"Why did you think your missing guy was Cleary?" he asked again.
"The man's from Parkside and Cleary subscribed to a newspaper from there." Fred's statement volunteered far more then Dean would have offered and he cringed at the old man's candor.
Dean asked if he sent Burgess a picture of the man, if he could try and identify it. Burgess hesitated, and agreed, but when Dean asked for a phone number to follow up, Burgess said he didn't have one. "Send me the picture here and I'll call you," he answered.
There was nothing more to learn and Burgess excused himself and entered the building.
"He ain't the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, is he?" Fred muttered as soon as he was gone. "But the description of Cleary is a dead ringer for Byrne. Too bad you forgot to bring the photo or we'd have this caper locked up."
"The description fits everyone but a red-headed midget or a woman. We don't know any more than when we got up this morning!"
They argued their way back to Parkside with Dean playing the devil's advocate while Fred quoted a dozen mystery stories that bore out his hypothesis, a hypothesis that grew in detail with each passing mile.
"Why get mail at a shack-up place, much less the newspaper?" Fred asked. Dean had no ready answer. Admittedly, Cleary was an enigma, but there remained no real connection to Byrne. But to Fred's mind, Cleary was Byrne, and nothing could dissuade him.
Fred wanted to drive the extra 30 miles or more and visit the rest stop drop location but Dean put his foot down, pointing out that it was two months earlier when the money disappeared. Fred grumbled, but didn't protest too strenuously. When Dean pointed out a nice restaurant where he could collect the lunch he'd earned for making the trip, Fred reached over to the back seat and produced a paper bag, containing two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and an apple.
Dean still hoped to get some biking in during the remainder of his day off but the weather turned decidedly unpleasant as they pulled into Parkside. Real bikers weren't bothered by a little rain, he tried to tell himself, but the car radio spoke of a storm system moving up from the south, bringing with it high winds and torrential rain. The warmth of Collingswood and a soft chair won the argument. He was resigned to quietly reading a book until Mrs. Porter the housekeeper showed up a day early, accommodating a family wedding, and Dean's peace began competing with the sounds of a vacuum cleaner and Mrs. Porter's radio music, even worse junk than Fred's usual selections.