Mourners: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery)

by Bill Pronzini

  “That doesn’t matter, either, right now.”

  “Please. I want to know.”

  “He shot himself.”

  “He . . . shot . . . That can’t be right . . .”

  “There’s no doubt.”

  “Why would he do that? He didn’t own a gun. He wouldn’t have a gun in the house.”

  “He was sick,” Casement said, “he wanted to die. Get it over with quick. A pistol . . . that’s as quick as it gets.”

  “Where would he get a gun?”

  “Bought it somewhere, a gun shop . . .”

  She shook her head, a meaningless, loose-necked movement.

  “Lynn, maybe you should lie down again.”

  “No,” she said. “I want to see him.”

  “Christ, you don’t want to do that, not now—”

  “I want to see him.” She asked me, “He’s not still at the beach? You didn’t just leave him there?”

  “No, of course not. I called the police as soon as I found him.”

  “You should have called us, too,” Casement said.

  I ignored that. So did Mrs. Troxell.

  She said, “And they . . . took him away?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “The city morgue.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Basement of the Hall of Justice.”

  “They’ll let me see him?”

  “Yes. You’ll need to make an official identification.”

  Casement said, “Does she have to be the one? Can’t I do it, or somebody else?”

  “Next of kin. But it doesn’t have to be now. Morning’s soon enough.”

  “Now,” she said, “right now.”

  He said, “Lynn, please—”

  “No. Will you take me? If not, he will. Or I’ll drive myself.”

  “I’ll take you, if you’re sure it’s what you want—”

  “What I want is for my husband to still be alive.” She did that habitual twining thing with her long-fingered hands. She was so pale now she might have been exsanguinated; the skin across her cheeks was almost transparent, so that you could see the veins, the crawling muscles beneath the skin. “I’ll get dressed and we’ll go. It won’t take me long.”

  “You are dressed—”

  “I can’t go like this. For God’s sake, Drew.”

  She twisted away from him, walked stiffly out of sight. He stared after her for a few seconds before he faced me again. Anguish showed in his dark eyes; he spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

  “She’ll be all right,” he said. To himself mostly, as if he were trying to convince himself that it was true. “It’ll take time, that’s all. Time.”

  I stayed silent.

  All he could find to say to me was, “Thanks for what you did,” in a distracted voice.

  “For nothing,” I said.

  I found my own way out.

  Four thirty, a hint of dawn in the dark restless sky, when I got home. I let myself in as quietly as I could. Kerry had left a couple of lights on for me; I went down the hall, eased open the bedroom door. The night-light in the bathroom let me see that she was asleep. But she’d always been a fairly light sleeper and I knew that if I went in there and got undressed and got into bed, she would wake up and ask questions that I didn’t feel like answering right now. More importantly, she needed sleep and she wouldn’t get any more if I woke her up. Neither of us would.

  I stood watching her for a time. She’d kicked off the blanket and sheet and lay sprawled out on her back, breathing in soft little snores, her auburn hair fluffed out around her head and one arm flung over on my side of the bed. She looked very young in that pose and that light, like Emily does sleeping. Young and innocent and vulnerable.

  I love you so damn much, I thought. You have to tell me what’s wrong, babe, let me do something, anything to help fix it. If I ever lost you . . .

  But I wasn’t going to let myself go there. Not after what I’d been dealing with. I eased the door shut again and shut off the hall light and catfooted into the living room. It was early-morning cold in there, and I hadn’t been able to get warm since that first long walk on the beach; I turned the heat up past seventy. Then I took off my shoes and lay down on the couch with my coat on and Kerry’s afghan pulled up to my chin. I thought maybe I could sleep a little, or at least lapse into a doze, but I was wide awake and I stayed that way as daylight began to creep in around the drawn drapes.

  I kept seeing James Troxell’s dead face, stark and bloody in the beam of my flashlight. And the film of windblown sand over his staring eyes. And the shiny new .22 in his stiffened fingers.

  Suicide. Such a waste, such a stupid senseless needless waste.

  And after a while it was another dead face I was seeing, another stupid senseless needless waste I was thinking about. Eberhardt’s. Eberhardt, and the way he’d died.

  23

  JAKE RUNYON

  The call came in on his cell phone shortly before eleven. He was in the field on new agency business, a routine investigation on behalf of the plaintiff in a wrongful death lawsuit. But the timing was good; he’d just parked his Ford on Stanyan Street and was walking down toward Haight where the subject of his first interview owned a music store, so he was able to take the call on the move.

  He recognized the woman’s voice even before she identified herself. “I hope I’m not calling at a bad time,” she said. Tentative and apologetic, the way she would approach most things in her life. “This is Arlene Burke. Sean Ostrow’s sister?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Burke.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call Saturday night or yesterday. I wanted to, but . . . well, my husband”—stress on the word husband, as if it were a bad taste in her mouth—“he didn’t want me to have anything more to do with you. He threw a fit about it. He said you threatened him. Did you?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I didn’t think so. I suppose it was the other way around.”

