The Definitive Albert J. Sterne (6 page)

Ash said, “All right.” Silence for a few minutes. They turned off the highway and into a town that seemed set to resist the urban sprawl. “Albert’s in that good hand of cards.”

Thornton let out a laugh. “A wild card, maybe. Or a joker - and who’s the joke on?”

“He’s very good, you know that as well as I do. And he has a lot more direct experience than both of us put together.”

“God,” she groaned, “if we must. I suppose we must. I’ll talk to Washington again, see if he’s assigned to anything else right now. If not, we’ll ask him to hang around here for a few more days.”

“Great,” said Ash. “Thanks.”

“Well, if he doesn’t make you sorry for it, I  surely will.”

Andrew Harmer’s sisters were only eight and eleven years old. The youngest, sensing the mood of the adults, swung between silent sulks and tearful stubbornness. After a few minutes of this chaos, Caroline asked the police officer to take the children off to play somewhere.

But the older sister turned back at the door, gazed directly at Fletch. “I  thought you were bringing Drew home.”

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid Drew won’t be coming home,” Fletch said evenly.

“So where is he?” she persisted.

“He’s in heaven, child,” her mother said, impatient and upset in equal measure. “I  told you he’s in heaven now.”

The girl kept her eyes fixed on the young FBI man as if she expected a better answer from him. Fletch shrugged mentally. There were too many other toes he’d be stepping on. “Drew is in heaven,” he repeated, willing himself and the girl to believe it. “He’s happy there.”

Then the children were gone. The five adults remaining waited in silence for a long moment, no one willing to begin this. Caroline and Fletch were on a two-seater, facing Mr and Mrs Harmer on a matching sofa. A tray of coffee makings sat neglected on the table between them. Albert was behind Fletch, sitting at the dining table, with strict instructions from Caroline to be seen and not heard unless he had some particularly useful question. The bereaved parents ignored his stony face.

Caroline at last moved to pour them each coffee. In the bustle of milk and sugar it seemed easier for her to say, “I  know this has been truly terrible for you but we have to ask you some more questions.”

The mother said, “I thought it would be a relief, to finally know one way or the other. But to think of the things you told us last night  …” She trailed off, and seemed to be waiting for someone to deny what had happened.

“I know,” Caroline said as gently as she could, “it’s the worst news we could bring you. But it’s better coming from us than the lies they’ll put in the papers.”

“To think of the pain Drew went through, the shame of it.” Her gaze was direct but Mrs Harmer seemed unaware that she was wringing her hands as she spoke, wringing them over and over each other. “It’s worse than not knowing, it’s worse, and I thought it would be better. I’d rather imagine he ran away, though that would be - I  shouldn’t be thinking of my own feelings, but I can’t help wishing, if he had to die, it could have been cleaner. For his sake, of course, for his own sake.”

“The first thing I have to ask you,” Caroline said, “is whether you have any idea who might have done this thing.”

It seemed that this was the final outrage. Her hands tightened into fists. “Are you saying this monster could have been someone we
knew
? That Drew knew? That he endured all that at the hands of a
friend
?”

“An acquaintance, perhaps,” Fletcher said. “Someone he’d met, even felt comfortable with.”

“I have no idea how we can help you. We don’t know any perverts like that.”

“You often don’t know with these people,” Caroline said softly. “You often can’t see it until you have the benefit of hindsight.”

“His eyes on Drew,” the mother was saying distractedly, “my poor boy suffering under the eyes of this inhuman monster. The shame he must have felt.”

Caroline said, “It’s over now. No more pain, and Drew had nothing to be ashamed of. We need to talk to you, to his friends, try to work out who did this. Try to stop him before he does it again. Can we ask you some questions, Mrs Harmer? Mr Harmer?”

“But we went through everything with the cops when Drew disappeared.”

“I know, and I’ve read the paperwork. But maybe we can jog a memory that might not have seemed relevant at the time.”

The father said with a frail calm, “The cops didn’t care back then - you know how many people go missing each year? It’s a wonder there’s anyone in the State who’s
not
missing from somewhere.”

The questions took almost an hour. Had Drew been planning on meeting up with a man for the evening? Going away for the weekend? Going on a trip, or camping, or hiking? Had he mentioned any new friends or acquaintances? Someone he was afraid of, didn’t trust, felt uneasy with? A man who might have made sexual advances? Who’d made offers of work or money? Who owned a four-wheel-drive vehicle? An outdoors man? Someone who was built large and strong? But neither of Drew’s parents could think of anything new.

“We saw a great deal of him, he was always bringing his laundry, expecting to be fed,” Mr Harmer said. “He’d catch the bus down, then want to be driven back to town. But he didn’t talk much about his friends. There was a boy he roomed with at college, Scott. You should give him the third degree. They were close as thieves.”

Albert spoke up. “What happened to his belongings?”

“It’s all here. We’d hoped - of course, we wanted him to walk in that door again one day.”

Caroline asked, “Would you mind if Agent Ash and Mr Sterne had a look? There may be something useful.”

Drew’s remaining possessions were in boxes at the back of the garage. Fletch thanked Mr Harmer, who lingered, perhaps mulling over the hopes that had now been thwarted. Eventually, Harmer said, “It might be six months ago for you, and for Drew. But it was yesterday for us.”

“And it will take time,” Fletch agreed. The FBI men waited in silence. When Drew’s father finally left, Fletch opened the nearest carton.

