The Definitive Albert J. Sterne (36 page)

“You’re hardly my idea of Prince Charming,” Fletch found the breath to mutter.

“Exactly,” Albert said.

Fletcher couldn’t take this. His fingers were cramping and bruising from trying to dig into solid marble, the muscles of his back and shoulders were a-fire. Might as well get it over with - there was nothing for him, no reason not to. “If you love me,” he said to Albert.

And he fell.

Albert didn’t even care. Sneered down at Fletch falling as if this was only what he’d expected. The bastard.

Fletcher screamed in defiance and outrage, and then in fear. The stone pavement loomed below and behind him. He cried a protest against waiting for the sickening crunch and splatter of his blood and bones and brain against that cruel surface. “No!” His imagination of it was worse than any reality could be.

“No!” Darkness instead of harsh sunlight stabbing off polished white marble; a bed and quilt rather than stone. A  bedroom that should have been familiar. He was alone, and that in itself was something wrong.

Fletcher rolled onto his back, drew the covers up to his chin, then lay still, breathing hard, trying to sort some sense out of all this fear.

The details soon coalesced out of the darkness: Albert’s guest bedroom. Fletcher should feel safe here. In fact, after that troubling variation on his old nightmare -
Yes, it was only a dream, Fletcher,
he reminded himself - he probably felt safer here alone than in the haven of Albert’s room, Albert’s arms.

Wonderful,
he thought with dry despair,
even that safety is gone now.
If Albert showed up, having heard Fletcher cry out, Fletch suspected it would take a conscious effort of faith on his part to welcome the man. That was ridiculous.
Do I even have that much faith left?

It was some hours before Fletcher fell asleep again.

Breakfast was a silent meal. Fletcher watched Albert warily, trying to shake the last feelings of uneasiness from the night’s restlessness. There were more important things to deal with than his latest dream, despite the memory of the expression in Albert’s cruel, cold, hard eyes.

For instance, how were they to survive the Sunday of this ghastly weekend when Albert appeared so fragile that one wrong word might shatter him, when the man seemed completely unaware that he was at all vulnerable? And when Fletcher himself required reassurance, someone to tell him his doubts were unfounded, even someone to provide simple distraction?

Fletcher began to talk, one of the monologues that he usually used over the phone, intending to chat about anything impersonal. But he soon found himself saying, “Everything’s pretty damned grim at the moment.” Surely it wouldn’t hurt to talk about work. “Caroline’s money laundering thing is proceeding according to plan but I can’t stay interested. I’m getting nowhere with this serial killer. It’s ludicrous, trying to solve it on my own. There are hundreds of possible leads to chase up, thousands, though none of them were promising enough for the Bureau to keep the case open, all the real ones were dead ends. If I’m very lucky, one of these unlikely ones might give me a hint of the answer. So I fritter my time away, turning from lead to lead, suspect to suspect, trying to guess the right one, letting my instincts choose for me - and not really following up on any of them. I exhaust myself and all for nothing. This would have to be the most unproductive time of my life. And now you, love,” Fletcher said, looking at Albert. “Everything feels so wrong between us. What we have, under all the trouble, is precious.” And he said, worried that his tone sounded irresolute, “I  won’t give up on it.”

Albert looked away, as if bored at going over old ground.

“I won’t give up on the serial killer, either. I just have to - in both cases - find a way to the heart of the matter.”

Well, he’d had an effect: Albert was distant now, instead of hurt and immediate. That wasn’t good but if Albert needed his defenses, then perhaps he should have them.

There was one message to get across while he could. Fletcher said, very gently, “I  don’t want you to feel you’ve let me down, Albert.”

The man stared at him as if Fletcher had gone crazy. “And how have I done that?” he demanded.

Fletch shook his head, and lied. “You haven’t. I  misinterpreted what you’re feeling.”

The stare grew suspicious and then slowly became uninterested.

All right
. Albert had expected Fletcher to end this relationship some weeks ago, which was perhaps a reflection of what Albert really wanted. Maybe, if Albert couldn’t end it, he trusted Fletcher to do so.
Be brave
, Fletcher admonished both Albert and himself,
have mercy
. When Albert had first consciously realized he was in love with Fletcher - it had been a beautiful spring day, out in the garden, Fletch remembered - Fletcher had seen Albert as forever asking a question to which Fletcher was the answer. It had been so tempting to meet the problem with its solution. But now he figured he wasn’t really the right answer and maybe Albert was no longer asking. Despite all of which, this was still the most successful love affair Fletcher had ever had, which wasn’t saying much, but he was grateful nonetheless. “We don’t make each other very happy, do we?” Fletcher observed quietly.

Albert immediately retorted, “Happiness was never my goal in life.”

That surprised Fletcher enough to threaten a smile, but he quashed the impulse. It seemed, yet again, he had goaded Albert into revealing something of the truth.

And, even more surprisingly, Albert actually continued the thought. “Only people like McIntyre are mundane enough to set happiness as their goal.”

Fletcher nodded, thoughtful. All right, he would take that as license to continue the relationship rather than break it up. So be it. So help them both.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

COLORADO

MARCH 1985

“What do you know about Xavier Lachance?” Caroline Thornton asked.

Fletcher essayed a boneless shrug. When it was just the two of them in the relative privacy of Caroline’s office, and work wasn’t a burning urgency, then they would both sprawl back in their chairs - Caroline’s was a high-backed executive model, Fletch in a lowly visitor’s chair - and talk lazily at the ceiling. This would often occur first thing in the day, as both were slow starters by preference, or after lunch. Or, in this instance, around eleven o’clock on a Monday morning.

