The Definitive Albert J. Sterne

by Julie Bozza

  “Love you anyway,” Fletcher said.

  Of course there was no response. Albert, busy serving dinner onto two of Fletcher’s mismatched plates, might not even have heard him. As they carried their plates and cutlery over to the table, Albert said, “I believe it would be useful for us to review the current status of the case this weekend, determine what evidence we do and do not have, then plan our next few months accordingly.”

  “All right.”

  As they began eating, Albert continued, “Better use might be made of McIntyre and Mortimer.”

  “Really? I never thought I’d hear you say that.”

  “At this juncture, they are better than no resources at all.”

  Fletcher smiled at the man. “Thanks, Albert.”

  A pointed stare. “There is no cause to thank me.”

  “Yes, there is. Apart from you being fairer to our friends, your phone call from Seattle made me realize a few things. I didn’t believe at first but once I began hauling all these boxes of files around, I found some motivation again. I actually began looking forward to doing this.”

  The man seemed indifferent. His attention remained on his meal and once Fletcher had grown silent, Albert began to talk about the serial killer again. Surely friendship was behind that long, late night phone call and also behind this weekend - Fletcher still relied on that friendship but Albert seemed determined not to allow Fletch to take any joy from it.

  Midnight, after four solid hours poring over files and reports, pushing his brain to distil the essential facts of these cases. But Fletcher was glad of the challenge, enjoying the process, even beginning to believe again that they might solve this. There was so much information, too much for them to realistically deal with - though surely the answer was amongst it all, camouflaged and innocuous until the right facts were linked together.

  But there were also other things on Fletcher’s mind tonight. “It’s late. Let’s go to bed, love.”

  Albert took a moment to finish the page he was reading and make a neat notation, but then he obediently stood and headed for the bedroom. Silence while they undressed, took turns in the bathroom, switched off the lights, and climbed into bed. Albert was lying on his back, not touching Fletcher, eyes closed as if already prepared for sleep.

  “I have something to tell you,” Fletch said. He was on his side, propped up on an elbow.

  It was difficult to see Albert’s face in the darkness, but he seemed impassive. “What?” he prompted after a while.

  “I’m all yours again, if you’ll have me.”

  A long uninterested silence, with no visible reaction from the man. At last Albert said, “I take it you’ve decided to make do with second best.”

  Fletch could hardly read resentment or jealousy into the words when they were pronounced so flatly. “You were never second best and you know it.”

  “Don’t patronize me.”

  “You were right - about politics, I mean. Xavier made it abundantly clear to me that I wouldn’t fit in. He was quite cruel about it but I think that was deliberate, I think he was trying to do the best thing for me.”

  “I’m not interested in the detail.”

  “So I’ve called it quits with him.”

  “Am I supposed to care?”

  “Of course you care,” Fletcher muttered. Then he continued, “Albert, I was wrong about politics, about working with Xavier, I admit that. But I wasn’t wrong to have an affair. I love you, I really do love you and you’re my best friend, but there are things missing between us. Can’t we work that out? I don’t want to have to go elsewhere to fill in the gaps.”

  Albert opened his eyes and glared at Fletch, before staring up at the ceiling. “Don’t waste your breath on threats. I am not interested in your fidelity or lack thereof.”

  “But you are, Albert. You were hurt by my lack thereof.”

  “There is no point in discussing this further.”

  “There is a point, a very important point. I don’t regret Xavier but if you and I could work things out between us, I reckon we’d have something pretty wonderful. Something far more wonderful than I could have had with him. I need more from you, Albert. I need your passion.”

  “I have none to give you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, of course you have passion. Bucket-loads of passion.”

  Albert’s stare become even more fixed and cold. “If I did, I wouldn’t trust you with it. There is no point in discussing this further.”

  Fletcher took a long breath and sighed it out, briefly wondering at his own dogged certainty of this man. “We obviously have our share of troubles, Albert. But you were really starting to make an effort to strengthen the connection between us that weekend we spent up in the mountains, before I told you about Xavier. You were trying to make things work between us, not just to maintain our connection but improve it. You came here to Colorado for a start, you were trying to communicate with me, you were sharing the things I like to do. Even now you’re making an effort: you were concerned enough with my sanity to come here again, to help me with the case, to plan for us to work together on it -”

  “I’m ineligible for sainthood, Ash.”

  “Listen to me, this is important.”

  The man grimaced, impatient, and closed his eyes again.

  “If we both try a little harder, surely - If you were willing to make that much effort, won’t you keep trying now?”

  “You have obviously misread me. I certainly don’t intend to pretend this relationship is something it’s not.”

  “Something it’s not? I don’t understand.”

