The Definitive Albert J. Sterne (39 page)

Acknowledging this with a lift of his chin, Lachance said, “How do you have your coffee?”

“Black, no sugar.” Then Fletch wondered if he should have said
no milk
instead.

Lachance laughed at his expression. “Don’t be afraid of the word,” he advised. A  few moments passed while Lachance made two cups of coffee, then he continued, “I’m not paranoid about being forever victimized, Special Agent. But these two issues of race and sexuality are something I identify with very publicly, and they are issues guaranteed to generate reactions, both positive and negative. No, not everything comes down to me being black and gay - people also dislike me because I’m a Democrat and a feminist, for instance - but those are the issues that have aggravated people most in the past, and I see few signs of growing acceptance from some groups.”

“Yet other groups are, of course, sympathetic to your honesty on these matters.”

“Yes.” Lachance frowned at him. “If you’re suggesting this might win me a few votes of sympathy, I  won’t argue. But I could also easily lose people who are scared by this violence and don’t want me to provoke any other incidents; I  could lose people who see me as making political mileage out of this; and once the papers begin exploring the notion that this incident was staged by my own people, then I could lose the whole game because mud sticks whether it’s deserved or not.”

“Isn’t that overreacting?”

“No, Agent Ash. I can’t and won’t tell you how to do your job, but you might keep these things in mind when the media come begging you for dramatic sound bites.”

“I won’t be making any comments to the press,” Fletcher said. “Can you tell me what you’ve lost as a result of the fire? What was in those offices?”

“My records, on paper and computer - they’ll probably be the greatest loss. Office equipment and furniture. Publicity posters and hand-outs. My staff’s time and energy. They’d just put together a mail-out package for every household in Denver, and now it’s all destroyed. There’s no way we’ll be able to replace that in time to be effective.”

Fletcher was pleased to note that tallied with Hogan’s estimates. He asked, “If it was deliberate, are there specific people you suspect? Individuals or groups?”

Lachance considered this for a long moment. “I’ll tell you something I didn’t tell the police - I  wouldn’t name names to them. There’s no one I have any evidence against, no one I have any good hard reason for you to investigate. But I have a couple of hunches, I  have my suspicions of who might be involved, or at least who might know better than I do. They might be people you’re aware of yourself, people who’ve been militant in promoting their beliefs, which don’t accord with mine. I  don’t tell you this lightly because I don’t want any false accusations made or repeated to others. But if you could quietly look around in those directions, I’d appreciate it.”

“No promises, but name me some names.”

“Come back to the living room. My people will be dispersing soon - except for Lucy, she’s nominated herself security after last night - but we’ll talk about this in peace. This should be as confidential as possible.”

“All right,” Fletcher said, and followed the man. Was this where it would all get sordid and difficult? He hoped not, because he found himself liking Xavier Lachance, perhaps liking him a lot more than he should.

Almost midnight, and the house was quiet, though it still looked chaotic. Lucy, concerned with Lachance’s security, had retired to a bedroom on the first floor. Names had been given, and Fletcher was relieved: there were well-reasoned arguments for Lachance’s few suspicions, and there appeared to be logic and insight, rather than vindictiveness, in his approach. “These are just ideas of mine,” Xavier said again in conclusion. “I  hope nothing comes of it, I  hope it was all an accident, but if not  …”

“I still won’t make any promises,” Fletcher replied, “but I may be able to look around.”

“That’s fine.” The man smiled, for the first time in an hour or so. “Another coffee?”

They stood silent in the kitchen as the jug heated, Fletch contemplating this man he was with. Francis Xavier Lachance had proved himself intelligent and sharp and a fair judge of character throughout the day, whether he was talking to his people or his potential voters or Fletcher. He was manipulative, yes, and took advantage of opportunity, but so far at least, it seemed all for the sake of a political agenda Fletcher couldn’t help but sympathize with. No doubt Lachance would make a clever and successful and stylish mayor, no doubt he would achieve a great deal in office. Added to which he was, as Caroline had warned, very persuasive. His sincerity and humor, his openness and energy were almost as seductive as his beauty.

Caught staring at the man, as Xavier was recalled from his own contemplations by the jug boiling, Fletcher smiled. “I  was thinking your campaign shots should be taken from this angle.”

“I’m supposed to look them directly in the eye, be honest and bold and unafraid. Staring off to the side would appear haughty at best.”

“But you have the most exquisite profile.” He said it matter-of-factly, then continued with more enthusiasm when Lachance merely raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Such a finely shaped skull and that lovely up-turned nose.”

Xavier suddenly turned foreboding. “No one mentions my nose and lives.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Fletch protested, taking the proffered cup of coffee. “Thank you.”

“It doesn’t look gorgeous in the mirror, and certainly not in the photos.”

“All right, maybe it isn’t the greatest from the front, maybe you don’t photograph well, but from this perspective  -” He grinned, rather than provide another superlative. “Anyway, it’s part of your racial heritage.”

“I can be proud of my heritage without liking every little detail. How do you feel about the pale skin that’s part of your heritage? What is it - British? Proud, but you just hate looking like a lobster when you catch too much sun.”

“Irish-American, and I take your point, though I won’t change my mind.”

Lachance looked at him, musing. “Are you in the habit of paying compliments to other men on their appearance?”

“Not really.”
Only Albert, and he doesn’t care.

“You know I’m gay.”

“Yeah, I know,” Fletcher said softly. “It’s on your file, along with your home address. I  know your birthday, and your mother’s maiden name, and where you went last time you were out of the country.”

