The (After) Life of the Party [11/?]
Title: The (After) Life of the Party [11/?]
Author:
xxdance
Fandom(s): Fall Out Boy/Panic! At the Disco
Pairing: Pete/Ryan, Pete/Patrick.
Summary: Ryan's just another dead starlet. Patrick's just another overworked detective. Pete's just another shady character. Sort of.
Rating: R. [Violence, drug use, language.]
Warnings: Crack. Slash. Language. Violence. Drug use.
Author's Note:whatchamacall1t is pretty much the reason this story exists. She's a nillion kinds of amazing and everyone should tell her so, because honestly, I couldn't do it without her. :D
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“I just don’t get it,” Joe whined for what seemed like the eight millionth time. “Anyone else would do something normal. Go out to a bar. A club. Find a hooker, for Chrissakes. Not Patrick Stump, no. He has to bang the lead suspect.”
Patrick scowled, unlocking his apartment and pushing open the door with unnecessary force. “Pete?” he called, ignoring Joe. “Are you there?”
Pete waved from the couch, eating a bowl of what looked suspiciously like SpaghettiOs. Well, Patrick thought, at least he wasn’t doing something incriminating.
“He’s very colorful for a supposed Man in Black,” Joe remarked, raising an eyebrow at Pete’s obnoxious (green with bright blue—were those skulls?) jacket.
Pete dropped his spoon, looking horrorstruck. “I—what? Patrick, you didn’t—“
“It’s not like I could just—“
“I can’t believe this!” Pete roared, SpaghettiOs now face down on the carpet (and boy was he ever cleaning that, because no way was Patrick going to tidy up Pete’s temper tantrums). “I trust you with something, and you blab within a fucking day--“
“Oh no,” Patrick said, stomping over to Pete with a fierce glare. “You do not get to be pissed off about this, and you know why? This could have been a normal case. This could be over right fucking now, but you’re staying in my house and you’re depending on me to get you out of this, so you just shut the fuck up and keep your goddamn tantrums to yourself, got it?”
Joe was kind of impressed. The only person he’d ever seen Patrick shout at this passionately was himself. Aside from the whole possibility of Pete being a murderer (and thanks to Pete’s outburst, that was looking less likely, unless Pete was insane and Patrick bought into it), maybe Pete wasn’t such a bad guy, if temperamental.
Pete glared at Patrick, arms crossed. “So, what, you just get to tell everyone my secrets? Great, now we have him to look after, too.”
“Hey,” Joe said scathingly, “I can look after myself, thanks.”
Pete dug furiously into his pocket, pointing something shiny and metallic in Joe’s direction. “Do you know what this is?”
Joe frowned.
“No? Well, you might want to get better acquainted with it, because if anybody I work with catches on, someone’s going to come along and wave one in your face, and after that you’ll be lucky if you can remember how to brush your teeth. And this is the kind of thing we get on our first day. The people that are after me have more…effective means of destruction, if you catch my drift.”
“Pete,” Patrick hissed, “this is not the issue. The issue is that you need to get the fuck out of here.”
Pete’s jaw dropped. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Patrick said pointedly, “that you need to get out of Chicago. You’re in danger.”
“You’re in danger,” Pete said, glaring. “If I’m here and they know it, they’ll come after me. If I go and you’re here, they’ll come after you to get me.”
“Jesus,” Joe said, unhelpful, “Patrick, don’t ever listen to my advice again.”
Patrick ignored him. “Well, what? Are we all supposed to get out of the country, then?”
“That’s not a bad idea, actually,” Joe said. “Hop a train, take it down to the border—let this blow over for a bit, come back. Hell, maybe we won’t even need to come back. Chicago isn’t that great.”
Patrick wondered why on earth he’d asked Joe for help. Why not Andy? Andy made so much more sense. “We can’t leave. There’s still a case to solve.”
“Only you would be thinking of solving a case right now,” Joe replied.
“No, Patrick’s got a point,” Pete said. “Not about the case, I mean. But no matter where I go, they’ll follow. They’ve got methods. If I leave, they’ll come after you to get me to come quietly. If we all go, they’ll find all of us and basically make our lives a living hell. We all stay here.”
