Quotes About Intrigue

I think that's one of the things that intrigues people the most: my defensive versatility. My movement and mobility is something that piques everybody's interest.

Or was he saying, Hi! Wanna play? And I did. Of course I did.

It's not that I have anything to hide—I've already hidden all of it—but

Have you ever noticed that every now and then you'll overhear an amazingly clear declarative sentence when you're out in public, spoken with such force and purpose that you absolutely yearn to know what it means, because it is just so forceful and crystalline? And you want to follow along behind whoever just spoke, even though you don;t know them, just to find out what that sentence means and how it would affect the lives of the people involved?

It would be much too difficult for anyone to get in and out of this area, especially if they were carrying questionable loads of body parts and the like.

But of course, very few people are Dexter. This is generally a good thing, but in this case it came in handy to be me. Four months after reading a story in the paper about a missing boy, I read a similar story. The boys were around the same age; details like that always ring a small bell and send a Mister Rogers whisper trickling through my brain: "Hello, neighbor.

Talk to me, I whispered to the Dark Passenger. Tell me what you have done.

Vince had answered the door in a body-hugging satin gown with a basket of fruit on his head. "J. Edgar Hoover?" I asked him.

Oh, my God, he's doing that thing again," Jackie said, staring at me as if I was a piece of alien technology that had just turned itself on. "You know, where he goes inside the guy's head.

It made me a bit uneasy; why was she staring like that? I glanced down to make sure I was wearing pants, and I was. When I looked up again, she was still staring.

Mr. Mustache spoke up, again without moving any facial muscles. "I neeeed," he said, drawing out the word pointlessly, "to learn Who. You. Are." That made even less sense than what Matthews had said, and I could think of no reply more penetrating than, "Oh, uh-huh Ã¢â'¬Â¦Ã¢â'¬Â It must have sounded just as feeble to him as it did to me, because he moved at last, turning his entire head in my direction and flipping up the sunglasses with one manicured finger.

Closer, still careful and quiet, and all is exactly what it should be and then we are at the door of the Mustang. Unlocked—the contemptible little beast has made it far too easy for us and we slide into the backseat so careful-quiet and melt into the unseen darkness on the car's floor—and then we wait. Seconds

The real question at this point, and it was an awkward one, was how to tell Deborah that all this was happening because somebody had seen me in flagrante delicto.

If I had been irritated by him before, now I was positively seething. He had gone beyond mere mockery; now he was "asking around" about me, prying into my character, encouraging everyone around me to unload about all of Dexter's quirks and peccadilloes. It made me so angry that I could calm myself only by picturing Robert duct-taped to a table, with me standing happily above him clutching a fillet knife. Still, I ate his doughnuts.

Get your stuff," he said, hurrying past. "We got a wild one." Robert turned to watch him go, and his air of relaxed confidence seemed to drain out and puddle at his feet. "Is that Ã¢â'¬Â¦ Does he mean, um—" "It's probably nothing," I said. "Just a routine machete beheading or something." Chase goggled at me for a moment. Then he turned pale, gulped, and finally nodded. "Okay," he said.

And, unfortunately for all concerned—except possibly the ghost of J. Edgar Hoover, who must have been hovering protectively in a spectral house frock—sitting next to Chambers was Special Agent Brenda Recht.

I stared at the phone for a long moment before I replaced it in its cradle. I was not sure what had just happened, or what it meant: "Come up to my office right now"? Captains do not hand out special assignments to blood-spatter analysts, and we do not visit captains' offices socially, either. So what was this about? My

Vince shook it playfully. "Maybe it'll help Anderson figure out who the victim is this time," he said. I opened my mouth to say that it didn't seem likely, that Anderson wouldn't figure it out if he had notarized statements from the killer and the victim, and then I closed my mouth and took a step back and didn't say anything at all.

They put it here because this guy is such a bugero.

And I hear something in the next room, and I sneak to the doorway and peek— The counter. There's a hand lying there. A human hand. But it's not attached to anything. This doesn't make sense. And right next to it that's a foot, also not attached. And other parts, too, and oh holy shit that's the head right there on top, eyes wide-open and looking right at me and all I can do is stare back— And

At the front door I spit on the hinges to keep them from squealing and we eased it silently open.

the Matt Scudder novels (dark), including Eight Million Ways to Die, The Devil Knows You're Dead, and the Edgar-winning A Dance at the Slaughterhouse, and the Bernie Rhodenbarr mysteries (humorous), including The Burglar Who Thought He Was Bogart, and The Burglar Who Traded Ted Williams.

Erle Stanley Gardner

Anna Katharine Green