  “I do not consider you worthy of any further effort, Ash, if in fact that’s what I was doing. And this weekend’s work is a result of my concern with the serial killer rather than with you.”

  “You say you’re unwilling to trust me. But, as long as we begin making progress again, I’m perfectly prepared to promise that I won’t be unfaithful again. I’ll promise you anything within reason.”

  “I’ve already told you I’m not interested. And it would be a worthless promise anyway.”

  Fletcher almost growled in frustration. He sat up cross-legged, and buried his face in his hands. “Does this have to be so damned difficult?”

  And in a very small but decisive voice, Albert said, “Yes.”

  An admission of sorts. After a moment of consideration, Fletcher said, “I know you have to swallow your pride, Albert, to take me back on the same understanding that we had.”

  “I don’t recall that we had any understanding.”

  Fletcher did growl then. When he had words again, he continued, “Of course we did. You can’t have it both ways, Albert - either this is a marriage and you can’t forgive me for being unfaithful, which is certainly how you’re acting, or there’s no requirement for fidelity, in which case you should let us get on with our relationship instead of putting us through this.”

  No reply, though the expression was disturbed and bitter.

  “All right, you have every right to put me through the emotional wringer. But what we have is worth it. Let’s get through all the trouble. Let’s cut through it all now.”

  “You can’t manipulate me like that.”

  “I’m not -”

  “Yes, you are, and I’m sure it would work on anyone else. You’re saying, in so many words, let’s rise above the petty jealousy, how noble it would be for me to welcome you back and pretend nothing happened. But I’m not the hero in one of your romance novels, so it won’t work on me.”

  This man is impossible! The thought was fuelled by frustrated anger but then Fletcher almost laughed. Surely it meant something that, while Albert was the most unfeasible in a long line of impossible relationships, they had lasted together far longer than anyone else Fletcher had had an affair with. He said, “The core of all this is that we’re important to each other, we value each other, we’re friends. We’re still not calling it quits, are we? So we may as well try to make it work.”


  “It is working,” Albert said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Albert was moving, sitting up, kneeling in front of Fletcher, bending to kiss him. The fingers wove through his hair, tilting his head back, and the tongue sought entry, which Fletcher surrendered with a moan. He swayed for a moment, caught his balance with his hands at Albert’s waist.

  But when one of Albert’s hands drifted to Fletcher’s chest, began to tease a nipple, Fletch broke the kiss. “How can you do this? How can the sex mean so little to you?”

  “What should it mean?”

  “Between us, something wonderful. You’re so cold-blooded, trying to seduce me like this when I’m talking to you. Like when we were up in the mountains.”

  The man was, surprisingly enough, persevering. His hands were gently stroking the inside of Fletcher’s thighs, drawing nearer to his genitals with each sweep. And they were so low, it was almost as if Albert was promising to touch him … there. Fletcher shivered.

  “You’ve made your point,” Fletcher said, grabbing both hands in his own. “You know all my buttons and which ones to push in what sequence. What else are you trying to tell me? That our relationship is nothing but sex and therefore it doesn’t matter if I’m unfaithful?” He added wistfully, “Am I just a convenient way for you to get your rocks off?”

  “Convenient is hardly the word I would use.”

  Fletcher looked at him, and sighed. “Not tonight, all right? Give me some time, Albert.”

  And Albert, even though Fletcher could see that he had an eager erection, drew away immediately.

  “We could have everything, if you were willing to try,” Fletcher said, resentful. “If you were willing to give me a little more of your true self.”

  No reply. Albert settled himself on the other side of the bed, back to Fletcher.

  “How do you repress that much of yourself?”

  “Go to sleep, Ash.”

  “Am I ever going to get through to you?”

  “No. Go to sleep.”

  “So this is all we’ll ever have.” Fletcher sighed, neglected to say goodnight. They lay there, not touching, both wide awake. Fletcher closed his eyes, hopeless …

  And was spinning into blue nothingness; weightless, lost, terrified.

  He blinked awake with a soft protest. Maybe only a moment had passed, maybe hours. Albert was turning towards him, barely hinting at an offer of their usual embrace, but Fletcher could read him. And he tried to put his fear and frustration and annoyance aside, and he let Albert hold him. Fletcher figured that if he could put aside all their disagreements and impossible prospects for happiness, lying back in Albert’s arms might feel like coming home.

  Though somehow that made it worse, because Albert was sure enough and determined enough to allow Fletcher this much and this much only. It all seemed so damned futile, with only the comfort of an embrace to set against the bleak future.

  With the minimum of words exchanged, Fletcher and Albert began work again in the morning. The motivation Fletcher had found over the last few days now evaporated, the moments of euphoria proved as insubstantial as mist, and he simply didn’t have the energy or inclination to manufacture more. But this case was important, and if there was one lesson he could learn from Albert, it was the value of deciding on a priority, then grimly putting the time in to meet it, no matter what. It would be worse than counterproductive to let his personal disappointments get in the way of catching this killer.