“So what, we stay here like sitting ducks? If they come after us, what do we do? Shoot them?”
“That depends,” Pete said, slowly, “on whether you know where to shoot.”
“On whether we know how to—what?”
“All of the police training in the world won’t help you if you don’t know where to shoot,” Pete said, as though it were common knowledge. “Won’t do a thing if you shoot a Ramenese in the heart. Foot’s where you want to aim for. And never, under any circumstances, shoot anyone in the head. Doesn’t matter what species they are—if they’re human, it’s messy, and if they’re someone with a good disguise, it’s not unusual that each fragment creates a new creature.”
Patrick looked as though he was doing his best to absorb this. Joe looked vaguely sick. “Remind me of why you dragged me into all this, again?”
“Because,” Patrick said flatly, “you were accusing me of—because I couldn’t figure out a way to do this on my own, that’s why.”
“I conveniently don’t count?” Pete asked.
“It’s not that you don’t count,” Patrick stressed. “It’s that I’m choosing not to include you.”
Pete, in response, chose to ignore him. “It’s best that we stay put. If anyone goes anywhere, shit’s gonna fly. And if I leave Patrick alone, he’ll do something stupid, and if Patrick leaves me alone, I’ll do something stupid. It’s in everyone’s best interest that we stay here.”
Joe had to admit that Pete had a point. Potential murdering psychopath though he was, he made sense. Both Patrick and Pete had made their fair share of idiotic decisions thus far, and he didn’t want to see what was waiting around the bend if they were left to their own devices.
“Okay,” he said, “okay, but what are we supposed to do? I mean, Patrick and I, we’re just detectives, right? We’re not in the FBI or the CIA or anything. How are we supposed to take on the government or whatever?”
“You leave that part to me,” Pete replied in a tone that made Patrick snicker. “You two carry on with the investigation—someone killed Ryan, and that someone is still out there. Shut up, Patrick, I’m being serious. You guys work on figuring out who that person is—I’ll keep giving you names, you do your thing—and I’ll keep the Academy at bay. Just,” Pete paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. “Try not to get yourselves killed, okay?”
Joe nodded, swearing that, if they got out of this, he’d join Patrick in giving Andy the beating he deserved for handing them that case file.
---
Once Patrick fell asleep (much later, and after much coaxing in the form of kissing and groping from Pete), Pete grabbed a sheet of paper from a tablet Patrick kept on his desk and took it out to the deck, a pen perched precariously between his lips.
It’s not me, he wrote. Obviously it’s not me. I’m pretty sure it’s not Travis. I don’t think Travis could fuck me over that way. He’ll cover his ass, yeah, but he wouldn’t do this. Beckett, no. Beckett would get distracted. Forget. Move on. He’s worse than I am, that way. Saporta—well, Gabe has it in him. He’s done it before. I wouldn’t put it past him, but this doesn’t smell like Gabe. Gabe’s more the do-it-and-go type. Or he’s the never-let-it-go type. If it was him, he’d be here, dogging my steps. No, whoever this guy is, he’s crafty. He’s good. His style is familiar, but I can’t place it.
Pete paused, frowning at the sheet of paper. He knew it was dangerous, organizing his thoughts this way, but he couldn’t help it. Writing was in his blood—it was how he spun his ridiculous lies, how he kept his secrets hidden. When he was younger, he’d never dreamed of working for the government (Jesus, had he sold out—what happened to those hardcore bands he’d been in, all anarchy and teenage rebellion?). He’d wanted to write, be a Blake, a Neruda, a Wordsworth. Something soft. Something creative. He still wasn’t sure how he’d gotten here, eight years down the road with no fingerprints and an arsenal most criminals could only dream about. He’d wanted to save the world by writing about it, not killing anyone who possibly threatened it.
I don’t know what to do about him. I know what I should do. I know what I want to do. Unfortunately, they’re never the same thing. But I think I’m right. I can only be wrong so many times, he wrote. It’s like a slot machine. Keep going and going until you line up the little red cherries—I have to hit the jackpot sometime. I have to have an addiction to something. And it’s stronger than nicotine.
