Mourners: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery)

by Bill Pronzini

  I didn’t blame her for that. Once the dirty work is done in cases like this, the professional advice dispensed and considered, the important questions asked and answered, the clients focus on the primary issues and the hired guns like me become superfluous; we’re unpleasant reminders of the fact that we were necessary in the first place and they want us out of their lives as quickly as possible. One more reason you need a thick skin to be a detective.

  Tamara had prepared a final invoice; I gave it to Mrs. Troxell, and she wrote out a check and offered her thanks in return. She wasn’t really seeing me anymore, except peripherally, and Casement’s attention was all on her. None of us bothered to shake hands or say good-bye. Even before I let myself out, I felt as though I’d dematerialized—a latter-day invisible man.

  How’d it go?” Tamara asked.

  “About as we expected,” I said. “I gave her a three-day grace period. And I’m not sure it wasn’t a big mistake. Troxell is probably suicidal and the shock could trigger him the wrong way. I don’t want that on my conscience.”

  “Her choice. You didn’t make it for her.”

  “Still.”

  “She’s not gonna do it alone?”

  “No. With Kayabalian and their family doctor present. And Drew Casement. Casement was there with her this morning. She wanted him to sit in, let him read the report.”

  “Something wrong with that? He’s a family friend, right?”

  “He also happens to be in love with her.”

  “Yeah? How do you know?”

  “Pretty obvious. The way he looks at her, acts around her.”

  “She feel the same way? Two of them getting it on together?”

  “No, it’s not like that. She may not even know how he feels. The only person she’s in love with is her poor bastard of a husband.”

  “So why do you care how Casement feels about her?”

  “I don’t, really. Just an observation.”

  “Lots of people in love with people they hadn’t ought to be who don’t love them back, you know what I’m saying?”

  “True enough.”

  “Love,” Tamara said with sudden vehemence. “Love is bullshit.”

  “Now what brought that on?”

  Big breath. “Nothing. Like you said, just an observation.”

  “One I don’t happen to agree with. Neither did you, not so long ago.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  “Things aren’t good between you and Horace, are they? You can talk to me, you know—”

  She said, “I’ve got work to do,” and went scowling into her office and shut the connecting door.

  Women and their secrets. Kerry, Cybil, Tamara. Emily, too, someday, no doubt. Then I thought: Come on, women don’t have a monopoly on keeping things to themselves. James Troxell is living proof of that. Hell, so are you, you narrow-minded, moralistic jerk.

  The meeting with Charles Kayabalian went all right. He asked a couple of questions about the source of our information, and I hedged by saying, “I’d rather not reveal that. We had to take risks to get it, in the best interests of all concerned.” He’s a smart man, Kayabalian; he guessed or had a pretty good idea of what the risks were. He said he’d rather not know anyway, since I wasn’t his client and anything I told him would not be privileged, and we left it at that.

  He said he’d let me know how the meeting with Troxell turned out; his grimace added that he wasn’t looking forward to it and his expectations weren’t high. Neither were mine, but it wasn’t my problem any longer. I hoped.

  By the time I ransomed my car from the nearest parking garage, it was after three thirty, and Friday afternoon commute traffic was already clogging the downtown streets. I had one more piece of business to attend to, but I didn’t need to return to the agency to get it done. I headed home instead. It would be well after four when I got there, and the odds were good that Jack Logan would be off duty and I could leave a message on his voice mail: “Our investigation on that case I mentioned turned up a witness connection to the Erin Dumont homicide, Jack. We’re in the process of trying to verify it. I’ll lay it out for you Monday morning in any case.”

  More C.Y.A. manipulation. If Troxell could be kept in one piece and persuaded to report to the Hall of Justice by Monday, the police wouldn’t care how or why he’d been prodded into it. If he didn’t, we’d be officially on record as cooperating.

  17

  JAKE RUNYON

  He called the Morgan Hill number before nine Friday morning, and this time he got an answer. Male voice, young and suspicious when he asked for Sally Johnson. Even when he identified himself and stated his business, the suspicion remained.

  “Detective? What the hell do you want with my wife? She doesn’t know anything about any murder.”

  In the background a woman’s voice said, “Kevin? Who is that?”

  The husband said into the phone, “How do I know you’re who you say you are anyway?”

  “Would you like references?”

  “. . . You trying to be a wiseass?”

  “Five minutes of your wife’s time, that’s all I’m asking.”

  “Why? I told you, she doesn’t know anything—”

  “Kevin, let me talk to the man. If he’s calling about Erin, maybe I can help—”

  “Yeah, right. Some fucking guy, he could be anybody, one of your boyfriends for all I know—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. Give me that phone!”

  There was more, the exchange loud and angry but muffled by a hand clapped over the mouthpiece. Then the woman’s voice, breathless and angry, said, “Yes, hello? This is Sally—” Sharp door-slamming sound in the background. “God, I don’t know why I married him. He can be such an asshole!”

  Runyon made no comment.

  “You’re a detective? Calling about Erin?”

  “That’s right. My name is Runyon.”

