The Definitive Albert J. Sterne

by Julie Bozza

  “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.”

  A double mattress and box springs, still swathed in plastic, was propped up against one wall. “You didn’t,” Fletch said.

  Albert was silent. They lifted the mattress between them.

  “Okay, so you did,” Fletch continued as Albert led the way outside and up the front steps. There was a pause as the man dealt with the two locks on the door. “How?”

  “It took three simple phone calls, Ash. It would not qualify as a miracle.”

  “You let someone have a key to the garage?”

  “I told you, the child next door does the gardening when I’m called away.”

  They were maneuvering down the hallway now. “Where? The spare room?” Fletch asked.

  “Yes.”

  It was empty in there but for the darkly forbidding wallpaper; the only room Albert hadn’t decorated and furnished. They left the mattress and returned for the box springs, working together in silence.

  It was difficult to find the right words to express Fletch’s appreciation of all this, words that wouldn’t betray his knowledge of Albert’s secret agenda - which in itself was the wrong term, for Albert wasn’t scheming to win Fletch over, he wasn’t trying to bribe him; far from it. So - a few simple and heartfelt words. Fletch, the son of a writer, felt woefully inadequate. And then he realized such words would only further embarrass Albert. Perhaps a quiet acceptance, a lack of fuss, was all that was required. This atmosphere of friendship, ease, that was the important thing.

  Fletch caught Albert’s eye, and simply smiled. Happy, in this at least.

  Albert, impervious mask firmly in place, fetched sheets, pillows, and a quilt. But, as Fletch imagined the crazy dangerous intimacy of them making up a bed together, Albert said good night, and walked out. The door to Albert’s bedroom was shut, quietly but firmly.

  Just as well, really. Fletch agreed wholeheartedly that humanity in general could resist anything but temptation, and Fletch himself was no exception.

  It was Sunday. He really should be heading back to Colorado, once he had sorted through these files spread across the dining table. Or catching up with old friends, like Tyler Reece. He’d only seen Tyler once since their brief affair ended, though he’d spoken to her on the phone a number of times. He wanted to stay in touch, because she was an incredible woman, lover or not.

  But Albert apparently had something else planned for the day. After a couple of undisturbed hours, Fletcher pushed aside the last of the files and wandered off to find him.

  He was in the spare room. “Help me move the bed out,” Albert said. They leaned it up against the wall in the foyer, Albert neatly folding the bedding and placing it on top. And then, back in the room, Albert gestured at a steamer. “Strip the wallpaper,” he ordered.

  Fletcher smiled. “It will be a pleasure. The pattern gave me nightmares.”

  They worked in silence for a while, Fletch steaming and peeling off the paper with Albert following him, washing the last of the glue off the wall, and plastering over the few cracks.

  “So, what’s this room going to be?” Fletcher asked, though he hoped he’d guessed the answer.

  “Guest bedroom,” Albert replied absently.

  The man was frowning in concentration, Fletch was amused to note, a perfectionist in this as in all else. It must have taken him a damned long time to work through the rest of the house alone - or maybe not. Whatever Albert decided was worthwhile doing, he did well, and he put in far longer hours than most would. Intense, that’s what he was. Fletcher liked it, especially as he was the man’s only guest.

  “And the color scheme?” Fletch asked. Albert was silent, though Fletch knew he’d heard the question. He persisted, “Darker greens maybe, or peaches and reds like in your room?”

  That provoked a defensive response. Fletch was all too aware that the main bedroom was Albert’s one remaining sanctuary now Fletch had invaded his home. “Blues,” Albert said. “A dash of purple. An iron bed.”

  It was Fletcher’s turn to be surprised. “What? That doesn’t fit, does it?” Silence. “The house, it’s all so coordinated. This won’t go.”

  “A progression from the blues in the kitchen.”

  Fletch considered this, and frowned. There was something wrong here. “No … that doesn’t link in. Everything else is linked. It’s all a harmony.”

  Albert snapped, “Since when were you an expert in interior decoration?”