Pete pulled his lighter from his pocket, igniting the edge of the paper. It caught, the flame spreading from one corner to another, reddening the tips of Pete’s fingers. He let it go, the ashes floating gently to the street.
---
“Hi,” said the long, lithe body that slinked its way across the room to Patrick’s desk, pushing one hip delicately against the corner. “Detective Stump, I presume?”
Patrick glanced up from the report he’d been filing—an early extension on the investigation, as he knew this one wasn’t going to go down easily—to find that the body did, in fact, have a head. A head with long, wavy hair, a self-confident smirk, and eyes that squinted good-naturedly. “Yeah, but how did you—“
“William,” he said, extending a hand while simultaneously twirling Patrick’s nameplate around to face him. “Useful things, nameplates.”
“Oh,” Patrick said, shaking the offered hand, “right. William…?”
“Beckett,” he said, gracefully flicking hair out of his face.
“Oh! Sorry,” he said, sticking the half-finished report into a desk drawer, “I’ve been a bit distracted, lately.”
“I understand. So, what am I in for?”
“Just questioning,” Patrick said, rising from his chair. “This way, please, I just have a few things to ask you about—anyway, it’ll only take a half hour, at most.”
“Oh,” William said, voice low. “I have all day, actually. Far into the evening, if necessary, and with a little persuading I could be available into the morning.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Patrick said, pushing open the interrogation room door and waving a hand inside. “Right in here, please.”
William strode ahead of Patrick, looking almost affronted. He sat heavily in a plastic-backed chair, long legs stretched out beneath the table. Patrick ruffled through his papers, purposefully ignoring the way William was almost pouting at him.
“Right, so. Please state your name and relationship to the deceased, for the record.”
“William Beckett. Friend.”
“How long have you known Mr. Ross?”
“Mr. Ross?” William asked, almost laughing. “I didn’t know a ‘Mr. Ross,’ I knew Ryan. And Ryan was never a ‘Mr. Ross.’”
“Just following protocol, that’s all,” Patrick said. “Could you answer the question?”
“A couple of months, I think. He used to hang out at Travie’s parties. We, ah,” William frowned for a moment. “I guess you could say we knew each other before that, too.”
Patrick, despite his shock, managed to contain himself to raising an eyebrow. “How so?”
William shrugged. “Only in passing. Saw each other around, you know.”
Patrick frowned down at his paper. Okay, it was possible that William had known Ross for some period of time longer than he’d been going to McCoy’s parties, but in that case, wouldn’t Pete have known about him sooner? But why would William lie about something like that? Unless—oh. Oh, no, that wasn’t possible. But yeah, there were certain similarities—
Patrick’s eyes went wide as he asked, “So you weren’t familiar, but you knew each other?”
“Sort of. Knew the face, not the name.”
“Right,” Patrick nodded, trying desperately to stay nonchalant. He’d have to ask Pete about him, because surely Pete would know. But the hair, the effeminate face, the tiny bone structure…. “So, tell me about Pete Wentz.”
“What about him?”
“Him and Ross.”
“Oh. Yeah, they were…yeah.”
Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Care to elaborate?”
“Well, Christ, you’ve probably interviewed someone about it already, but they met at one of Travie’s parties and they were fucking, or something. I don’t even know. It’s Pete, he could have been pouring out his heart, he could have been screwing him, he could have been punching him, I don’t know,” William said. He looked frustrated, as though Patrick was annoying him. He closed his eyes for a moment, and the frustration vanished. Patrick wasn’t quite sure what to think.
“What do you mean by that?”
William put his palms on the table, leaning forward. “Pete’s a volatile guy, you know? One minute he’s one thing, the next minute he’s something else. With them, could have been anything. Ryan’s pretty mellow, and Pete’s the opposite. If nothing’s happening, Pete makes something happen.”
Patrick unconsciously ran a hand through his hair. “Do you think he’s capable of murder?”
William smiled. “I think anyone’s capable of murder. I think you’re capable of murder. But then again you’d have the law on your side, so they'd never call it that.”
“We’re getting off topic.”
“Not really,” William said, cradling his face in his hands, still smiling serenely. “Yes, I think Pete is capable of murder.”