It wasn’t that Fletcher felt lazy today, though. Instead, he was restless with the first stirrings of spring and he knew that Caroline would indulge his lack of focus to a certain extent, whether she condoned it or not.

On consideration, Fletcher thought that
friends
was too warm a description of their relationship, but he and Caroline knew each other passably well and had successfully worked together for more years than he cared to remember right now. They shared a random but enthusiastic exercise regime and were able to - this was the best part - relax with each other. They didn’t socialize much, though, simply having a drink together if necessary or sharing a meal if convenient. Fletch had never met any of her family or friends or boyfriends. He smiled a little, wryly - on the other hand, Caroline had certainly met Albert, though how could she ever suspect that he was Fletcher’s boyfriend? What an expression. It suggested a levity, a lightness of heart, that was certainly not present in the relationship.

“Just how long are you going to ignore me, Agent Ash?”

“Sorry.” He pushed himself up to shrug properly this time, his smile turning sheepish. “Mind’s wandering.”

“What’s new? Fletcher  -” and she frowned. Something serious was forthcoming. “You’ve been more distracted than ever lately. And unhappy, which is not like you. Usually you’re the one we all rely on to cheer us up. What is it - the money laundering case? I  know it’s not exactly exciting, though we did arrest twenty-two people on ninety-eight charges  …”

“Yeah, you’ll be quoting those statistics at every damned opportunity, won’t you?” The teasing was fond, but then Fletcher asked seriously, “Is that my supervisor asking about my morale?”

“No,” Caroline said slowly. “I can’t fault your work. Your heart hasn’t been in it but you haven’t let your work suffer. I’d always wondered if that would be a problem, frankly, whether you’d let your mood or your motivation adversely affect your work. But I’m pleased to say it hasn’t.”

“Good,” said Fletch, without much enthusiasm.

“So tell me as a friend. What’s the problem? Is it your serial killer theory? Or are you having doubts about that?”

“Sorry, but there’s still no doubt in my mind. Other than the fear I won’t find him soon enough.”

A silence threatened to stretch between them. “Why am I doing all the talking here?” Caroline asked.

“All right, yes, it’s the serial killer. You know how I feel about that. And it’s everything else as well. I’m at a low ebb right now. But there will be a sea change sometime soon, I  promise. And, no, I  don’t want to talk about it.”

Caroline nodded. “If you ever do, I’ll be here, okay?” She smiled at his acknowledgment. “Now, returning to the business at hand  … Francis Xavier Lachance. What do you know about him?”

“Not much.” Fletch sat up straighter, pulling his thoughts together. “Councilor campaigning for mayor; African-American; seems rather popular. You know I don’t take much interest in politics.”

“You vote, though, don’t you? Would you vote for Lachance?”

“Yeah,” Fletch said, not having given much consideration to his decision before. “He’s a Democrat, he’s black, and I don’t like his opposition.”

“He’s got my vote, too. Okay, all that aside, I  guess you didn’t hear the news this morning. There was a fire at Lachance’s campaign headquarters in the small hours, and it looks like it was deliberately lit.”

“Much damage?”

“Most of the contents of his offices are gone. The rooms to either side mainly suffered water damage. The roof had caught, but it didn’t get the chance to spread. The building itself is fine.”

“Is the Bureau taking an interest?”

“Yes  …” Caroline seemed ambivalent about it, though. “You’ve assumed the good news and the bad news by now, haven’t you?”

“Tell me anyway.”

“The good news is that you’re temporarily excused from the money laundering business.”

Fletcher let out a quiet cheer.

Caroline continued, “It’s going to be even duller from here on in, helping the state attorneys prepare the case. But don’t celebrate too soon - the bad news is that you’re going to go hold Xavier Lachance’s hand for a while.”

“That’s fine,” Fletch said, frowning. “Why is it bad news? And what makes it Bureau business?”

“Bad news because it could be a load of political garbage. It’s not FBI jurisdiction, but Lachance wants to make it a civil rights issue.”

“The idea being that some right-wing whites are casting their votes early?”

“Something like that. Meanwhile, he garners sympathy from the African-Americans and other minorities, and righteous outrage from the left-wingers. It’s a real vote-getting stance. This guy’s good. If you haven’t been following the campaign, you’ll find he can be very persuasive.”

“I’ve gathered he’s not short on charisma.”

“There might be another reason for crying civil rights. Calling the feds in could backfire, after all - he can’t let the local police think he’s lost his faith in them. If he wins, he’ll need a close working relationship with local law and order. But I’m wondering if he’s trying to distract attention from something. A  cover-up of some sort.”

‘Did I ever tell you you’re a devious and suspicious person, Caroline?”

“Why, no,” she responded cheerily. “Thank you, Fletcher.”

“My pleasure.”

“Anyway, you know the Bureau likes to have its fingers in as many pies as possible. We’re not going to turn down a chance to make Xavier Lachance our business.”

“Am I going in alone, or as part of a team?”

“Alone. But you’re more than a token presence, Fletch, I  assure you. I’ll take your advice on this but I envisage you keeping an eye on the police investigation rather than taking it over. You’ll have to handle Lachance on that if he sees it differently. The official line is that we’re busy people, we have trouble sparing even one valuable agent. Unofficially, we don’t want everyone thinking we’re at the beck and call of any politician. Though, unofficially, it doesn’t hurt to establish a relationship with future mayors  …”

“Wait a minute. Are you saying my reports should be broader than the fire itself?”