The Definitive Albert J. Sterne (16 page)

It was tempting to try to include the sexual in their friendship, to broaden the relationship beyond the subliminal sensuality that blessed any close friends. Ash couldn’t deny a few speculative day dreams along those lines. He’d long been curious about what sex would be like between two men, figured everyone at least
wondered
. And here was Albert, dependable and surprising, and in love with Fletcher. It was tempting to experiment with this damned interesting idea, with this attractive and available man, even though it was guaranteed to do far more harm than good.

Albert probably wouldn’t let it happen, even if Fletch did try. He had the stubbornness to deny himself. And the passion to hate Fletcher if the younger man forced the issue. That would be a disaster, even compared to muddling along as they were now.

Finding his glass empty, Fletcher poured himself more wine. It wasn’t an answer, but it would do.

And it got him out of the drying up. One near-slip with a wet plate and Albert relieved him of further duties. “Pathetic, Ash,” was the comment. “But I suppose a harmless drunk is preferable to a ranting child.”

“Who are you calling harmless?” Fletch retorted. He swallowed the rest of the wine, managed to safely return the glass to the kitchen, then tottered back to stretch out on the sofa.

Home. Or a more than reasonable substitute for it.

Fletch was dimly aware that it was late when he woke. His more immediate concerns were an insistent bladder, a skull protesting at what it contained, and a tortured spine. Then there was the distraction of the smell of brewing coffee. Which to deal with first?

After some consideration, logic dictated that he stand and stretch. Fletcher did so, momentarily tangled in an unexpected blanket. He’d been lying on Albert’s sofa, and now he was standing on Albert’s cropped sage green carpet, therefore it seemed reasonable that this was Albert’s blanket. He tried to cope with the image of Albert Sterne bothering to bring the blanket and tucking Fletch in, then put it aside. It was too early in the morning for these mind-bending ideas. Instead, he slunk into the kitchen.

The next matter that caught his attention was the full pot of hot coffee. It belatedly dawned on him that Albert didn’t drink coffee and certainly hadn’t owned a coffee-maker before now. Fletch stared at it for a moment.

And then quickly reassessed his priorities and headed for the bathroom.

A few minutes later, feeling a little more human, Fletch poured a mug of coffee and started wondering where Albert was. But that was a mystery soon solved. One of Albert’s business cards had been placed neatly on the kitchen bench beside the coffee. On the back, in Albert’s neat printing that was usually found only on forensic reports, it read,
I  am at headquarters
. Fletcher groaned.

Albert was in his tiny office, typing away at the computer as if his fingers were trying to beat the speed of light. Fletcher smiled. One of the things he loved about Albert was his serious, energetic, determined dedication, although he was easily distracted today. Fletcher tapped quietly at the glass wall and Albert’s head whipped around to see him. His gestured invitation to enter was brusque, which was nothing new, but to the practiced eye, his expression was darker than usual. He snapped, “Good of you to put in an appearance.”

“Sorry it’s so late,” Fletcher replied. He closed the door behind him, dumped the bag he’d brought and sat down in the solitary visitor’s chair. He idly wondered how many other people had sat here; he suspected it was only a few and none by choice.

“It is just as well some of us are prepared to put in a full day’s work.”

“Actually, I was hoping that you could spare me an hour for a game of squash. Wouldn’t mind sweating copiously right now, do me the world of good.”

“What a revolting idea.”

Fletch chuckled, though he felt uneasy, and hefted the bag up to the desk. “I  went through your wardrobe, I  was trying to find the track pants and sweater you wear when you ride your bike, but I’ve never
seen
so many suits. I  mean, if I didn’t know better I’d suspect you do the garden in them as well.” The words and then the smile faltered as Fletch looked across at Albert. Though the man was temporarily speechless, his whose expression seemed to ask,
You did what?

“Sorry,” Fletch tried. “That was the wrong thing to do.”

“You can manage better than that, Ash. I’ve never heard such a weak and insincere apology.”

“I
am
sorry. I didn’t think.”

“And what are you sorry for? Invading my privacy? Abusing my trust? I  should never have left you alone there.”

“All of that,” Fletch agreed, nodding. His head still hurt, and he really didn’t want to listen to this, but he should have anticipated it and not put himself or Albert in the situation. Albert must indeed be angry to talk in such clichés.

“That’s my home, Ash. Have you no respect? If it wasn’t for your physical violence this morning  -”

Fletcher stared at him. “What?”

“You should have been in here, anyway. Friday is a workday in Washington, even if it isn’t in the backwoods. And didn’t you come here to progress the case you were so wound up about only yesterday?”

It was bizarre, Fletcher thought. Albert was simply sitting there, across the desk, barely raising his voice, and yet spitting out pure malice. No one out in the lab would be aware Albert was anymore furious than usual. And Fletch was just sitting there, too, taking it, because it wouldn’t be fair to give all this anger back to the man. Albert was feeling vulnerable right now. It was a compliment, really, that Albert should be so defenseless before Fletcher.

When he had the chance to interrupt, Fletch repeated, “What violence?”

“You hit me, Ash.”

“No  …” Such an assertion was impossible to credit. He’d never have done such a thing. Surely not  … “What do you mean?”

Silence for a moment. It was difficult to tell whether Albert looked more offended than bitter, but Fletch hoped so. “I  tried to wake you from your drunken stupor this morning, and you hit me.”