“Did he have any reason to murder Ryan?”
“Did he need a reason?”
“You’re evading.”
William ran a finger over his lips, smirking. “Why would I do a thing like that?”
Patrick leaned forward over the table, giving William a pointed look. “It’s obvious to me that you’re not taking this very seriously. If there is one thing about an investigation that I can’t stand, it’s people that don’t take it seriously. Pardon me for being blunt, but Ross is dead, and I’m trying to find out who killed him. You have two choices—help me, or don’t. I’d really, really appreciate it if we went with the second.”
William blinked at him, but his expression didn't change. “You want to know what I really think?” he asked, voice hushed.
Patrick sighed irritably. “If you don’t mind.”
Apparently unfazed, William flicked a stray lock of hair from his eyes. “What I really think is that Pete and Ryan were fucking around, Pete got tired of him, and killed him. That’s what I think.”
“And do you have any probable cause to think that?”
“I know Pete a hell of a lot better than you do.”
“And who says I know Pete at all?”
William’s smile grew. “Exactly.”
Patrick gave William a stern look. “And how well do you know Pete Wentz?”
“Better than Ryan did,” William said, with an air of disinterest. “Much better.”
“By which you mean—“
“Pete knew me before he knew Ryan,” William said, smiling slyly. “You do the math.”
Yeah, okay, Patrick got it. He was kind of annoyed by that, actually, for whatever reason—perhaps it was his strange dislike of William, or maybe it was sheer jealousy. But he moved on. “So you and Pete were dating—“
“Please,” William scoffed. “We were fucking around. Not consistently. Pete doesn’t do consistent.”
“But I thought he and Ryan—“
“Completely out of character. No idea how, but that Ryan kid really kept Pete on a tight leash. Ironic, considering Ross had about twelve girlfriends on the side.”
“Do you think Pete could have been unfaithful?” He was asking purely because of the case, Patrick assured himself. It wasn’t as if he and Pete were—no, it was important information. That was all.
William shrugged. “All I know is I don’t trust Pete if I have my back turned to him. Never know when he’s going to lose interest.”
“And you?” Patrick asked, calmly. “Would you have any reason to go after Ryan?”
“Me? No,” William said slowly, looking at Patrick coyly through his lashes. “Nothing to gain for me. I’m way over Pete. There are other fish in the sea, you know, and I’ve got damn good bait.”
“Wonderful,” Patrick said flatly. “I think we’re done here.”
William nodded, smile back in place, and made his way over to the door. He paused, one hand perched on the doorknob. “Detective, could you come here for a moment?”
Patrick followed him, confused. “Yes?”
“Look,” William said, leaning forward. “I just think it’s important for you to know this.”
“I have to inform you that anything you say within this room stays on record,” Patrick recited.
William ignored him, leaning forward until Patrick could feel his breath, hot and moist, on his lips. “You’re in way over your head.” He closed his eyes and moved forward, the distance between them rapidly decreasing.
Patrick stepped backward, frowning. “Yes, thank you, I’m quite sure I can handle it. We’re done here, Mr. Beckett.”
Suddenly scowling, William threw open the door and marched out of the room.
Well, Patrick thought, he’d definitely have to file that one under the rapidly growing title of “Really Fucking Weird.” On second thought, he added, it could possibly go under the very slim file of “Things Joe May Have Been Right About.”
---
“You idiot. He’s mine.”
“No, he’s not. We’ve already established that you need to keep your nose out of this. Your responsibility here is Pete, not the detective.”
“And look how well your little minions are doing,” he spat. “Bunch of little fuck-ups.”
“I don’t see you making much progress either. Far as I can see, Pete’s still alive.”
“I’m waiting for the right moment. I can’t just kill him right away. It has to look natural. Why the hell did you send Beckett after him?”
“Beckett’s specialty. He was supposed to seduce him and give him something to make it look like a heart attack. But the damn guy has morals.”
“Jesus,” he breathed. “You’re a bunch of amateurs. It’s much more effective if you just—“
“Yes, and it means many hours of paperwork. I’ll rely on my own expertise, thanks.”
The phone buzzed with a dial tone, and he ran his hand lovingly over the black-wrapped package in the passenger seat.
