Mourners: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery)

by Bill Pronzini

  “Could be he didn’t have a choice,” Runyon said.

  “What, you mean he might’ve been locked up somewhere those two years, for some other crime?”

  “Worth checking on.”

  But Ostrow, according to Tamara’s contact at the SFPD, had no criminal record of any kind in California. A record in another state was still a possibility, but getting that information would take time.

  She ran other checks. Sean David Ostrow was a member of the Teamsters Union, but obtaining personal information from a major union on one of its members was almost as impossible as obtaining it from the IRS. Under a fairly recent state law, private individuals—and that included private detective agencies—no longer had open access to DMV records. But the DMV, unlike unions, could be circumspectly breached with the right kind of know-how. Ostrow had a California driver’s license, issued four years ago in San Francisco and valid for another two years. His registered vehicle was a 1988 Ford Taurus, license number 2UGK697. The first numeral and first letter matched the ones on Troxell’s memory notes, but that didn’t have to mean anything; 2U was a common enough prefix. His birthdate was May 14, 1979. His address was listed as 2599 Kirkham, and there had been no notification of change since the date of issue.

  Runyon drove out to Kirkham Street. Number 2599 was a twelve-unit apartment building not far from Golden Gate Park, but on the opposite side several miles from where Erin Dumont and Risa Nyland lived. Ostrow’s name wasn’t on any of the mailboxes in the foyer. None of the other boxes bore a building manager’s label, so he rang bells until he’d gone through all twelve. Three responses. A woman on the second floor said she remembered seeing Sean Ostrow in the building (“How could you miss him?”), but she hardly knew him and had no idea where he’d moved to or when. A sharp-tongued woman on the same floor said she didn’t know anybody named Ostrow; she’d only lived there a year and a half, and added mistakenly that she didn’t want anything to do with any goddamn salesmen. An elderly black man on the same floor said he’d known Ostrow slightly, that he was friendly enough but didn’t have much to say to anybody; he’d lived there about a year and moved out abruptly “two years ago last May. I remember because it was the same week I fell and broke my hip. Asked him how come he was leaving. Said there was something he had to do and he couldn’t do it in the city. Said he was going east.”

  “No specific place?”

  “Just east, that’s all.”

  “What was it he had to do?”

  “Asked him, but he just smiled and walked away.”

  When Runyon got back to the agency, Tamara had more background information on Ostrow waiting for him. Most of it was routine. Born and raised in Astoria, Oregon, worked there as a beer-truck driver for a year after high school graduation. Mother deceased, father’s whereabouts unknown. No criminal record in Oregon. Spotless driving record in both Oregon and California.

  But there was one potential lead. Ostrow had an older sister, Arlene, married the same year he’d quit his job in Astoria. Her name was Burke now, and she and her husband had also relocated to northern California—to Santa Rosa, where they were still living.

  18

  The weekend started off on a troubling note and kept getting progressively worse.

  Kerry was still in a funk Saturday morning. Not the withdrawn, openly depressed, gloom-dripping variety; the kind that in some ways was even worse because it was all pretense and sham. False cheerfulness. Pallid little smiles. Chatter about anything and everything except what was going on inside her head, and evasions and circumlocutions whenever I asked her a direct question or tried to draw her out. At breakfast I suggested that the three of us go for a drive down the coast, have lunch in Half Moon Bay or a picnic on one of the beaches around San Gregorio. Wonderful idea, she said, but she needed to work on one of her accounts, the Harmony Dairy account; it probably meant a trip downtown to Bates and Carpenter at some point, hadn’t she mentioned this last night? Maybe tomorrow we’d go for the drive, if she could come up with the right copy for Harmony’s new ad campaign by then. Or maybe Emily and I should go today, just the two of us, she didn’t want to spoil our weekend just because she had to work.

  She gulped coffee and excused herself and went away to her study. Her plate was still full of eggs and toast; she’d eaten no more than two bites of either. Emily looked at the plate, then looked at me with an expression of deep concern.

  “Something’s wrong with Mom,” she said.

  “I know,” I said.

  “What? What’s the matter?”

  “She won’t talk to me about it.”

  “Me, either. I asked her, but she just changed the subject. What’re we going to do?”

  “Wait until she’s ready to tell us. We can’t force her.”

  “No, but . . . I’m really worried.”

  “So am I.”

  “What if it’s something serious? What if—”

  “We’re not going to play the ‘what if’ game,” I said. “All that does is make the waiting and the worrying worse.”

  “So we just pretend everything’s okay?”

  “For now, for today. How about that drive?”

  “I don’t feel much like it, Dad.”

  “It’s clear here, it’ll be nice down the coast.”

  “Can’t we just stay home?”

  “You can if you want to. I need to get out for a while.”

  Emily chewed her lip. “I guess I do, too. I guess I don’t want to stay home after all.”

  Charles Kayabalian called at two thirty, just after Emily and I got back from lunch and a batch of errands. “Well, I wouldn’t want to go through that again,” he said. “Makes trial law seem like a walk in the park.”

  “Troxell didn’t take it well?”