  “He was abusive, yes.”

  “He can be such a bastard,” she said with sudden vehemence. “If I’d known what he was, I never would have married him.”

  Runyon said nothing. She didn’t expect a response; she was just venting.

  There was a staticky hiss on the line, as if she’d exhaled sharply into the receiver on her end. “Well. You don’t want to hear about any of that,” she said. “I called for two reasons.”

  “Yes?”

  “I found a photograph of Sean you can have. It’s not recent, but it’s a good likeness. Do you still want to pick it up?”

  “Later today, if that’s all right.”

  “It’ll have to be here at Macy’s,” she said. “That’s where I’m calling from, I’m on my break. I work until six tonight, so any time before then.”

  “I should be able to get there midafternoon.”

  “The other thing I wanted to tell you, I—”

  The rest of what she said was lost in the diesel roar of a passing Muni bus. Runyon turned into the doorway of a bookshop, put his back to the street and plugged his other ear with a fingertip. When the noise subsided he said, “Sorry, I couldn’t hear you.”

  “It sounds like you’re on a busy street.”

  “I am. What was it you said?”

  “I remembered something. About Sean’s new job in the city.”

  “Yes?”

  “He never said exactly what the job is, so I don’t know if this will help. But he did say it was part-time and seasonal.”

  “Seasonal?”

  “That was the word he used. But it didn’t matter, he said, because it was a dream job, another dream about to come true.”

  “Also his exact words?”

  “Well, I think so. That’s what I remember.”

  “Any idea what the ‘other dream about to come true’ was?”

  “No. But it could be the someone he met, whoever she is.”

  “This was in late March?”

  �
�That’s right. The end of March.”

  “And he left for the city on April first.”

  “Early that morning. That was the day he was moving into his new apartment.”

  “And the day he was starting his new job?”

  “. . . No, actually. I think he said he’d have some time to get settled first.”

  Runyon thanked her and rang off. Call Tamara right away or get the interview over with first? The interview was immediate agency business, the appointment time firm; Sean Ostrow was personal business, still unconfirmed and speculative. He left the doorway and threaded his way to the music shop through the neocounterculture types that crowded Haight Street.

  Tamara said, “Baseball?”

  “Ostrow’s a big Giants fan.”

  “So you think this new job of his has something to do with the Giants?”

  “Adds up that way. Baseball is seasonal, it’s part-time work for everybody but players and management. Perfect fit for a guy like Ostrow.”

  “With the team itself?”

  “Maybe.”

  “He’s a teamster, right? Some sort of driving job?”

  “That’s one possibility,” Runyon said. “But my guess is, it’s connected with the stadium.”

  “Could be any one of a couple dozen jobs then.”

  “He told his sister it was a dream job. For him that’d be one where he’s inside the stadium while games are being played, in a position to watch. Narrows it down. Usher, security officer, one of the roving vendors.”

  “Shouldn’t be any trouble finding out that much, as long as he’s using his own name.”

  “No reason for him not to be.”

  “But if he is working at SBC Park, you won’t find him there this week or next. Giants are on the road.”

  “I know. Can you get his address from their personnel file?”

  “Tricky,” Tamara said. “If the team and the stadium were city-owned, no problem—I could probably get it through Parks and Recreation. But they’re privately owned. Limited partnership called . . . San Francisco Baseball Associates, something like that.”

  “There’s police presence at the games. Couldn’t your contact at SFPD turn up Ostrow’s address?”

  “Longshot. Officers aren’t supplied by SFPD, they’re off-duty cops hired by the SFBA. I know that because of an insurance case we had a while back.”

  “What about the rest of the park security force? Private firm?”

  “Uh-uh. SFBA has their own security task force.”

  “Must be some way to get that address.”

  “Direct appeal to SFBA, maybe. If that doesn’t work, I’ll get creative.”

  “Anything you can do.”

  “Yeah, man,” she said. “You just leave it to me.”

  24

  KERRY

  She was five minutes early for her two o’clock appointment with Dr. Pappas. Not that she had any intention of arriving early. Usually the six-block walk from Bates and Carpenter to the 450 Sutter medical building took a leisurely twenty minutes. Today she seemed to have done it in a fast fifteen. Her body trying to convince her head that it was in good shape in spite of what was growing inside it? Hey, look, I’m not a bit tired, brisk walks don’t bother me. Next year why don’t we sign up for the Bay to Breakers marathon? Sure, great idea. If we’re still here next year.

  She checked in at the desk and then sat on one of the uncomfortable chairs in the nondescript waiting room and opened an old issue of People and leafed through it without seeing anything on the printed pages. She was at ease, though. Not tense at all. Funny thing was, she’d always been at ease in doctors’ offices, hospitals. Most people, like the one other person in the waiting room, a tight-lipped woman in an expensive Donna Karan suit, were time-conscious and showed little fidgety signs of nervous tension, as if they were afraid of receiving bad news. Not Kerry Wade. Always optimistic, that was her. Even now, when she knew the news she was going to be given was bad, had known it the instant Dr. Pappas’s nurse called to ask her to come in for an immediate consultation, she was more or less relaxed. As though, ho-hum, it was just another routine visit to her gynecologist.