Author:
xxdanceFandom(s): Fall Out Boy/Panic! At the Disco
Pairing: Pete/Ryan, Pete/Patrick.
Summary: Ryan's just another dead starlet. Patrick's just another overworked detective. Pete's just another shady character. Sort of.
Rating: R. [Violence, drug use, language.]
Warnings: Crack. Slash. Language. Violence. Drug use.
Author's Note:
whatchamacall1t is pretty much the reason this story exists. She's a nillion kinds of amazing and everyone should tell her so, because honestly, I couldn't do it without her. :Done two three four five six seven eight nine ten
“I just don’t get it,” Joe whined for what seemed like the eight millionth time. “Anyone else would do something normal. Go out to a bar. A club. Find a hooker, for Chrissakes. Not Patrick Stump, no. He has to bang the lead suspect.”
Patrick scowled, unlocking his apartment and pushing open the door with unnecessary force. “Pete?” he called, ignoring Joe. “Are you there?”
Pete waved from the couch, eating a bowl of what looked suspiciously like SpaghettiOs. Well, Patrick thought, at least he wasn’t doing something incriminating.
“He’s very colorful for a supposed Man in Black,” Joe remarked, raising an eyebrow at Pete’s obnoxious (green with bright blue—were those skulls?) jacket.
Pete dropped his spoon, looking horrorstruck. “I—what? Patrick, you didn’t—“
“It’s not like I could just—“
“I can’t believe this!” Pete roared, SpaghettiOs now face down on the carpet (and boy was he ever cleaning that, because no way was Patrick going to tidy up Pete’s temper tantrums). “I trust you with something, and you blab within a fucking day--“
“Oh no,” Patrick said, stomping over to Pete with a fierce glare. “You do not get to be pissed off about this, and you know why? This could have been a normal case. This could be over right fucking now, but you’re staying in my house and you’re depending on me to get you out of this, so you just shut the fuck up and keep your goddamn tantrums to yourself, got it?”
Joe was kind of impressed. The only person he’d ever seen Patrick shout at this passionately was himself. Aside from the whole possibility of Pete being a murderer (and thanks to Pete’s outburst, that was looking less likely, unless Pete was insane and Patrick bought into it), maybe Pete wasn’t such a bad guy, if temperamental.
Pete glared at Patrick, arms crossed. “So, what, you just get to tell everyone my secrets? Great, now we have him to look after, too.”
“Hey,” Joe said scathingly, “I can look after myself, thanks.”
Pete dug furiously into his pocket, pointing something shiny and metallic in Joe’s direction. “Do you know what this is?”
Joe frowned.
“No? Well, you might want to get better acquainted with it, because if anybody I work with catches on, someone’s going to come along and wave one in your face, and after that you’ll be lucky if you can remember how to brush your teeth. And this is the kind of thing we get on our first day. The people that are after me have more…effective means of destruction, if you catch my drift.”
“Pete,” Patrick hissed, “this is not the issue. The issue is that you need to get the fuck out of here.”
Pete’s jaw dropped. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Patrick said pointedly, “that you need to get out of Chicago. You’re in danger.”
“You’re in danger,” Pete said, glaring. “If I’m here and they know it, they’ll come after me. If I go and you’re here, they’ll come after you to get me.”
“Jesus,” Joe said, unhelpful, “Patrick, don’t ever listen to my advice again.”
Patrick ignored him. “Well, what? Are we all supposed to get out of the country, then?”
“That’s not a bad idea, actually,” Joe said. “Hop a train, take it down to the border—let this blow over for a bit, come back. Hell, maybe we won’t even need to come back. Chicago isn’t that great.”
Patrick wondered why on earth he’d asked Joe for help. Why not Andy? Andy made so much more sense. “We can’t leave. There’s still a case to solve.”
“Only you would be thinking of solving a case right now,” Joe replied.
“No, Patrick’s got a point,” Pete said. “Not about the case, I mean. But no matter where I go, they’ll follow. They’ve got methods. If I leave, they’ll come after you to get me to come quietly. If we all go, they’ll find all of us and basically make our lives a living hell. We all stay here.”