  “Since I saw this place,” Fletch retorted.

  “I expected you to have stripped that wallpaper by now.”

  “Well,” Fletch drawled, “I wanted to prolong the agony.” He cast a glance over the few remaining feet. “I could never have imagined this stuff, not in my worst dreams, not in the depths of my paranoia.”

  Albert let out a breath, a quiet snort. It was the closest he ever came to a laugh. “You should have seen the paper in the dining room.”

  “Can’t imagine them able to eat in there?”

  “No.”

  “If it were me, I wouldn’t have bought the place.”

  “But it had obvious advantages, it was in the right location, and the rooms are a good size.”

  “And you could work on the problems, one by one.”

  “Yes.”

  So intellectual, so unswayed by emotional reaction, and of course Albert had been completely right - the house itsel
f was lovely, and Albert’s work had perfected it. Fletch wanted to say, Albert, you’re amazing. But he didn’t. “So, have you bought the paint? Can we make a start on that?”

  “The walls have to dry, and the filler needs to be sanded back. I’ll do it tomorrow evening.”

  Fletcher stuck out his lower lip. “Only if I get to stay and help you.”

  “So easily distracted, aren’t you?” But the voice was mild, wondering rather than critical. “There’s a case to devote your time to, and Thornton is expecting your return.”

  “Let me see the paint, at least.”

  “When you’ve finished stripping the paper.”

  “All right, all right,” Fletch laughed.

  Once they were done, Albert led him out to the garage. He opened up one of the paint cans, then stirred it for a couple of minutes before he would let Fletcher look.

  The paint was a startling and beautiful color: a medium blue, with more than a hint of lilac. Fletcher stared, and gravely said, “I wish you’d tell me why.”

  ‘Do you not like it?” The tone weary, but not defensive.

  “I love it, of course I love it. But there’s something wrong, something doesn’t fit. Your house shouldn’t be mucked up just for me.”

  Albert said, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t I?” Fletcher looked up. Albert rarely let him meet his gaze, not when they were discussing something as personal as this - and Fletch couldn’t help but wonder why the color of Albert’s guest room should have turned out to be such a sensitive issue - but Albert wasn’t looking into him in that intense way of his. It was more that he was looking at Fletch, seeing only the surface, the face that the man was far gone enough to think didn’t need any beauty sleep, the blue Irish eyes for which Fletch blamed his grandfather.

  It would be churlish to refuse all this, Fletcher thought: the coffee-maker, the bed, the room; the attention and thoughtfulness and generosity. Churlish and ungrateful, when all that seemed to be expected in return was friendship, companionship. But it also seemed unfair to accept, as if he were letting Albert be taken advantage of. Surely he should at least offer a warning. Fletch said, “You should know that I’m as selfish as the next man.”

  Silence. Then, with timing so bad it was almost comic, the phone in the house rang. Albert handed Fletch the can of paint, and walked out of the garage, unhurried. Fletcher picked up the lid, pressed and then hammered it into place. By which time Albert had returned.

  “That was headquarters. Your father left a message. He wants you to ring him, but apparently it isn’t urgent.”

  “No, I always talk to him on Sundays. He’s probably just wondering where I am.”

  “You could have left him this number, Ash.”

  “I didn’t like to.” Fletch asked, “May I call him now?”

  “Of course.” He was clearly annoyed at even being asked.

  Fletch smiled at the man, but Albert was once again avoiding him. “Thanks.”

  Peter Ash usually had no particular news but that never stopped him and Fletcher from spending an hour or more talking each week. The Idaho people joked that the Ash family must have shares in the phone company.

  Today, however, Peter had plenty to update his younger son with. Fletcher was to become an uncle for the second time and the local diner was up for sale - Peter, Harley and Beth were going to buy it, with a view to running it themselves and eventually converting the empty shop next door into a more up-market restaurant. “We figured that for once our week was almost as exciting as yours.”

  “Congratulations,” Fletch said wryly.