  “Oh God, I couldn’t believe it when I heard what happened. She and I . . . we were really close . . . it makes me sick every time I think about it . . . but I don’t know anything, I hadn’t seen her for months before it happened, it must’ve been some crazy person . . .”

  He told her why he was calling.

  “Fatso?” she said. “Oh, sure, I remember him. But that was what, more than two years ago, and there was no hassle or anything. He was just this big sloppy fat guy. You don’t think he—?”

  “Checking possibilities,” Runyon said shortly. “You were with Erin at Stow Lake the first time she saw him?”

  “Yes, right, Stow Lake. It was a Saturday, we went up there to ride the paddle boats, you know, just goofing around. We were at the snack bar when he came up and said hello to Erin. I remember he looked at her the whole time, like I wasn’t even there.”

  “Did he introduce himself, give his name?”

  “Um, no, I don’t think so. Not that day, and not the other time, either. The only other time I saw him, I mean.”

  “Where was that?”

  “At this bar we used to go to, an Irish pub on Geary.”

  “McRoyd’s?”

  “Right, McRoyd’s.”

  “How do you suppose he knew Erin hung out there?”

  She thought that over. “I think maybe he overheard us talking about it at Stow. We’d been at the pub the night before, one of the guys was celebrating his birthday and got blasted and did a bare-ass strip . . . it was hilarious and we were laughing about it when Fatso came over.”

  “Any idea what kind of car he drove?”

  “Fatso? No, all I ever saw him in was the delivery truck.”

  “Delivery truck?”

  “At Stow. That’s what he was doing there, making deliveries to the snack bar.”

  “What kind of deliveries?”

  “I’m not sure, let me think. . . . No, I just don’t remember.”

  “How about the truck? Big, medium, small?”

  “Sort of medium, I guess.”

  “Open bed or closed shell?”


  “Closed shell? You mean like a van?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s what it was, a kind of medium-sized van.”

  “What color?”

  “White.”

  “The same as his uniform?”

  “That’s right, that was white, too.” Sally Johnson let loose a sudden small giggling sound. “Erin thought he looked like a fat shaggy dog, one of those English sheep dogs, you know? But to me . . . well, I thought he looked like the Pillsbury doughboy—”

  Runyon had no more patience for that crap; he cut her off with a sharp question. “The type of uniform with the company name on the back?”

  “. . . I think maybe. But it was such a long time ago . . .”

  “Painted on the side of the delivery van, too?”

  “Um, yes.”

  “Close your eyes, think hard, try to picture it. The company name, the type of product.”

  He waited through close to a minute of humming silence before she said, “I’m sorry, I really am, but I just can’t remember. . . .”

  The weather was good today, mostly clear, and a number of citizens were taking advantage of it when Runyon arrived at Stow Lake. Joggers, a few paddle boaters and canoers, people wandering the paths, others seated on benches and strips of grass reading, taking in the sun, watching the ducks and seabirds floating on the dirty brown water.

  He followed the loop road to the parking area behind the boathouse at the western end. He’d been here once before, as he’d been to a great many locales in the city and the surrounding communites since his move down from Seattle—cataloging his new territory so he could move around freely without having to look at a map and he’d know what to expect from each place if and when his work took him there. Stow Lake was man-made, built around the base of Strawberry Hill, a four-hundred-foot wooded elevation turned into an island centerpiece accessible by a pair of pedestrian bridges. A network of paths and the boathouse and dock on this side, more paths, a waterfall, even a Chinese pagoda on the islet. Colleen would have liked it here. Quiet, nice scenery, good spot for a picnic.

  He went around to the combination snack bar and boat-rental counter. Two kids on duty, one selling hot dogs, sodas, ice cream, the other handling the rentals. Neither had an answer to his questions; the longest either of them had been working there was eleven months, and no, none of the deliverymen they knew weighed three hundred pounds and wore their hair in ponytails. White uniforms? Sure, lots of delivery guys wore uniforms, they just never paid much attention.

  The double doors to the repair and maintenance shop adjacent were open. Runyon spent two minutes with the man on duty, and came out again with nothing more than he’d gone in with. He stood for a time scanning the bench-sitters in the vicinity. Two possibilities, one man and one woman, both older than sixty and with the relaxed look and posture of regulars. The woman had nothing to tell him. He moved on to where the man sat at the end of the dock area, near the small flotilla of canoes and multicolored paddle boats.

  White-haired, heavily lined face, seventy or more. He lifted his head when Runyon sat down next to him, peered through thick-lensed glasses. Mildly annoyed at first at being disturbed, but he was the naturally gregarious type and he showed interest when Runyon identified himself and asked his questions.

  “Yep. Weather permits, I’m usually here.” His voice was clipped, the sentences short as if he were conserving words and punctuated with little clicks from a set of loose-fitting dentures. “Years now.”

  “You look like a man who notices people. Am I right?”

  “Yep. Good place to people-watch.”

  “Does that include deliverymen?”

  “Don’t discriminate. Why?”

  “I’m trying to locate a man who made deliveries here a couple of years ago. May or may not still make them. Young, very fat, long hair in a ponytail. Wore a white uniform of some kind.”

  “Ah,” the old man said.

  “The description strike a chord?”

  “Couldn’t miss him. Big as a house.”