  “Hard to say just how he took it. He didn’t put out any arguments or denials, didn’t seem upset by the fact that Lynn was having him followed or the contents of your report. Didn’t say more than a dozen words the whole time, most of them monosyllables. He just sat there like a stunned deer. The look on his face . . . Christ.”

  “He agree to go to the police voluntarily?”

  “Monday morning. With me along as counsel.”

  “Why not today or tomorrow?”

  “I suggested that, get it over with as soon as possible, but he wouldn’t go for it. Needs a little time to work himself up to it, I think. The three of us tried to be gentle, but we still hit him pretty hard.”

  “Only three of you?”

  “Lynn, Drew Casement, and myself.”

  “What happened to the family doctor?”

  “She decided against calling him. I can’t blame her.”

  “But Troxell did agree to get help?”

  “Well, he didn’t balk at the suggestion. That look on his face, the few things he said . . . poor bastard, he knows he’s in a bad way.”

  “The sooner the better,” I said. “And there should probably be eyes on him until he does.”

  “Lynn made him promise to stay home until Monday morning.”

  “But will he keep the promise.”

  “She and Casement will make sure he does,” Kayabalian said. “She hid his car keys where he won’t find them, as a precaution. The three of us talked about it afterward.”

  “Shaky situation, just the same.”

  “I know it. But what can you do in a case like this? There’s only one legal issue and we’ve got that covered. The rest of it . . . no right way or wrong way to handle it, it’s all psychological and emotional gray areas. All you can do is take it slow, feel your way along, hope for the best.”

  Kerry had been gone when Emily and I returned; it was after five when she reappeared, laden with Chinese takeout that she’d picked up on the way home from Bates and Carpenter. Still cheerful, her smiles more genuine tonight, and full of apologies. “I know I’ve been in a terrible mood lately,” she said at the dinner table, “and I’m sorry for taking it out on both of you. I won’t keep doing t
hat, I promise.”

  Fine, but then Emily asked her why she’d been in such a terrible mood. And she said, “Let’s not talk about it tonight. Soon, okay? A day or two, and everything will be back to normal.”

  “You promise that, too?”

  “Yes, honey. I do.”

  Big smile to go with the words, but it was a pretender’s smile that said the promise was built less on certainty than on hope.

  The phone rang at seven thirty that evening. I was closest to it when it went off, so I picked up. And the caller was the last person I expected to hear from, this night or any other.

  “This is James Troxell.”

  After a couple of seconds I said slowly, to keep the surprise out of my voice, “Yes, Mr. Troxell. What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve been reading your report to my wife,” he said. Deep voice, calm, measured, lacking any discernible emotion. “It’s very thorough, very detailed. Very revealing, too.”

  “Yes?”

  “I feel that I ought to thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For helping me open my eyes. You must have found my actions bizarre. I find them bizarre myself, seeing them outlined in cold type.”

  What can you say to that?

  “It’s as though I’ve been wandering in a daze the past few weeks,” Troxell said. “But I’m seeing and thinking clearly now.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. But I’m not the person you should be thanking.”

  “You could have gone directly to the police. You didn’t have to allow me a grace period to do what I should have done in the beginning. I’m grateful that you did.”

  I said, “Charles Kayabalian tells me you’ll be going in on Monday morning.”

  “That’s the plan, yes.”

  “It won’t be as difficult as you might expect.”

  “No, I don’t think it will be. Once you finally understand and accept what has to be done, you wonder why you fought against it for so long. With help you can find the courage to go through with it.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I have all the help I need now. No more bizarre behavior, I promise you that.”

  “I don’t understand. Why promise me?”

  “It won’t be necessary for you to keep watch on me any longer.”

  “You think you’re still under surveillance? Not by us.”

  “You’re still working for Lynn, aren’t you?”

  “No. Didn’t she tell you?”

  “Nothing was said. I just assumed you were.”

  “Not since yesterday morning. That report is final.”

  “I see,” Troxell said. “Were you paid for your services?”

  “In full.”

  “Well, then. There doesn’t seem to be anything else to say, does there. Except thank you again.”

  “Good luck, Mr. Troxell. I hope everything works out for you.”

  “It will,” he said.

  Strange, awkward conversation. The more I replayed it in my head, the odder it seemed. Something not quite right about it, off-kilter, disconnected, like a conversation in a dream. I was already on edge because of the situation with Kerry, and Troxell’s call sharpened it. I felt that I ought to do something. Call Lynn Troxell, call Kayabalian . . .

  But what could I say to them that would help the situation, make a difference? Or do anything except stir up the pot again?

  19

  JAKE RUNYON

  The days of his life, now that Colleen was gone, were all the same—in essence if not in detail. He arranged them so that they marched by in structured uniformity, with a kind of military precision. There were no holidays, vacation days, leisurely weekends. There were only work days and make-work days and preparing-for-work days. It wasn’t that he lived to work; it was that he worked because it was the only way he could live.

  This Saturday was a specific-job day. Even if it hadn’t been, even if Santa Rosa were hundreds of miles north of the city instead of only fifty-some, he would’ve been on the move by eight a.m. Part of the regimen was that he never slept in, never stayed in the apartment past eight on any morning. Movement was preferable to stasis or confinement, always.

