Hunter had personally interviewed the employees at the Ocean Shore Motel, but with little success. They had vaguely remembered Jeffrey Byrne from his repeat trips, but Byrne hadn't made much of an impression on anyone. He was a loner and no one could recall him having contact with anyone else during his short stay. The party for the departing employee, if you could call it that, had been a quick affair-a pat on the back, a few appropriate words and a token going away present. According to Byrne's expense file, his prior trip to Norfolk had been in late January and, earlier, in October of last year. The motel records confirmed these trips.
"I'll give you a whack at 'em," Hunter said as he pulled his tan Ford into the parking lot. "I didn't get diddly-damn from a one of 'em. This guy Byrne was so ordinary, talking about him put me to sleep."
"Ordinary guy in an ordinary motel," Dean replied as he stepped from the car and looked around. The motel was past its prime certainly, but had not yet descended to seedy. If you were looking for a place to stay and save a buck, you'd have found it. The two detectives entered the office, and the clerk, a bored and balding retiree, looked up from a crossword puzzle and, recognizing Hunter, frowned.
"I just hope you fellows are here to clear out number 22. We're not running 'Police Investigation 101,' so you can use it as a classroom to play detective. This here's a going business."
"Glad to see y'all are still in a happy mood," Hunter said, an exaggerated smile on his face. "This here's Detective Dean from up in Yankee land. If you're real nice to him, maybe we'll clear out your room. That way you'll have 20 vacant rooms 'stead of just 19."
"Very funny," the clerk said as he shook Dean's hand and handed him a key. "I surely don't know what you guys figure you'll find as many times as you've looked around. The guy drowned. Period. Give him a week and he'll float in somewhere down south of here if the fish don't eat him first."
They left the man to his puzzle and attitude and walked around the corner to room 22. Hunter opened the drape, painting Jeffrey Byrne's sparse belongings in early afternoon sunlight. The room had a musty closed-up smell and looked like a thousand other motel rooms in a thousand other cities. Dean took a quick tour. Bucolic pictures were screwed to the walls as if someone might want to steal them and shampoo came not in little bottles but in hard-to-open plastic envelopes. You could see light through the towels when you held them up. A suit jacket and pants were laid out across the bed, and underwear was dropped on the floor next to it, apparently discarded by Byrne when he changed to his bathing suit. A suitcase was open on a rack by the door and an imitation leather briefcase stood next to it. Pocket change, watch and wallet were on the nightstand by the bed. The bedspread was pulled back enough to prop up the pillow by the phone, but the bed had not been uncovered for sleeping. Polished shoes, with the socks still in them and a shirt, recovered from the beach, rested on a chair.