Jack Beale 00 - Killer Run

puff of cold air. He shivered. First stop, another cup of coffee.
    Sitting at his desk, a fresh cup close at hand, he pulled out his notebook and reread his notes for the second time in. He made a checklist of what he wanted to accomplish. At the top of the list was Jack Beale―probably not hard to get hold of. Second was Alfred the antique guy. Malloy always preferred to work his way down to the easiest, so he picked Alfred first.
    He started by compiling a list of antiques stores in the area, first those in Ipswich and Essex, and then those a bit further away. He added Hamilton, Gloucester, and Annisquam, each list enlarging the circle of places to look.
    By the time he finished making his list, he knew it could be a long day. For as long as he had lived in the area, he had never really thought about just how many antiques stores there were. Each call required an introduction and an explanation. However, after the first few, he began to get the feeling that there was a grapevine at play, because those later calls didn’t seem so surprised when he announced his aim.
    Eventually, his efforts met with success. “Alfred Whitson, that’s who you want,” the voice on the phone said.
    “You know him?”
    “Not well, but we’ve crossed paths. He’s definitely an odd duck. Stores over on one-thirty-three in Essex.”
    Malloy thanked him for his help and sighed in relief. Now he wouldn’t have to sit on the phone all day. He made one more call, to Jack Beale. No one picked up.
    * * *
    It was just after ten when Lieutenant Malloy found Whitson’s store. There were no cars in the lot, but from the sign by the door, the store should be open. However, the door was locked. Malloy cupped his hands around his eyes and pressed his face against the glass. The inside was dark and cluttered, and there was no sign of life. He did the same at each of the windows that flanked the door. Each time, as he peered in, he knocked on the glass, and each time, the result was the same.
    Having exhausted the options on the front porch, he penned a note on one of his cards and stuck it in the front door. At first he thought it strange that the store was closed, but as he stepped off the front porch, he decided that since it was off-season maybe it was only open on weekends until the holidays drew near. He made some notes in his notebook and then decided to walk around the building, just in case.
    The drive sloped down as it wound around the building, leading to a pair of closed garage doors. There were no cars out back either and the doors were also locked. Again, he cupped his hands around his eyes and tried to see in through the glass panels that were set in the doors. It was even darker inside than it had been upstairs. He tried different positions but the most he could see were some large shadowy shapes. “Damn,” he said softly as he walked back up the drive to his car.
    Before leaving, he decided to try the front door one more time. His card was still wedged in the frame and the result was the same. He was about to open his car door and climb in when a voice startled him. “He’s not around.”
    He looked up and turned to find himself facing a tall, wiry, older guy on a bike. He had on the full uniform: tight black bicycle shorts over tights with a brand name he didn’t recognize emblazoned down the thigh, a tight black jacket with only slightly less advertisement on it than you’d find on a NASCAR entry, black gloves, a colorful helmet with lots of cutouts, and reflective dark glasses that made him look like some kind of an evil bug, a very cold, evil bug.
    “Hello. What did you say?”
    “You looking for Alfred?”
    “Yeah, I am. You know where he is?”
    “Nah, but I saw him leaving early this morning. And who are you?”
    “Lieutenant Malloy, Ipswich Police.” He held out his badge.
    “How come you’re looking for Al?”
    Ignoring the question, Malloy asked, “And you? Who are you?”
    “Oh sorry. I live down the road a ways. I’ve known Al forever. Sometimes we ride together and I see him out running a lot. Name’s Charlie Rhodes.” He stuck out his hand and leaned toward Malloy.
    Malloy shook his hand. “Nice to meet you. You saw him leaving this morning?”
    “Yeah, a couple of hours ago.”
    “Which way?”
    He turned and pointed, adding, “West on 133.”
    “You said he runs?”
    “Good runner, but not much of a biker. I’d rather ride, so we don’t get together as much as we used to when I ran