  “So, what’s happening with you? You’re not sounding very happy.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Come on, what is it? A case? If you finally solve an interesting one, maybe I can write a book about it.”

  Fletch laughed. His father had been threatening that for years. “I’ll tell you all about it when I have the guy in jail for at least ten lifetimes.”

  “And don’t spare me the sordid drama or the juicy bits.”

  “Fine, Dad. Look, I’m staying with Albert Sterne for a few days - remember I’ve mentioned him?”

  “How could I forget? He’s the forensics specialist.”

  “Yes. I’ll give you his number here in Washington, for next time.”

  “No more of that terrible hotel the Bureau uses?”

  “Of course that’s the only reason he’s a friend.”

  “A good enough reason, from all reports.”

  “You won’t believe this, Dad, but he’s doing up his spare bedroom for me, painting the walls this beautiful shade of blue. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “That’s good, Fletcher.” Silence for a moment. “He’s the one you described as vastly bitter and rude, isn’t he? Do I have the phrase right?”

  “That’s Albert. But he’s not really - People make the mistake of dismissing him because of his manner.”

  “You have a generous heart, Fletcher.”

  “You’re sentimental and biased, Dad.”

  “And now we have the insults out of the way …” Peter chuckled. “Well, I suppose we’d better save your friend’s phone bill while we can or his bitterness with his new lodger will reach epic proportions. Bitter, baleful, belligerent.”

  “More like passionately disappointed,” Fletch said.

  Silence again. Then, “Who calls whom next week?”

  “I’ll call you, probably from Colorado.”

  “My son, the traveling Special Agent,” Peter said with mock pride.

  “My father, the Idaho hardware man,” Fletch replied fondly.

  Peter wasn’t going to let him get away with it this time. “And restaurateur!”

  Fletch hung up, laughing. Within moments, the phone rang again. Albert was still outside, so Fletcher answered it. “Hello.”

  “It’s Mac - McIntyre. I was hoping I’d catch you, Fletch. You’re not heading off home again are you?”

  “No, but I should be. Why?”

  “I was reading some of the old newspaper clippings, and there was a missing person case back in 1976 that rang a bell. This youngster was seen talking to a man in a flash car the afternoon he disappeared, and I remembered you describing -” Mac got to the point: “I should just read it out and let you decide.”

  “Okay. You’re thinking of Andrew Harmer in Colorado.”

  “Yes. This one was … let’s see, Darren Maxwell in Seattle. I can go through the files for any related material in the morning, if you think it’s worth it.”

  “Read it out, Mac.” And Fletch listened with that odd feeling in his heart that was both despair and elation. “Sounds like it might be our man,” he said when Mac finished. “I’ll be in to help you tomorrow.”

  “Good. And tell Albert I ate the bit of paper with his phone number. It’s not my fault the duty officer didn’t want to make the call for me. Said she’d disturbed him once already today, and didn’t want to risk twice.”

  Fletch laughed. “Okay, okay. See you bright and early.”

  “Early, anyway,” Mac offered before cutting the connection.

  The phone rang yet again while Albert was cooking dinner. He picked it up and held it to his ear with a hunched up shoulder so he could continue to chop a green pepper. “Sterne.” He listened for a long moment, said, “All right,” then hung up. “Headquarters,” he said.

  Fletcher, sitting on the other side of the counter watching Albert work, almost laughed at the thought of the duty officer having to risk calling Albert again despite all her efforts. But he sobered when he saw Albert’s rather pointed expression. This was going to be bad news. “What?”

  “Roberts left a message for you. They’ve found a fourth body, another boy.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  WASHINGTON DC

  APRIL 1983

  Fletcher was taking the news of this fourth death hard. He looked thoroughly miserable for a moment, and then ope
ned his mouth to ask a question.

  “Yes,” Albert said.

  A confused frown. “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, you may call Roberts. You’ve had the gall to make yourself at home in most other respects, Ash, I don’t know why you have this problem with using my telephone.”

  The young man had a wry twist to his mouth. “Allow me a few scruples. Inconsistent though they are.”