“So what, we stay here like sitting ducks? If they come after us, what do we do? Shoot them?”
“That depends,” Pete said, slowly, “on whether you know where to shoot.”
“On whether we know how to—what?”
“All of the police training in the world won’t help you if you don’t know where to shoot,” Pete said, as though it were common knowledge. “Won’t do a thing if you shoot a Ramenese in the heart. Foot’s where you want to aim for. And never, under any circumstances, shoot anyone in the head. Doesn’t matter what species they are—if they’re human, it’s messy, and if they’re someone with a good disguise, it’s not unusual that each fragment creates a new creature.”
Patrick looked as though he was doing his best to absorb this. Joe looked vaguely sick. “Remind me of why you dragged me into all this, again?”
“Because,” Patrick said flatly, “you were accusing me of—because I couldn’t figure out a way to do this on my own, that’s why.”
“I conveniently don’t count?” Pete asked.
“It’s not that you don’t count,” Patrick stressed. “It’s that I’m choosing not to include you.”
Pete, in response, chose to ignore him. “It’s best that we stay put. If anyone goes anywhere, shit’s gonna fly. And if I leave Patrick alone, he’ll do something stupid, and if Patrick leaves me alone, I’ll do something stupid. It’s in everyone’s best interest that we stay here.”
Joe had to admit that Pete had a point. Potential murdering psychopath though he was, he made sense. Both Patrick and Pete had made their fair share of idiotic decisions thus far, and he didn’t want to see what was waiting around the bend if they were left to their own devices.
“Okay,” he said, “okay, but what are we supposed to do? I mean, Patrick and I, we’re just detectives, right? We’re not in the FBI or the CIA or anything. How are we supposed to take on the government or whatever?”
“You leave that part to me,” Pete replied in a tone that made Patrick snicker. “You two carry on with the investigation—someone killed Ryan, and that someone is still out there. Shut up, Patrick, I’m being serious. You guys work on figuring out who that person is—I’ll keep giving you names, you do your thing—and I’ll keep the Academy at bay. Just,” Pete paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. “Try not to get yourselves killed, okay?”
Joe nodded, swearing that, if they got out of this, he’d join Patrick in giving Andy the beating he deserved for handing them that case file.
---
Once Patrick fell asleep (much later, and after much coaxing in the form of kissing and groping from Pete), Pete grabbed a sheet of paper from a tablet Patrick kept on his desk and took it out to the deck, a pen perched precariously between his lips.
It’s not me, he wrote. Obviously it’s not me. I’m pretty sure it’s not Travis. I don’t think Travis could fuck me over that way. He’ll cover his ass, yeah, but he wouldn’t do this. Beckett, no. Beckett would get distracted. Forget. Move on. He’s worse than I am, that way. Saporta—well, Gabe has it in him. He’s done it before. I wouldn’t put it past him, but this doesn’t smell like Gabe. Gabe’s more the do-it-and-go type. Or he’s the never-let-it-go type. If it was him, he’d be here, dogging my steps. No, whoever this guy is, he’s crafty. He’s good. His style is familiar, but I can’t place it.
Pete paused, frowning at the sheet of paper. He knew it was dangerous, organizing his thoughts this way, but he couldn’t help it. Writing was in his blood—it was how he spun his ridiculous lies, how he kept his secrets hidden. When he was younger, he’d never dreamed of working for the government (Jesus, had he sold out—what happened to those hardcore bands he’d been in, all anarchy and teenage rebellion?). He’d wanted to write, be a Blake, a Neruda, a Wordsworth. Something soft. Something creative. He still wasn’t sure how he’d gotten here, eight years down the road with no fingerprints and an arsenal most criminals could only dream about. He’d wanted to save the world by writing about it, not killing anyone who possibly threatened it.
I don’t know what to do about him. I know what I should do. I know what I want to do. Unfortunately, they’re never the same thing. But I think I’m right. I can only be wrong so many times, he wrote. It’s like a slot machine. Keep going and going until you line up the little red cherries—I have to hit the jackpot sometime. I have to have an addiction to something. And it’s stronger than nicotine.