Lachance grinned. “How fascinating for you.”

“Well, you’ve piqued my curiosity.”

“Oh yes?” The voice that had reached every corner of the mall that afternoon was now quiet, and as rich as brocade, laced with unmistakable sensuality. “How did I do that? Politically?”

“You know FBI agents can’t show an interest in politics,” Fletch murmured.

“Sexually?”

Fletch laughed, surprised at the man’s boldness. Delighted, too, if he were honest. He said, “You know FBI agents are all straight. We’re not even promiscuous.”

“How, then?”

“What was the fire intended to hide, Xavier?”

This time it was Lachance who was taken unawares by Ash’s boldness, though his expression was quickly schooled into mild amusement. “I  knew you’d get around to accusing me of setting fire to my own offices. Sure, you have to explore every avenue but you obviously have no idea what trouble it will be to reconstruct those records, replace the furniture, virtually start over with the publicity campaign  … You think my records showed something incriminating?”

“I have to consider every possibility.”

Lachance smiled, his mood returning to the playful sensuality already. It seemed that either his conscience was easy or he was a very smooth and skilful actor. “Agent Ash, you know what I think?”

“No, what do you think?” Difficult not to respond warmly to this man who hadn’t taken offence at being accused, whether it was true or not.

“I think the Bureau sent me the right person for the job. We need a suspicious and creative and open mind like yours.”

“I suppose I should feel flattered.”

“Oh yes. But I am definitely in the habit of paying compliments to other men. Especially ones I find attractive.”

For the moment, Fletcher couldn’t think of how to respond. He was too busy becoming conscious of an arousal he’d been ignoring all evening.

“Especially,” Xavier continued, “when I suspect the attraction is mutual.”

Oh yes
, Fletch silently cried in triumph. But he said, very formally, “Mr Lachance, perhaps you’ve misread me.”

“I don’t think so.” Manner still easy and unoffended.

“Then perhaps you’d do me the courtesy of taking the hint and pretending you’ve misread me.”

“I don’t think you really want either of us to pretend.”

“This relationship must remain strictly business.”

“But it hasn’t been strictly business, has it? From the first, you liked me, you liked what I was saying in the mall, you’re curious about me, and I like you, too.”

“I should leave now. I’ll meet with you tomorrow. Lucy gave me your schedule.”

“I’m only interested in seducing your body, Agent Ash, not your objectivity. I’m perfectly happy for you to remain as suspicious of me as you feel necessary. This is sex, or I hope it will be, and the fire is business and never the twain shall meet.”

Fletcher grinned weakly. “I thought I was naïve  …”

“Do you always run away when another man propositions you?”

“That’s an impossible question for me to answer under the circumstances.”

“We both have an interest in keeping this secret. You can afford to be honest with me.”

“You’re openly gay,” Fletch protested. “You have nothing to hide.”

“But it’s still not politically expedient for me to have an active sex life. And definitely not a casual one, especially with a fine upstanding FBI agent. The scandal would hurt both of us. This is just between you and me, I  promise.”

“And you don’t break your promises.” Fletch sighed. “All right. I  admit I’m attracted to you. But it would be the most impossible relationship. There are so many reasons not to do it.”

“But let’s do it anyway. Stay the night here, and then we’ll see what happens next.”

Impossible. The Bureau’s Thou Shalt Nots; Albert’s love and trust; this case in which Lachance was suspected of at least a hidden agenda; Fletcher’s serial killer case that deserved all his spare attention. But Fletcher began laughing helplessly. “I  make it a rule to only get involved with the most impossible people. And you are that.”

“I am that,” Lachance murmured. He walked over to stand in front of Fletcher, placed a hand on the kitchen bench either side of Fletcher’s hips so that he was trapped, kissed Fletch before he could draw breath to protest. The kiss was passionate, full of promise. And when Lachance raised his head, he laughed happily. “This is going to be so good,” he said.

Albert never laughed, let alone joyously like that. Fletcher’s heart soared, leaving the doubt behind. Yes, this was going to be damned good.

Getting to the bedroom was a haphazard dance, a maddened kiss interrupted for nothing but the necessities of shedding their own and each other’s clothes. Fletcher’s only moments of sense were while safely disposing of his holster and gun, wallet and credentials within sight by the bed, rather than letting Xavier dump them in the hallway. This was glorious. Being undressed by Albert was more like having a personal valet.

Xavier hauled Fletch into a close embrace, tumbled them onto the bed. Perhaps Fletch would have preferred to pause for a moment or two, drink in the sight of this new lover now that he was naked; but they were moving, Xavier over him, encouraging him to match and better Xavier’s thrusts. Fletch had done this with Albert so many times: frottage, fire generating fire, skin against silken skin, so direct and simple. Yet Albert choreographed it beautifully, with endless subtle and mysterious variations on a lovely theme. Xavier was careless and joyful energy, often imperfect, but wonderful nevertheless.

Reaching their mutual goal required effort. There was none of Albert’s expertise which would inspire Fletcher’s nerve endings to delirium with or without Fletch’s own input. From the first, Albert had seemed to know by instinct exactly how to make Fletcher feel better than he’d ever thought possible. A combination of exact biological knowledge and Albert’s brand of driven perfection, and maybe some small proof that they had something unique between them  …

This orgasm, while incited by beauty and boundless enthusiasm, needed effort and cooperation - but it was an orgasm, after all, as nice as orgasms always were. Nothing to be ungrateful for. And, judging by Xavier’s cries, he seemed to enjoy his just as much.