The Killing Edge (11 page)

“Where's the harbormaster now?”

“Bennie works in Florida on the off season, but he'll be back in March to get the boats ready for the water.”

Herb Strickland slid his bulk back on the stool. “I think we had better eat, L.C. I've had four and Toby usually only lets me have two.”

“Herb, do you remember anything about a man they called the Beast? Crewed for someone last summer.”

“Can't say I do. How about bay scallops, L.C.?”

“You musta seen him, Mr. Strickland,” Steve said. “Big guy, over six and a half feet, musta gone over 250. He was always walking around wearing a warm-up jacket.”

“Probably a student working for the summer.”

“Nope. Too old. Musta been near thirty.”

“Who was he working for?”

“I don't know,” Steve said as a waitress brought an order to the service section of the bar. “I never get out on the dock. You can check with the harbormaster when he comes back in the spring.”

“Great,” L.C. said. “Wait a minute. There must be something more you can remember about the man. The jacket he wore, did it have any lettering on the back? Try and picture it.”

Steve paused with a cocktail shaker held over his head. “Wait a minute.… Yeah, Middleburg College Athletic Department. That's what was on the jacket.”

“Would you mind, Herb? I don't think I'm hungry after all.”

Middleburg College was near the Massachusetts border fifty miles from Lantern City. It was called little Ivy, like several other smaller New England colleges. L.C. drove slowly through the campus until she found a parking space in front of the library.

Seven years ago, Stanley “The Beast” Peckham had played right tackle on the Middleburg football team. She stared down at the yearbook picture and tried to imagine what seven years and thirty pounds might have done to Stanley's appearance.

The graying clerk with the pointed face shook her head as she glanced down at the card in her hand.

“Surely the alumni office must have some address for Mr. Peckham?” L.C. asked.

“You can look for yourself, dear.” The alumni office clerk placed the file card on the counter. Three addresses on the card had been crossed off, the last with a notation that mail had been returned with no forwarding address.

She walked slowly down the stone steps in front of the building. The turning of the day as clouds dissipated under the glare of a warm winter's sun only seemed to increase her depression. Couples in pea jackets and duffle coats walked hand in hand along the cleared walks. The campus walks seemed filled with students moving slowly in the sun as if they'd recently been entombed and were now released. Watching them made L.C. very lonely.

She haphazardly walked through the campus at a loss for her next move. The yacht club harbormaster could provide a further lead. Surely he'd remember the boat that Stanley Peckham worked on—if she were able to wait until his return in March. By spring any existing evidence would surely have been obliterated. If she could find the harbormaster, talk to him by phone, just perhaps … she looked for her car, the similarity of the unfamiliar buildings confused her. She stopped a passing student, asked directions back to the library, and began to hurry.

As she turned a corner and saw the library ahead she found herself in front of the athletic building. It was by far the largest structure on the campus, and more than likely housed the gym, pools and offices of the staff.

She hurried toward the door of the athletic building.

Nick Giacomo was not a tall man, although his massive shoulders gave him a top-heavy appearance. He slouched in a desk chair with his hands behind his head as he tilted back against the wall. The bottom button of his shirt had popped open to reveal his navel. He waved her to a chair.

“What can I do for you?”

“I'm trying to locate Stanley Peckham who played on your football team seven years ago. They called him the Beast. Do you remember?”

“Beast? Hell, yes. Tough, but slow. Hit hard. When Beast hit them they stayed down.”

The office smelled of the locker room although she knew it was three floors removed. L.C. momentarily wondered about the similarity between football coaches and Marine generals, and, she thought ruefully, certain police officers. “Do you know where he is?”

“Try the alumni office.”

“I did. They've lost contact with him.”

“Not surprised. I'm sure they didn't try too hard after he got the boot.”

“Expelled?”

“Expelled, hell. Thrown out spring of his last year. Thank God it was after the season or I'da been in real trouble. Had a chick in his room and beat the daylights out of her when she wouldn't put … ah, cooperate. Not that he would have graduated anyway with his credits.”

“Then you don't know what happened to him?”

The chair plunked forward and Giacomo reached into the center drawer of his desk. She knew he'd extract a cigar and braced herself. “Beast played on the Giants' taxi squad for part of a season. When they dropped him he played with the Hartford Knights until they folded. That was his football career. He's tough, but just not fast enough for the pros.”

“Do you know where he might be working?”

“He kicked around, construction when that was good, then odd jobs. He was by here during the season.” He lit the cigar and it smelled as bad as she thought it would. “You know how it is with old football players. They don't fade away, they lurk around during the season. Came into the locker room after the last game with Trinity. What the hell did he say he was doing? Wait a minute, working as a bouncer at some dump in Hartford … a place with telephones.”

“Telephones?”

“That's all he said. I don't know why you want him, lady, but if I were you, I wouldn't go anywhere near him.”

She called Hartford from a pay phone at the Student Union building. Detective Sargeant Pat Pasquale had been a friend of her father's, and over the years had spent countless hours at the house, and even more fishing with her father.

“A bar with a lot of telephones, you say, Laura?”

“That's all I have, Pat. Do you know of such a place?”

“There is a place called the Hot Line, but you don't need that kind of action, honey.”

“You mean it's filled with hookers?”

“Semi-pro stuff. A singles bar, but you sit down in there and any guy in the joint assumes you've got a sign around your neck says you're available.”

“I'm only trying to locate someone, Pat.”

“Need help?”

“If I do, I'll call.”

“You do that, Laura. And take care.”

The Hot Line Lounge was located on the outskirts of the city, A large neon sign in the shape of a telephone was mounted on the roof and spasmodically blinked on and off. It was near eight when she entered the dim interior of the lounge and checked her coat. The blond hatcheck girl in tights accepted two dollars admission fee and surprised her by stamping the back of her hand with red ink.