Pete pulled his lighter from his pocket, igniting the edge of the paper. It caught, the flame spreading from one corner to another, reddening the tips of Pete’s fingers. He let it go, the ashes floating gently to the street.
---
“Hi,” said the long, lithe body that slinked its way across the room to Patrick’s desk, pushing one hip delicately against the corner. “Detective Stump, I presume?”
Patrick glanced up from the report he’d been filing—an early extension on the investigation, as he knew this one wasn’t going to go down easily—to find that the body did, in fact, have a head. A head with long, wavy hair, a self-confident smirk, and eyes that squinted good-naturedly. “Yeah, but how did you—“
“William,” he said, extending a hand while simultaneously twirling Patrick’s nameplate around to face him. “Useful things, nameplates.”
“Oh,” Patrick said, shaking the offered hand, “right. William…?”
“Beckett,” he said, gracefully flicking hair out of his face.
“Oh! Sorry,” he said, sticking the half-finished report into a desk drawer, “I’ve been a bit distracted, lately.”
“I understand. So, what am I in for?”
“Just questioning,” Patrick said, rising from his chair. “This way, please, I just have a few things to ask you about—anyway, it’ll only take a half hour, at most.”
“Oh,” William said, voice low. “I have all day, actually. Far into the evening, if necessary, and with a little persuading I could be available into the morning.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Patrick said, pushing open the interrogation room door and waving a hand inside. “Right in here, please.”
William strode ahead of Patrick, looking almost affronted. He sat heavily in a plastic-backed chair, long legs stretched out beneath the table. Patrick ruffled through his papers, purposefully ignoring the way William was almost pouting at him.
“Right, so. Please state your name and relationship to the deceased, for the record.”
“William Beckett. Friend.”
“How long have you known Mr. Ross?”
“Mr. Ross?” William asked, almost laughing. “I didn’t know a ‘Mr. Ross,’ I knew Ryan. And Ryan was never a ‘Mr. Ross.’”
“Just following protocol, that’s all,” Patrick said. “Could you answer the question?”
“A couple of months, I think. He used to hang out at Travie’s parties. We, ah,” William frowned for a moment. “I guess you could say we knew each other before that, too.”
Patrick, despite his shock, managed to contain himself to raising an eyebrow. “How so?”
William shrugged. “Only in passing. Saw each other around, you know.”
Patrick frowned down at his paper. Okay, it was possible that William had known Ross for some period of time longer than he’d been going to McCoy’s parties, but in that case, wouldn’t Pete have known about him sooner? But why would William lie about something like that? Unless—oh. Oh, no, that wasn’t possible. But yeah, there were certain similarities—
Patrick’s eyes went wide as he asked, “So you weren’t familiar, but you knew each other?”
“Sort of. Knew the face, not the name.”
“Right,” Patrick nodded, trying desperately to stay nonchalant. He’d have to ask Pete about him, because surely Pete would know. But the hair, the effeminate face, the tiny bone structure…. “So, tell me about Pete Wentz.”
“What about him?”
“Him and Ross.”
“Oh. Yeah, they were…yeah.”
Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Care to elaborate?”
“Well, Christ, you’ve probably interviewed someone about it already, but they met at one of Travie’s parties and they were fucking, or something. I don’t even know. It’s Pete, he could have been pouring out his heart, he could have been screwing him, he could have been punching him, I don’t know,” William said. He looked frustrated, as though Patrick was annoying him. He closed his eyes for a moment, and the frustration vanished. Patrick wasn’t quite sure what to think.
“What do you mean by that?”
William put his palms on the table, leaning forward. “Pete’s a volatile guy, you know? One minute he’s one thing, the next minute he’s something else. With them, could have been anything. Ryan’s pretty mellow, and Pete’s the opposite. If nothing’s happening, Pete makes something happen.”
Patrick unconsciously ran a hand through his hair. “Do you think he’s capable of murder?”
William smiled. “I think anyone’s capable of murder. I think you’re capable of murder. But then again you’d have the law on your side, so they'd never call it that.”
“We’re getting off topic.”
“Not really,” William said, cradling his face in his hands, still smiling serenely. “Yes, I think Pete is capable of murder.”
“Did he have any reason to murder Ryan?”