  “What did he deliver?”

  “Buns. Cookies.”

  “For what company?”

  “Sun something. Get it in a minute.”

  “Does he still make deliveries here?”

  “Nope.”

  “How long since you saw him last?”

  “Year, maybe two.”

  “You ever talk to him?”

  “Don’t talk, just watch.”

  “Hear somebody use his name?”

  “Nope.”

  “Or notice if there was one over his uniform pocket?”

  “Nope.” The dentures made a sharp clicking sound. “Got it.”

  “Sir?”

  “Company name,” the old man said. “SunGold. Sun-Gold Bakery.”

  SunGold Bakery Products was located in the southeastern section of the city, a block off Bayshore Boulevard. Two good-sized warehouse-type buildings connected by a short wing that fronted on the street, with a cyclone-fenced yard along one side. The wing housed the company offices, and the main entrance was there; Runyon parked in front of it, but he didn’t go inside. Outfits this size had rules about employees giving out personal information, and office workers generally observed them. Deliverymen, if properly approached, weren’t so apt to be close followers of company policy.

  The yard gates were open and he walked in through them. A dozen or more large white vans were parked there, the SunGold emblem—a smiling face inside a sunburst—and the company name painted on their side panels. Three men were in sight, two dressed in white uniforms, one in mechanic’s overalls. Runyon picked the oldest of the deliverymen, who was whistling tunelessly to himself while he checked some sort of list attached to a clipboard. Good choice. Friendly when he was approached, still friendly after the questions started. And not reticent about dispensing information.

  “Sure, I know who you mean,” he said. His name was Harry; it was stitched in gold thread over his uniform pocket. “How come you’re looking for him?”

  “I’ve been told that he knows someone I’m trying to find. A young woman who’s gone missing.”

  “Is that right? I wouldn’t want to get him in any trouble.”

  “Nothing like that. The woman’s disappearance was voluntary.”

  “Couldn’t be somebody he was dating.”

  “No, just a casual acquaintence.”

  “Uh-huh. I hate to say it, Sean’s a pretty good guy, but it’s kind of hard to imagine him ever being with a woman. You know, his size. He was real self-conscious about it.”

  “Was?”

  “Still is, I guess. He doesn’t work for SunGold anymore.”

  “Since when?”

  “Oh, must be a couple of years now.”

  “Quit? Fired?”

  “Quit,” Harry said. “Offer of a better job somewhere else.”

  “Do you know where?”

  “No, sure don’t.”

  “Or what kind of job?”

  “Sorry. He didn’t talk much, about himself or anything else.”

  “Shy.”

  “Real shy. Kind of a loner.”

  “The brooding type?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. No, he seemed pretty upbeat most of the time, usually had a smile on his face. Good guy, like I said.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  “Osgood? No, that’s wrong. Something started with an O . . . Ostrow? That’s it, Ostrow.”

  “O-s-t-r-o-w?”

  “Sounds right.”

  “And Sean, spelled S-e-a-n or S-h-a-w-n?”

  “S-e-a-n.”

  “Do you know where he lived?”

  “Someplace over by Golden Gate Park,” Harry said. “I know that because the park was on his route and sometimes he’d time his deliveries over there so he could go home for lunch. Big eater. Man, he could really pack it in.”

  “Any chance you could find out the address for me?”

  “How would
I do that? You mean check the company files?”

  “I’d be willing to pay for the information.”

  “Hey, no, I couldn’t do that,” Harry said. “Not for any amount. Bosses found out, they’d throw my ass right out of here. I shouldn’t even be talking to you right now.”

  Now he had a name. Sean Ostrow. With that and the other information Runyon had gathered, it should be relatively easy to track the man down.

  Should be, but wasn’t.

  Back at the office, he checked the city phone directory. No listing for Sean Ostrow. The agency kept phone books for all the Bay Area cities dating back five years, and he checked each of the San Francisco books for that period. Same results. An Internet background search was the next step. He could have started one himself, but Tamara was far more skilled at that kind of thing than he was. He went to her with the need and the favor.

  She said, “We’re off the Troxell case. And we don’t have a client to justify mixing in a homicide investigation.”

  “Unofficial client. My time, my expense. I told Erin Dumont’s sister I’d try to help.”

  “Why?”

  Because she looked like Colleen. Because she seemed to be stuck in his head and he couldn’t get her out. He said, “Because she’s the type who’ll keep on grieving until there’s some kind of closure. And the SFPD hasn’t come up with anything in six weeks. You know what that means.”

  “Unsolved file.”

  “If it isn’t there already.”

  Tamara sighed. “What makes you think Ostrow did that girl?”

  “I don’t. I think he’s a possible.”

  “Why?”

  “Everything points to an obsession killing. Love, rejection, hate, lust, remorse—all part of the pattern. And Ostrow fits the profile.”

  “Maybe so. But hanging around her for a month two years ago doesn’t make him obsessed.”

  “Neither does being obese, shy, a loner. But add them all together and you’ve got a possible.”

  “Yeah. But what doesn’t add is that two-year gap. If he was so obsessed with her, how come he stayed away from her all that time? What took him so long to work up to that night in the park?”