  The man who opened the door at Sean Ostrow’s sister’s west-side apartment was drunk. Ten o’clock on a Saturday morning, and already he had to hang on to the door and lean a shoulder against the jamb to hold himself steady. Beer-drinker, the saturation type: he had a sixteen-ounce can of cheap malt liquor in one hand and the smell of it came from his pores as well as his open mouth. Early thirties, heavyset, the kind of beer gut that wobbled and shimmied when he moved; unshaven, wearing a stained undershirt and a pair of faded dungarees with the fly partially unzipped. Derelict in training.

  He squinted at Runyon through eyes like sliced marbles crosshatched with red lines. “Who’re you?”

  “Is Arlene Burke home?”

  “Fuckin’ salesman.” The door started to close, but Runyon got a foot in the way. “Hey, what’s the idea?”

  “I’m not a salesman,” Runyon said. “Are you Eugene Burke?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “My name is Runyon. I’m trying to find Sean Ostrow—”

  “Huh?”

  “Mrs. Burke’s brother, Sean Ostrow.”

  “That freeloader.” Burke made a sneering mouth, belched in Runyon’s face, and sneered again. “Gone now and he better not come back.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “Who the hell counts days?”

  “How long was he here?”

  “Too long, man.”

  “How long is too long?”

  “Wasn’t my idea to let him move in,” Burke said. Then, in a blurry falsetto,” ‘Get a job, bring in some money, then you can run things round here.’ That’s what she said to me, always throwing it in my face like it’s my fault I can’t find work. Fuckin’ cow.”

  “Where’s Ostrow now? Where did he move to?”

  “So he paid a few bucks toward the rent, so what? Still a goddamn freeloader. Apartment’s too small for two people, for Chrissake.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “Does your wife know?”

  “She don’t know jack shit, that’s what she don’t know.”

  “Is she here?”

  “No, she’s not here, she’s workin’ today.” Self-pity changed the timbre of his voice, put a whine in it. “Used to be Saturdays, weekends, were the best time, plenty to do, places to go, but not no more. Nothing to do but watch the tube, suck down some brews. Too many businesses closed so you can’t even go out and look for a job.”

  “Where does she work?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your wife. Where does she work?”

  Burke squinted at him again. “Who the hell’re you, anyway? Comin’ around here, askin’ about my wife?”

  “Where does she work?”

  “None of your business.” He tried to close the door again. “Hey, move your goddamn foot.”

  “Not until you answer my question.”

  “Want me to move it for you?”

  “You don’t want to try that, Mr. Burke.”

  “No, huh?”

  “No. Where does your wife work?”

  Truculent glare. But when Burke finished measuring him with his blood-flecked eyes, a process that took less than ten seconds, the truculence morphed into sullen resentment. He made a disgusted sound and helped himself to a long swig from the can of malt liquor. He said then, growling the words, “Macy’s. Downtown.”

  “Which department?”

  “Housewares. You satisfied now?”

  Runyon withdrew his foot.

  Predictably Burke said, “Fuck you, man!” and slammed the door, fast.

  Santa Rosa was a small country town, the Sonoma County seat, that had grown up too fast into a sprawling city with a population of a quarter of a million. Its “historic” downtown had been designed around a courthouse square;
the county offices had been relocated elsewhere long ago and what had probably once been a quiet town center was now traffic-clogged, noisy, and spotted with indicators of encroaching urban blight. Between the square and the freeway that bisected the city, an enclosed shopping mall sprawled over two or three blocks. An attendant in the service station where Runyon stopped for gas told him that was where Macy’s was located.

  The usual Saturday crowds roamed the store, but most of the shoppers seemed to be in the clothing departments. There were only two browsers in housewares on the third floor, and nobody at the sales counter except a woman clerk who turned out to be Arlene Burke. Large sandy-haired woman, overweight but with a big-boned frame that carried the extra pounds gracefully enough. Tired eyes, tired face, but the weariness wasn’t the kind caused by overwork or lack of sleep; it had its roots in dead dreams and shattered expectations and an out-of-work, out-of-love drunk who thought of her as a cow.

  Runyon’s preliminary questions put her on edge. “Sean’s not in any trouble, is he?”

  “Do you think he might be?”

  “No, no. It’s just I haven’t heard from him in a while. . . . Why are you looking for my brother?”

  He gave her the same story he’d used on the SunGold driver. “How long since you had contact with him?”

  “More than two months now.”

  “From the time he moved out of your apartment?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “Back to San Francisco. He got a new apartment and a new job there.”

  “Where in San Francisco?”

  “He didn’t tell me. Sometimes Sean can be . . . well, private.”

  “Did he say what kind of job?”

  “No. He said he’d give me all the details later, but he . . . not a word since he left.”

  “Can you think of any reason for that?”

  “No, unless things didn’t work out down there and he decided to move away again. He’s always had terrible luck with jobs and his personal life . . . it turned him into a wanderer. This time, though . . . he’s changed so much, all for the better, and he really does seem ready to settle down.”