“Did he need a reason?”
“You’re evading.”
William ran a finger over his lips, smirking. “Why would I do a thing like that?”
Patrick leaned forward over the table, giving William a pointed look. “It’s obvious to me that you’re not taking this very seriously. If there is one thing about an investigation that I can’t stand, it’s people that don’t take it seriously. Pardon me for being blunt, but Ross is dead, and I’m trying to find out who killed him. You have two choices—help me, or don’t. I’d really, really appreciate it if we went with the second.”
William blinked at him, but his expression didn't change. “You want to know what I really think?” he asked, voice hushed.
Patrick sighed irritably. “If you don’t mind.”
Apparently unfazed, William flicked a stray lock of hair from his eyes. “What I really think is that Pete and Ryan were fucking around, Pete got tired of him, and killed him. That’s what I think.”
“And do you have any probable cause to think that?”
“I know Pete a hell of a lot better than you do.”
“And who says I know Pete at all?”
William’s smile grew. “Exactly.”
Patrick gave William a stern look. “And how well do you know Pete Wentz?”
“Better than Ryan did,” William said, with an air of disinterest. “Much better.”
“By which you mean—“
“Pete knew me before he knew Ryan,” William said, smiling slyly. “You do the math.”
Yeah, okay, Patrick got it. He was kind of annoyed by that, actually, for whatever reason—perhaps it was his strange dislike of William, or maybe it was sheer jealousy. But he moved on. “So you and Pete were dating—“
“Please,” William scoffed. “We were fucking around. Not consistently. Pete doesn’t do consistent.”
“But I thought he and Ryan—“
“Completely out of character. No idea how, but that Ryan kid really kept Pete on a tight leash. Ironic, considering Ross had about twelve girlfriends on the side.”
“Do you think Pete could have been unfaithful?” He was asking purely because of the case, Patrick assured himself. It wasn’t as if he and Pete were—no, it was important information. That was all.
William shrugged. “All I know is I don’t trust Pete if I have my back turned to him. Never know when he’s going to lose interest.”
“And you?” Patrick asked, calmly. “Would you have any reason to go after Ryan?”
“Me? No,” William said slowly, looking at Patrick coyly through his lashes. “Nothing to gain for me. I’m way over Pete. There are other fish in the sea, you know, and I’ve got damn good bait.”
“Wonderful,” Patrick said flatly. “I think we’re done here.”
William nodded, smile back in place, and made his way over to the door. He paused, one hand perched on the doorknob. “Detective, could you come here for a moment?”
Patrick followed him, confused. “Yes?”
“Look,” William said, leaning forward. “I just think it’s important for you to know this.”
“I have to inform you that anything you say within this room stays on record,” Patrick recited.
William ignored him, leaning forward until Patrick could feel his breath, hot and moist, on his lips. “You’re in way over your head.” He closed his eyes and moved forward, the distance between them rapidly decreasing.
Patrick stepped backward, frowning. “Yes, thank you, I’m quite sure I can handle it. We’re done here, Mr. Beckett.”
Suddenly scowling, William threw open the door and marched out of the room.
Well, Patrick thought, he’d definitely have to file that one under the rapidly growing title of “Really Fucking Weird.” On second thought, he added, it could possibly go under the very slim file of “Things Joe May Have Been Right About.”
---
“You idiot. He’s mine.”
“No, he’s not. We’ve already established that you need to keep your nose out of this. Your responsibility here is Pete, not the detective.”
“And look how well your little minions are doing,” he spat. “Bunch of little fuck-ups.”
“I don’t see you making much progress either. Far as I can see, Pete’s still alive.”
“I’m waiting for the right moment. I can’t just kill him right away. It has to look natural. Why the hell did you send Beckett after him?”
“Beckett’s specialty. He was supposed to seduce him and give him something to make it look like a heart attack. But the damn guy has morals.”
“Jesus,” he breathed. “You’re a bunch of amateurs. It’s much more effective if you just—“
“Yes, and it means many hours of paperwork. I’ll rely on my own expertise, thanks.”
The phone buzzed with a dial tone, and he ran his hand lovingly over the black-wrapped package in the passenger seat.