The Killing Edge

by Forrest, Richard;

  Will ran forward, knelt for a moment beside the fallen man, and then stood slowly. He walked deliberately toward the officer holding the rifle, took it from his hands, and then swung his fist upward in a blow that caught Dave August under the chin.

  Someone was whimpering in child-like cries. It was a plaintive sound, filled with the horror of things that shouldn’t have been seen. Windows. She was always by windows as men destroyed each other. L.C. cried for all four dead men.

  Large hands undid the belt around her feet. Her arms swung forward as the rope fell away.

  “Are you all right?”

  She blinked up at the concerned face hovering over her. “Is he dead?”

  “Yes. I’ve put that stupid son-of-a-bitch August on indefinite suspension. Raleigh wasn’t going to do anything. There was no reason to shoot.”

  He pulled her to her feet and she cried into the hollow of his shoulder. “He didn’t have to die, Will. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I know. It’s one of those things, an inexperienced officer, tension, a wrong move …”

  She forced herself to look out the window. A red stain on the snow was the only indication of what had happened. She shivered and felt her body tighten. A window to the past opened, her father stepped from his car onto the sun-splashed macadam, a desperate young man ran from the station office.…

  She stiffened as Will put his arms around her. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes. I think I’d like to be left alone.”

  “Perhaps the doctor …”

  “No, I’m all right. How did you know he was here?”

  “An educated guess. The man on the desk played back your call to the emergency number. He knew you always called me on the regular line and notified me out at the search site. You’d been out there a while ago. It didn’t take much to figure out what might have happened.”

  “Too bad for Raleigh, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t blame yourself.”

  “What’s the saying? With friends like me, who needs enemies.”

  “It was foolish for him to have run in the first place. There’s always the risk that this would happen.”

  “He didn’t make love to his wife that day,” she said abruptly.

  Will shook his head. “It’s over, L.C. Over, finished, done, kaput. How about dinner tonight?”

  “Oh, God.” She backed away as he tried to kiss her.

  “I promise there’ll be no interruptions this time.”

  “You aren’t for real. One of your men just shot a man under my window, and all you can think about is going to bed.”

  “I couldn’t exist if I didn’t shut out certain things. I’ll fill out the reports, hang Dave August from the yardarm, and mark it down as an unfortunate incident. That’s all I can do.”

  “No it isn’t. You can find out who killed Mauve Bridger.”

  “Damn it all! I did.”

  “The man you thought did it is dead.”

  “A lot of people are dead.”

  “And what are you going to do about it?”

  “I had a case. The prosecutor thought I had a case, and a jury would have convicted Raleigh.”

  “And they’d be wrong.”

  His voice softened. “I’m sorry, L.C. You’ve been through a hell of a ordeal, and what happened to Raleigh was a senseless thing.”

  “I’m sick of killings. That’s what happened to my father and Frank.”

  “It’s hardly the same.”

  “Yes it is. If you leave it like it is, it’s senseless. Raleigh died for nothing.”

  “You’re very upset now and …”

  “Damn right I am!”

  “We can’t live with our ghosts, Laura. I learned that, I’ve accepted that, and I think it’s time you did also.”

  “Oh, go write speeding tickets or something.”

  His eyes clouded as he stepped away from her. “I’ll need a statement.”

  “I thought you would. I’ll be down later.”

  “Of course, L.C. Later.” He looked at her for a long moment and then left the apartment.

  She took two hesitant steps toward the door and stopped. She was numb and rigid until she sank onto the floor and began to cry again, this time for the dead and the living.

  Herb Strickland answered his phone immediately. “I heard what happened. Terrible, just terrible.”

  “I think it’s time that the bank bought me a big lunch.”

  She sensed the hesitancy in his voice. “Of course, L.C. I did have an appointment, but it can be canceled.”

  “I’ll meet you at the Yacht Club dining room in half an hour.”

  “Anything you say.”