There wasn’t much to show for a life. As he and Albert worked through the record albums and the school books, Ash wondered if his own possessions would betray as little to an observer. Surely not. Drew’s records were a range of Top  40 disposable pop, the subjects he studied a basic mix of math and accounting and economics, the notebooks and lecture pads carefully devoid of doodles, the three magazines all cars and hot rods, the few pieces of fiction dog-eared student issues of Austen, Melville and Shakespeare.

“Do you get the feeling,” Fletch asked Albert, “this is all a little too bland? Very safe.”

“Not everyone has such wide-ranging interests as you,” Albert said sarcastically, flipping through another lecture pad. “Did you expect this place,” and he tipped his chin towards the house, “to produce anything more flamboyant?”

“Maybe young Drew hadn’t found himself yet.”

“If you must use clichés. It’s more likely he was simply as bland as these things indicate - after all, he was studying to become an accountant.”

“I have an accounting degree.” Fletcher faced the sardonic lift of an eyebrow, and smiled. “It used to be a requirement to become a special agent.”

“I suppose you had to fill in the time until you turned twenty-three somehow.”

“Yes. I went on to an arts degree in English, American and Russian literature.”

“Spare me the banal details of your life, Ash.” He turned away to the next box. “Pity the child was too boring to keep a journal or diary. Learned all about double entry bookkeeping today, he’d write. Drank my first cup of tea this evening - what would mother think?”

“Now who’s descending into clichés and stereotypes? If you must insult a dead boy, you might as well say something original or witty.”

Albert stared at him, furious. Fletch returned the gaze easily. But apparently it was not worth Albert’s time and trouble to brawl with him - the forensics man turned away, adjusting the cloak of his dignity, and began working through the last carton.

For a few minutes, while Albert Sterne was absorbed in the task, Fletcher watched him. The man and his manner could be really ugly. And of course there was nothing to be done about the features of his face, which were each too bold, and didn’t quite belong together, as if Albert were a botched Photo-FIT picture. The habitual expression of passionate indifference didn’t suit him - but surprise or provoke him, and the dark brown eyes kindled into a beautiful intensity. The man had sensibilities, certainly, though they were heavily guarded from all, including himself.

As for the things more directly under Albert’s control, they were a strange mixture of style and quality and severity. His hair was a very practical crew cut, which wasn’t attractive, but Fletch couldn’t imagine him wearing a longer style. His suits were understated and perfectly fitted and, Fletch suspected, not bought off the rack; while they were in strict accordance with Hoover’s old dictates, they were of good material and pleasing color. The shirts and shoes were functional, the ties were subtle; though they were fine percale, leather and silk respectively. Albert appeared to appreciate comfort, but Fletch could read little vanity in him.

“I always suspected you couldn’t perform more than one task at a time, Ash. Perhaps you should sit down while you have a little think. It might be safer.”

Fletcher smiled. “Do you want to take any of Drew’s things?”

“There’s no point. But you can tell them not to dispose of them yet.”

“Okay, that’s sensible.”

Albert looked a tad offended. “I’m so glad it occurred to you that I do make sense occasionally.”

“I suppose we should go in.” But Fletch didn’t move, though he knew Caroline would be expecting him.

“All this tawdry grief makes you feel fragile, does it?”

“I  … empathize too much. My mother died. I  suppose that every time I witness someone else’s grief, I  feel my own.”

“How self-indulgent. It’s a wonder you can even function.”

Fletcher stared at him. “I hope you’re speaking from personal experience.”

“My parents were murdered when I was five. I was the one who found them.”

“And if you can survive it  -”

“Anyone can. Yes.”

“You’re a hard man, Albert Sterne. Did you never let yourself grieve?”

For the briefest of moments, Albert flinched away from him, a potent flash of loss and rage in his eyes. But it was over so quickly, the mask was back so perfectly in place, that Fletcher wondered if he hadn’t imagined the reaction, the sudden excess of a child’s need.

Albert said, “You’re wasting time with this trivial chatter.”

Caroline had joined them, looking weary. “They wanted me to go over it again. It’s hard to know where to draw the line, how to tell them about Drew without burdening them with the ghastly details.”

“You poor thing. How are they doing?”

“How do you think? But his mother said that if she’s going to have nightmares, they may as well be about what really happened. I  think she thought she was capable of imagining something worse.”

Albert snorted. “Imagination is the last thing these people suffer from.”

Thornton looked at him, eyes narrow, but she addressed Ash. “Doesn’t it seem awful to you that we build our careers on all this death?”

“We’re making a career of catching criminals, Caroline.” He looked away from his two companions. This was something he had to regularly remind himself of, and something guaranteed to provoke Albert’s impatience.

“I know - really, I know intellectually that it’s the offender alone who’s responsible for the deaths. Emotionally is another matter.”

“Are we trapped in a soap opera,” Albert Sterne asked, “or can we get on with the job without the histrionics?”

“Have you finished out here?” Caroline asked Fletch.

“Yes, for now.”

“Then let’s say our farewells. I’ve invited the two of us along to the funeral - I’m sure Mr Sterne will be far too busy to attend.”

“If I can trust you to keep an eye on who else is attending, I  won’t need to go.”

“You can trust us,” Fletch said, before Thornton could retort. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“You drew the short straw again,” Albert observed as Fletcher walked up to him in the foyer of the Bureau offices.

“No, I simply volunteered to take you with me to visit Drew’s roommate. Caroline was so glad to be rid of us both, she said we could use her car.”