"You look happier than a moth on a cashmere sweater," Fred said.

"All's right with the world," Dean replied.

"Not quite all," Fred answered. "Your friend Detective Hunter called from Norfolk."

"On Friday night?" The smile melted from Dean's face.

"He thought it might be important, seeing as you asked the question. He was gonna just leave a message but I explained I knew all about the case. He ran down the receipt that was found in Byrne's car. It was for a pair of bike shoes." Dean started to say something but Fred continued. "Hunter showed the clerk a pic­ture of Byrne but he couldn't identify him-it was too long ago. The guy said the face looked familiar but it's a big store, there's lots of clerks and it's an old picture."

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"Another maybe," Dean said muttered.

"That's not all," Fred continued. "I spent 20 minutes on the phone with Mrs. Glass. She wanted to know what the devil was going on. Someone else was asking about her favorite tenant, Mr. Cleary."

"Nota!" Dean exclaimed in disbelief.

"I expect so," Fred answered. "Mrs. Glass said the guy asked for Cleary by name."

"How would Nota get Mrs. Glass's number or even know Cleary even existed?"

"I think I figured it out," Fred said. "My notes about Cleary and our investigation in Scranton were down here when those bozos broke in. Mrs. Glass's number was on the telephone pad. Later when I looked, the note pad was blank. I figured I was get­ting absentminded in my old age and I tossed it when I was clean­ing up. They searched the living room pretty good."

"There's a chance Cleary is just a cheating husband and some­one is chasing him down." Dean's scenario lacked conviction and both knew it.

"Mrs. Glass told him he wasn't the first person asking about her Bascomb Place tenant and the fellow wanted to know all about us."

"What else did she tell him?"

"Not much, by the sound of it."

Dean began to slowly pace the room. "If it was Nota, chances are he won't have any better luck chasing down Cleary than we did. Or maybe he'll find Cleary, learn he isn't Byrne, and put this whole business to rest."

"Don't wait up for the Easter Bunny for that one. And don't forget the matter of the bike shoes."

"Byrne biked. Buying the shoes could be innocent enough."

"So where are the bike shoes now?" Fred asked. "They weren't in the motel room inventory. And where'd Byrne get the money to buy them? We had his cash figured down to pocket change."




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