  The phone rang, and for once, Fletcher didn’t have to search for it - he’d made a couple of calls relating to the case and the phone was perched precariously on a pile of papers in front of him. Expecting this to be work, he said in a formal but distracted voice, “Hello, Fletcher Ash here.”

  “Happy birthday, Fletcher.”

  He grimaced, wholly unprepared for a civilized personal conversation. “Thanks, Dad. I’d forgotten what day it was.”

  “Forgotten your own birthday?”

  “Yes, forgotten my own birthday,” Fletch repeated with a touch of impatience. Trying harder, he asked, “How are you?”

  “We’re all fine up here and business is good. Harley and Beth said to tell you they’d call this evening, once the dinner crowd have gone, if you’re going to be home.”

  “Yes, that’s fine, I’ll look forward to it.”

  “What are you doing to celebrate?”

  “Nothing much. Albert is up for the weekend but we’re just working on a case.”

  “Working at home? That must be the old murder case you’re spending your spare time on. Don’t you have better things to do on your birthday?”

  “Not really.” Fletcher sighed. Peter wouldn’t understand because he didn’t know anything about the case, about Fletcher missing the 1982 and 1984 deadlines that the killer had set. He wasn’t going to miss 1986. Peter also didn’t know about the mess of his son’s personal life. Instead of an explanation, Fletch offered, “Albert will no doubt cook me yet another delicious meal tonight.”

  “That’s good. Any presents? That shirt he sent at Christmas was beautiful.”

  “No,” Fletch replied, looking directly at his lover, “no more blue silk shirts.” Albert, perfectly able to hear at least this side of the conversation, did not react. Fletcher, though he didn’t really feel like being fair, continued, “However, Albert did try to recreate the DNA identification process for me.”

  A brief pause. “That means something to you, does it?”

  “Yeah, actually it means a lot.”

  A longer pause. “Fletcher, you’re sounding unhappier than ever.”

  “I’m all right, Dad.” Though they both knew that was a lie, and that there was nothing Peter could do anyway. Staring pointedly at Albert again, Fletcher said to his father, “Go on - do it with impossible.”

  “Impossible, inconceivable, insuperable. Unimaginable, unattainable, unworkable.”

  “You’ve still got it, old man,” Fletch said, though his laugh was bitter. “I’d better get on with it, all right?”

  “All right. I hope your thirty-fourth year is happier and even more productive than your thirty-third.”

  “Thanks, Dad, I hope so, too. Talk to you next week.” And Fletch hung up the phone.

  A silence stretched until it became clear that Albert did not intend to provide any good wishes for Fletcher’s birthday. And he must have known all along what day it was, anyway, without the prompt of Peter’s call. So be it, Fletcher thought, if that’s the way you want it, you cold-blooded bastard.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  WASHINGTON DC

  AUGUST 1985

  Albert was waiting outside Jefferson’s office, ready to submit his weekly report of tasks on hand, when he heard something heavy fall to the floor inside and then a second, lighter crash. Jefferson’s secretary apparently heard it, too, for she glanced at the door and then fearfully at Albert, as if wondering whether she had the nerve to investigate.

  Having already decided to do so in the absence of anyone more appropriate, Albert stood and opened the door. He’d interpreted the noises correctly: Jefferson was on the floor behind the desk, one hand clutching the telephone receiver, the other knotted at his chest, mouth open as if gasping for air; his chair had rolled back into the bookcase. Albert said to the secretary, even as he was walking to Jefferson and kneeling beside him, “Call an ambulance; suspected heart attack. Then clear it with security and get rid of this call.”

  The secretary, who hadn’t ventured further than the doorway, withdrew to hopefully carry out the brusque instructions.

  Establishing that there was a rapid and arrhythmic heartbeat but no breathing, Albert rolled Jefferson onto his back, checked his airway was clear, and began administering artificial respiration.

  The secretary returned to hover in the open doorway just as Jefferson began breathing for himself again. “What’s wrong with him?” she asked, apparently unwilling to come closer. “Is he all right?”

 
“He’s alive,” Albert said curtly, not taking his gaze off this unexpected and unwanted patient he’d acquired. He waited for a moment to ensure respiration would continue before rolling Jefferson onto his side and into the recovery position. The man seemed to be in a great deal of pain but there was nothing more to be done for him right now. Albert remained crouched, fingers on the pulse in Jefferson’s neck, and said, “I’ll monitor his condition. You keep the curious out of the way and make sure the medics can get through.”

  “Okay,” she said, and backed away.