“What's that for?” she asked.

“Case you want to pass in and out.”

A waiter led her to a table near the center of the main room and took her drink order. As her eyes adjusted to the dim lights she saw that only a few of the center tables were occupied by women, while men sat at a few tables against the walls on either side. The small dance floor and band stand were empty, and rock music came from amplifiers on either side of the small stage.

When the waiter returned with her drink he showed her the telephone in the center of the table.

“Each table's got a number, see. You're 22 like it says on the sign. You want to call another table, you just dial, see?”

“Yes, thank you. Can you tell me if Stanley Peckham still works here?”

“Who?”

“The Beast.”

“Beast, oh yeah. He comes on at eight. There's no action before then. He'll be here in a few minutes.”

She twirled the swivel stick in the weak drink and tried to picture again the yearbook she had peered at so intently that afternoon. The phone on the table rang and she looked at it quizzically. It rang again. She picked it up reluctantly.

“This 22?” the voice asked.

“Twenty-two? Table 22, yes.”

“I'm 17 over in the corner with red hair.”

She, turned to peer into the dim corner at the far edges of the room. A hand appeared out of the shadows and waved. “I don't think I'm really …”

“You can't see me clearly, baby. I'm down from Boston on business, got a pocketful of credit cards and I'm big where it …”

She hung up, her face flushed. It served her right, she thought. If you put yourself in a place like this you have to expect that sort of thing.

He loomed next to the table. His bulk blocked part of the small amount of light coming from the fixture nearest the table. When L.C. looked up at him she recognized a caricature of the man from the college yearbook. During the past seven years he had gained more weight than she would have expected.

“They said you were asking for me?” His voice was hostile.

“You're Stanley Peckham.”

“So?”

“I followed your career at Middleberg. I always liked linemen, the bigger the better. Will you have a drink?”

He looked down at her blankly a moment, then smiled and pulled out a chair. “Sure, why not. You saw me play, huh?”

“At college, and then later with the Hartford Knights. I never did see you play with the Giants.”

“Bastards never did use me.”

“They used to call you the Beast.”

“Still do. Though the only action I get here is throwing drunken salesmen out on their ass.”

“I don't imagine many fool with you.”

“Not many,” he laughed. “You know, the backfield is for la-di-das. It takes real guts to play the line and meet bone on bone. None of that fancy dancing.”

“That's what I always thought. You know, I come from Lantern City, and I could have sworn I saw you down there last summer.”

“I was there. Worked a boat for two, maybe three weeks until some bimbo got me in trouble. You know the kind, high society stuff thinks she's God's gift. Gave me the high sign, then when we started playing she started yelling.”

“I've always hated a tease.”

“Woulda been all right except the guy I was working for was jumping her.”

“Happens all the time,” L.C. said. “Somebody from Lantern City?”

“Who?”

“The man you worked for.”

“Yes and no. Had a great boat, you shoulda seen it, a sixty-five footer. He'd be away a lot, and I'd have the whole damn thing to myself. I lived it up good on that boat, let me tell you. Got a chick I picked up to take some pics of the thing, carpet a foot thick in the main cabin.”

“I'd like to have seen it. Who was the owner?”

The flesh seemed to puff under his eyes. “Why you want to know?

“Just curious, that's all.”

“That all?”

“Really, Stanley. I've been interested in your career for years, and that's why I asked.”

He looked at her levelly. “You married and playin' around?”

“No. My husband is dead.”

“I've got a lot of pictures. Not just the boat, but me suited up. Real action shots when I dump the quarterback, stuff like that.”

“I'd like to see them sometime.”

“How about now?”

“You have them here?”

“Upstairs. I got a room over this joint. I work here till closing so there's no noise during the day. Got me a room, a bottle and a scrapbook. Come on.”

She felt the pressure of his leg against hers. “Can you just leave like that?”

“It's quiet tonight, and as long as I punch out, they know where to find me when they need me.”

She didn't want to go. In fact, the last thing in the world she wanted was to be alone in an enclosed place with the man sitting across from her.

A red stain on the snow rose toward the apartment window as the sound of the shotgun reverberated across the river. Her father left the cruiser and walked across the macadam …

“All right, Beast. There's nothing in the world I'd like more than to see your pictures.”

It was an unbelievable apartment with the musty smell of a locker room. She had never seen so many comic books. They were piled in large heaps in all the corners, and spilled over an end table next to an easy chair. The bed was rumpled as if the sequel to the Trojan war had recently been reenacted. There was a small kitchen off to the side, and a magazine centerfold nailed to the wall.

“It has a lived-in look,” she said as he took her coat and threw it over the chair. He stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders. She felt his fingers tighten as he pulled back on her blouse. L.C. turned. “Wait a min.…”

His hand came up from her waist and caught her across the cheekbone. She tumbled across the room and sprawled over the bed.

Chapter Seven

Her head hurt with a dull throb. My God, he was going to kill her! She swung her feet off the bed and pushed herself erect. Her hands were held protectively across her face as he moved toward her.

“Stanley, please.” She fought unsuccessfully to keep hysteria from her voice.

“Take off your blouse. I want to see what you're so proud of.”

He seemed to loom over her like some ruttish animal and she was very frightened. He had beaten one woman at college, perhaps killed Mauve. She fought for control. “Hey, we'll have a good time. Take it easy.”

“Take the blouse off.”

“To music?”

“You some tease like that broad on the boat?”

With numb fingers she unbuttoned the blouse and slipped it off her shoulders. “O.K.?” It was her own damn fault. She shouldn't be here. Her own actions had placed her in this vulnerable position. “What do you want?”