Jack Beale 00 - Killer Run

York, Maine.
    As he slowed and approached Route 1, he took a right to head south. Not too far down the road, he saw an older motel that looked as if it was well past its prime.
    The motel was a long, single-story structure facing the road with a sign proclaiming vacancy: daily, weekly, or by the month. A series of alternating doors and windows defined each of the twenty or so rooms, and the center door had a sign above that said Office. Small signs, with arrows painted on them, lined a drive that disappeared around to the back of the building.
    “Perfect,” thought Alfred when he saw the motel. Something told him that this would be the perfect place for his intentions.
    Alfred turned into the motel’s drive as he continued to survey the building. The overcast sky looked as depressed as the motel. There was no doubt that it had been many years since the building had seen a new coat of paint. Across the front was a series of raised garden beds, but few were intact. Most had some part of the brick retaining walls either pushed in, knocked down, or just missing. All of the damage was at a bumper’s height. All in all it looked like one of those places that time had passed by and would exist as long as the owners were alive or until its location became too valuable and they would sell out to some real estate developer and move to Florida.
    There were cars parked in front of several of the rooms, but by no means was the place fully occupied. He parked in front of the door marked Office and went in. The office was as dated and stale as the outside of the motel. In front of the desk, with backs to the window, were two chairs and a small table with several copies of Popular Mechanics , each several years old. On the far wall was a rack with tourist brochures for summertime attractions that were now closed. Next to the rack of brochures was a cigarette machine. Alfred hadn’t seen one of those in years. For a moment the collector in him surfaced.
    “Hello, may I help you?” The voice startled him.
    “Yes. Yes you may. Do you have a room available?”
    “How many nights?”
    “Two, maybe three, I don’t know.” Then looking back at the cigarette machine he added, “That machine. You wouldn’t want to sell it, would you?”
    “Sorry, not for sale. But I do have a room. It’s out back if you don’t mind. You can stay as long as you like.”
    “That would be fine,” said Alfred. Then he continued to stare at the cigarette machine.

CHAPTER 75
    AFTER HIS VISIT WITH CHARLIE , Lieutenant Malloy drove over to the antiques store again. He turned into the front lot, stopped his car, and, leaving the engine running, got out, walked up onto the porch, and tried the door again. It was still locked. He peered in the windows. What little he could see was as he remembered it from the first time he looked in. Leaving the porch, he followed the drive down and around to the back. The cold east wind had begun to kick up, and as he rounded the corner he hunched his shoulders and raised the collar of his coat. It didn’t help. He shivered as he checked each of the garage doors, peering in the windows as he had before. Inside, the darkness still hid whatever might be in there. Slowly he walked back to his car, thankful that he had left the car running and the heat on.
    He didn’t drive off immediately, but rather sat there, staring up at the locked building, wondering where Alfred was, and more important, who he was. The more he learned about Alfred, the less he seemed to know. Charlie told him about the death of Alfred’s identical twin, but he needed to know more. Suddenly, he knew right where to go. He shifted his car into gear and left Whitson’s Antiques.
    Agnes Phillips was the area’s unofficial historian. He had met her briefly years ago when he was working another case. He had no idea how old she was, but she was old then, and he hoped she was still alive. He remembered that she lived in one of the oldest houses in the area. It was on a little-used gravel lane that crossed back and forth over the town line between Ipswich and Essex. He wasn’t sure exactly which town claimed her as a resident, but the lane began in Ipswich. After several wrong turns, he finally found her road.
    The road was still unpaved, narrow, and sparsely housed. As Malloy drove slowly along, every now and again a break would appear in the trees that lined the road, revealing views out over salt marshes or the river and, occasionally, the ocean.