The Killing Edge by Richard; Forrest Page B

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.
    â€œSurely the alumni office must have some address for Mr. Peckham?” L.C. asked.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œWhat can I do for you?”
    â€œI’m trying to locate Stanley Peckham who played on your football team seven years ago. They called him the Beast. Do you remember?”
    â€œBeast? 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?”
    â€œTry the alumni office.”
    â€œI did. They’ve lost contact with him.”
    â€œNot surprised. I’m sure they didn’t try too hard after he got the boot.”
    â€œExpelled?”
    â€œExpelled, 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.”
    â€œThen 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.”
    â€œDo you know where he might be working?”
    â€œHe kicked around, construction when that was good, then odd jobs. He was by here during the season.” He lit the cigar and it smelled