  L.C. plunked the olive in her martini and looked up at the mural over the Yacht Club bar. It depicted, in rather primitive fashion, the founding of the city. Stalwart colonials stood hip deep in water at the point. They held lanterns over their heads to lure unsuspecting ships toward the reef and subsequent plunder.

  “Dry enough for you, Miss Converse?”

  She looked up to register a 75 Volks in the red bartender’s jacket. “Fine, Steve.”

  Herb Strickland reached over her shoulder and picked up the check. “I’ve reserved a table.”

  “Would you mind if we sat at the bar a moment?”

  “’Course not.” He slid onto the stool next to her and ordered a double vodka on the rocks. “I just got off the phone with Toby in Florida. Told her what happened to Raleigh and how plucky you were. Plucky’s the word, L.C. Any woman that can go through what you did this morning, and still have the courage to want to discuss loan paper … that’s pluck.”

  “I want to talk about Raleigh.”

  “Yes, arrangements will have to be made. We’ll try and locate other members of the family, but the bank can take care of everything. I guarantee that it will be a fine double service, L.C. We will not spare expense.”

  At that moment, L.C. realized she wanted a second martini—quickly. “That’s thoughtful Herb, although it’s not exactly what I had in mind. I don’t think Raleigh did it.”

  “Is that what Will thinks?”

  “No, but it’s the reason I want you to tell me about the Bridgers. You were their neighbor, co-worker, and ultimately Raleigh’s boss.”

  “I see.” Herb said pensively. “You know, L.C., there’s nothing in this world that would please me more than to find out that Raleigh did not kill his wife. It would remove a certain stigma from the bank. To say the least, it’s not exactly the best public relations in the world to have a senior officer of the bank kill his wife. Anything at all I can do to help, and I’m sure if she were here, Toby would feel the same.”

  “Tell me all you know about them.”

  “Well, let me think about it. I told you there were rumors. But then again, for an attractive couple like the Bridgers who moved in a fast set, that’s not unusual.”

  “What sort of rumors?”

  “A fast set, you know, late parties, a couple of divorced couples in the group. Nothing you can really put your finger on, things that people in Lantern City like to gossip about.”

  “Were any particular names mentioned?”

  “Not that I can recall.” Herb ordered another drink as L.C. placed the palm of her hand across the rim of her glass: “I’m not your best source of information in that area. Toby and I belong to the club, I use the dining room for business lunches, and dad used to dock his boat here; but we don’t really travel in the fast set. Which reminds me, I must tell Toby to make arrangements to have the boat brought North.”

  “What about Raleigh at the bank?”

  “One of the best loan officers I’ve ever seen. We’re going to miss him terribly. The only, mistake I ever knew him to make was when he bought that shopping center for his own account. You know, he was almost made president after Dad retired. It was a close vote with the board until Dad used his influence and swung it to me.”

  “He must have been very disappoin
ted?”

  “We gave him a hefty raise in salary to keep him. Toby says we made a good team, Raleigh making the money and me watching over it.”

  “Do you think he killed his wife?”

  “That’s for Will Barnes to decide. But does it really make much difference anymore? I’ll be right back.”

  He slid from the stool, and with a minute stagger wound his way across the room toward a small door marked, GOBS.

  The bartender leaned toward her in a conspiratorial manner. “The Beast.”

  “I wouldn’t talk like that about Mr. Strickland, Steve. He’s a powerful man in town,” she replied with a tight smile.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear. Last summer Mrs. Bridger was involved with the Beast.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “I never did know his real name, but that’s what everyone called him.”

  “Someone from Lantern City?”

  “I don’t know where he came from, but I don’t think it was from around here. He was ere wing one of the big boats at the marina. The owner must have been gone a lot, for he had a lot of spare time. There was some sort of hassle between him and Mauve Bridger, she complained to the owner of the boat and the Beast was canned. That was the last we saw of him.”

  “What was the hassle about?”

  “The whole thing never did come out, but we knew that the harbormaster got involved, and there was talk that the Beast made a big play for Mauve and she yelled. Bennie would know all about it?”

  “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.