is nearest. Either will do.

” He sat back, arms folded, that same smug smile back in evidence.

I snorted. “Call that a plan? That’s boring . If you’re going to kill someone, at least have the guts to do it with some panache. Think about all these books we’re so fond of. What are the most memorable murders? The ones that stick in your head?”

Sherlock grinned. “That’s easy. The gory ones. The imaginative ones.”

It was as though someone had turned on a faucet. They started talking over one another, pulling up scenes from books I too had read. I sat there and listened, internally grinning. They knew their stuff, that was obvious.

How kind of them to do all the hard work for me. Except that was a lie. I’d already done my homework.

John offered a lazy smile. “I always liked that bit from The Name of the Rose , where the monk drowns in a huge vat of wine.” He chuckled. “What a way to go. What are you all reading at the moment?”

Another floodgate opened, and I lapsed into silence as they talked. I didn’t mind the change of topic. They could chatter about their thrillers all night long if they wanted.

I’d heard everything I wanted.

Not that I’d needed to hear which fictional murders stuck in their minds—I already had a list. I’d been compiling it for three years.

Waiting for the right day.

The right time.

The right victim.

Looks as if my time has come.