Part 15 (2/2)

The receptionist was clearly a student, probably a cheerleader in her other life, cuter than the Easter Bunny, but nowhere near as smart.

”Could you spell the last name, sir?”

I spelled it. She wrote it down on a piece of note paper. I could see the tip of her tongue resting tentatively on her lower lip as she wrote.

She read it aloud when she'd finished writing it down. ”Stapleton, yes, sir. Now what did you want about him?”

”Biographical material,” I said.

She looked a little uncertain.

I said, ”A press kit maybe?”

She smiled with relief.

”Yes, sir. I'll get you a press kit on Mr. Stapleton, sir.”

She stood and started to turn toward the file cabinet on the opposite wall. Then she caught herself and turned back to me.

”Would you like to be seated, sir? I'll only be a moment.”

I said, ”Thanks.”

She hurried across the room to a big metal file cabinet and began rummaging through the file drawers. I didn't want to sit. But I didn't want to offend her, so I compromised by leaning on the wall while she rummaged. She was dressed in the calculated slovenliness that was au courant. Doc Marten shoes, baggy jeans, and an oversized white s.h.i.+rt under a herringbone-patterned sweater that was also too big. The white s.h.i.+rt tail hung well below the bottom of the sweater, and the white s.h.i.+rt cuffs were turned back over the sweater cuffs. The sleeves of the sweater s.h.i.+rt combination left only her fingers visible. The bottoms of the jeans bagged over the Doc Martens so that she stepped on them when she walked. I s.h.i.+fted my other shoulder onto the wall. It was slow going at the file drawers, for Ms. Grunge. I wanted to say, ”After R and before T.” But I feared she would find it patronizing, so I held back. And as it turned out, she didn't need my help. After five or six more minutes she came back from the file cabinet and handed me a blue folder with the Taft logo on the front and the name Clint Stapleton hand lettered in black ink on the tab.

”May I keep this?” I said.

”Oh, certainly, sir. We have them available just for that.”

”Thank you,” I said.

”Oh, you're very welcome, sir.” I smiled.

She smiled.

I left.

Chapter 22.

I SAT IN my office with my feet up, and the window open to let some air in, and thumbed through the press kit on Clint Stapleton. Mostly it was puffery. It did say that Clint was twenty-two, and a senior at Taft. That he had grown up in New York City, and attended Phillips Andover Academy, where he'd been captain of the tennis team.

I put the folder down for a moment. At twenty-two he was five years younger than Hunt McMartin, the guy who'd ID'd Ellis Alves. And the same age as McMartin's wife, who had also gone to Andover. This smacked of clue, but it had been so long since I'd found one that I remained cautious. The rest of the stuff was about how Clint was likely to be an all-American this year, and how Iie was planning to join the pro tour after graduation. His won-and-lost record was there, some xeroxed clippings, all laudatory, a head shot, and several action shots of Clint. He was wearing his kerchief in all of the action shots.

I sat for a bit and thought about the Andover connection and listened to the sounds of city traffic below my window. While I was thinking, Hawk came in with lunch.

”Nantucket Bay scallops are in,” Hawk said. ”Thought we ought to have some.”

”What made you think I'd be hungry?” I said.

Hawk snorted and didn't bother to answer. He took out a bottle of dry Riesling, some plastic cutlery, two containers of broiled scallops, and a pint of coleslaw. I dug a corkscrew out of my desk drawer and, while Hawk opened the wine, I rinsed out two water gla.s.ses in the sink.

”Wine for lunch makes me sleepy,” I said.

”Don't have to drink none,” Hawk said.

He poured some in one of the water gla.s.ses and looked at me.

”I don't wish to offend you,” I said.

Hawk grinned.

”'Course you don't,” he said and poured some wine into the second gla.s.s.

We were quiet for a time while we sipped a little wine and sampled a couple of the bay scallops. The pint of coleslaw was communal. We took turns at it.

”Take a look at this,” I said and handed the sports info folder to Hawk. ”This is the guy that gave Melissa Henderson his letter sweater.”

Hawk read through it. When he came to the pictures he stopped and studied the head shot.

”A brother,” Hawk said.

”Sort of,” I said.

”Suppose he met Melissa's parents?” Hawk said.

”Don't know.”

”If he did,” Hawk said, ”you suppose he was wearing the do rag?”

”Looks like a trademark to me,” I said.

”He tell you anything useful?” Hawk said.

”Started out pretending he didn't know Melissa,” I said.

”Okay, so we know he ain't smart,” Hawk said.

”He's not friendly either,” I said. ”He also says he never talked to the cops, but his coach says a detective who sounds like Miller, the State cop that busted Ellis, talked with him, the coach, not long after the murder and asked about Stapleton.”

”So somebody knew about him right after she died,” Hawk said.

”But either Stapleton's lying, or n.o.body talked to him.”

”You talk to the cop?”

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