“Really?” Poor Albert must have run a mile, being confronted like that. It would almost be amusing if it hadn’t hurt the man. “I’m sorry, it was completely unintentional. Maybe I was dreaming. I have bad dreams, you know.”

Either the apology was acceptable or Albert had got everything off his chest now. In any case, the man’s expression gradually settled into merely grumpy.

“I’m going for a run, if squash is out of the question, then a shower and then to work.”

“What work?”

“Records for Georgia over the past two years, anything that might be our man showing his hand. If you’re too busy, I’ll ask Mac to help.”

“Don’t be anymore ridiculous than you have to be, Ash. You need expert assistance.”

“Mac’s doing all right,” Fletch said mildly - but he meant it.

Albert rolled his eyes, turned back to his computer.

“Any chance of you working late with me tonight? I know it’s been a long couple of days, but I’d really appreciate it.”

“Of course I will,” the man snapped.

Fletch smiled at him. “Thanks.”

“Get out of here, Ash.”

Not prepared to push his luck any further, Fletcher got.

The phone rang at ten-fifteen, startling Fletch. HQ had been deathly quiet for hours. Albert reached out, barely pausing in his search of the computer records. “Sterne.” He listened for a moment, said, “Yes,” and then handed the receiver to Fletch. “It’s Roberts.”

Ash smiled. “Hello, Alanna.”

“I thought I’d find you working, Fletch.”

“And I expect you are, too.”

“Yes.”

He pictured her in her uniform, with the checked woolen jacket she wore over it, her blond hair in a long braid, her expression thoughtful. Then he thought to ask, “Is this good news, bad news, or just an excuse to chat?”

“Good and bad. We found the missing girlfriend, Stacey Dixon.”

“I suppose the bad news is she’s dead.”

“Yes. We concentrated a search around where Philip Rohan was found, along the roads in and out of the area, you know the routine. She was downstream in the river, would have been found weeks ago but she was caught in a submerged fallen tree.”

“How did she die?”

“Shot in the chest. She was fully clothed, no sign of any assault, but the similarities are that it seems her wrists were restrained for a while before she died, and it appears she and Philip were killed around the same time. Does that sound like your man?”

“You know, I think it has to be. But, whoever it is, it sounds like she got in the way, she wasn’t to his taste.”

“Yes, that’s the way I saw it. In the wrong place at the wrong time, poor kid.”

“Did you find the bullet? What sort of gun?”

“The cold-blooded bastard dug it out before dumping her.”

“But he didn’t strip her.” So he could overcome his distaste only so far. Or perhaps he wanted keepsakes from the boys, but not from Stacey. “Has anyone else shown an interest in this?”

“I haven’t called anyone else outside Georgia and no one’s come forward.”

“Then I doubly appreciate you letting me know, Alanna. Does this mean I’ve convinced you?”

“No, it means you’re crazy, but I’m willing - against all my better instincts - to give you a chance.”

Fletcher laughed. “That’s the second nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

“I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks. You can leave a message for me if I’m not here.” Fletch said goodbye, hung up, then turned to fill Albert in. He went on to say, “If she wasn’t weighted down, he can’t have cared whether she’d be found right away, and he certainly didn’t care that her clothing would help identify her. With the boys, he at least gave himself some time.”

“And what did he do with the time?” Albert asked.

Fletch mentally reeled for a moment, already knowing the answer but not having considered the implications before. “He moves on to another state before the bodies are found.” Standing, Fletch began to distractedly pace around the table and back again. “I’m sure he wants them found at some stage, though. This man is so in control, so cool about it. It’s a waste of effort looking for traces of him. He’s not going to betray himself.”

“Why shouldn’t he? People do, in various ways, and this man is more compulsive and obsessive than most.”

“All right, all right,” Fletch said impatiently, though he welcomed Albert’s challenges. “So he wouldn’t survive two years at a time without surrendering in some way to these urges. He’s sensible, but he can’t be totally controlled. What are we looking for? Reports or cases involving sodomy or assault, with Caucasian boys between eighteen and twenty-five years old. None of the murder victims have been prostitutes but they’re easy prey for abuse or violence, so he might use them in between times. Complaints from boys on the street or their pimps, and from college kids and their families. How’s that?”

“I’m glad you’re finally able to keep up, Ash.”

He smiled. This sort of insult from Albert was tantamount to an expression of affection, especially when compared to his fury that afternoon. Then Fletcher’s back twinged again. Stretching, grimacing, he said, “No offence, but your sofa was not made for sleeping on.”

“I never intended it to be slept on,” Albert replied curtly.

“I’ll go to the hotel tonight.”

“There’s no need.”

Fletch looked at the man, as Albert studiously avoided meeting his gaze. He’d always known it was a big deal to visit Albert’s house. No one else had, not Mac, not  … Fletch couldn’t even think of any other candidates. And here was Albert as good as asking him to sleep over for last night, tonight, at least Saturday night as well. Who cared about the spine-crunching sofa?

“We’re working tomorrow?” Fletch asked.

“Yes.” Of course.

“Then let’s get out of here. We both need our beauty sleep.”

Fletch caught the tail end of a sardonic glance and managed to choke back a surprised laugh. How absurdly flattering.

Albert pulled the Saab up to his garage, let it idle for the prescribed thirty seconds to allow the turbo to settle while Fletch clambered out, then Albert turned the ignition off. Usually he would grudgingly let Fletcher unlock and open the garage’s main door. Tonight, he did it himself, then impatiently beckoned Fletch over. “Help me with this.”