  Still optimistic, too? Not as much as she had been, or tried to be, before the nurse’s call this morning, but hopeful nonetheless. It was not in her nature to be downbeat. She was no longer even particularly upset, or resigned. What she was, she supposed, was numb. She’d passed through most of the emotional stages in the past week—fear, anger, anxiety, everything except denial. That was one of many things Cybil had taught her growing up: accept facts, face your problems, and then deal with them.

  So far she’d accepted this fact, faced this problem, but she wondered again if it had been the right choice to do it alone except for Cybil. Same conclusion: Yes, even though it hadn’t been easy. She’d come close to telling Bill the truth on Friday night; would have if Jake Runyon hadn’t called when he did. She was glad then and still glad that she hadn’t. He was strong, tough, courageous, but he was also emotional and overly sensitive and inclined to pessimism. If she’d burdened him with this from the first, he’d have been a basket case by now, and coping with that on top of the rest would have turned her into one. It had been hard enough telling Cybil, coping with her reaction and with her own worst fears about Russ Dancer. Hard enough dealing with the long wait as it was. And if the biopsy results had turned out negative, anguishing Bill prematurely would have been an unnecessary cruelty.

  Now . . .

  She couldn’t keep it from him any longer, of course. Or from Emily. Unfair to both of them if she tried even for a little while longer; unfair to herself. She would need their support to get through what lay ahead. She’d always believed that any sort of physical illness was affected, positively or negatively, by the person’s mental attitude—and her optimism wasn’t unshakable. It would require plenty of shoring up over the next few months. . . .

  The door to the inner offices opened and the heavyset young nurse put her head out. “Ms. Wade? Will you come in, please?”

  The tight-lipped woman shifted position on her chair and aimed a frown in Kerry’s direction. Waiting longer, so she believed it should be her turn. Kerry smiled at her, thinking: You don’t know how lucky you are, lady. I wish all I was facing here was a little inconvenience and a sore butt. It wasn’t much of a private joke, but it allowed her to hold the smile in place as she followed the nurse inside.

  None of the usual routine today of being weighed and having her pulse rate and blood pressure taken; nor was she deposited in one of the examining rooms as per usual. Ushered straight into Dr. Pappas’s private office, where the doctor stood waiting behind her desk. The nurse closed the door behind Kerry as soon as she stepped through.

  Audra Pappas had been her gynecologist for more than fifteen years. Their relationship was strictly doctor-patient, pleasant enough but without any personal connection. That was fine with Kerry, now especially. No-nonsense, straightforward professionalism was what she wanted and needed in the present circumstances. So was the air of authoritative competence she projected. Competence and efficiency were the two words that best described Dr. Pappas. Midforties, tall, sandy-haired, brusque, with very little if any sense of humor—as if life and the practice of medicine were too important to her to be tempered with either levity or social niceties.

  She seldom smiled, but she smiled now, a brief stretching of her closed lips, as she took Kerry’s hand—a firm handshaker, Dr. Pappas—and invited her to sit down. Professional, that smile, meant to be reassuring. If Kerry hadn’t known what was coming, the uncharacteristic smile would have told her.

  Pappas sat behind her desk, folded her hands on top of a thick file folder. The Kerry Wade file, no doubt. Wherein the damning evidence lay. At length she said, “I imagine you know why I asked you to come in this afternoon.”

  “The biopsy results. Bad news.”

  “Well, the results are not what we hoped for. To begin with, the biopsy surgeon wasn’t able
to remove the entire mass.”

  “Large tumor, then.”

  “Substantial, yes.”

  “And not benign.”

  “No. Malignant, I’m afraid.”

  Despite the fact that she’d prepared herself for it, the confirmation still jolted her a little. Malignant. What a nasty little word that was, one of those words that exactly fits and conveys its meaning. A malignant word.

  She cleared her throat before she trusted herself to speak in a normal voice. “Do you think we caught it early enough?”

  “I hope we have.”

  “Meaning it’s too soon to tell?”

  “Yes.”

  “So. What’s the next step?”

  “You’ll need to consult with a cancer surgeon. As soon as possible.”

  “Is there one you recommend?”

  “Dr. Emil Janek at UC Med Center is one of the best. I’ll make an appointment for you.”

  “All right. And then what? Further tests, surgery?”

  “Both.”

  “What kind of surgery? Lumpectomy?”

  “Dr. Janek will help you make that decision. It depends, first of all, on the grade and stage of the tumor and whether its borders seem fairly distinct or not. The more diffuse the cells, the more invasive the cancer and the more radical the necessary surgery.”

  “Full or partial mastectomy.”

  “Yes. Some women opt for that in any case.”

  “Better chance of survival?”

  “Actually,” Pappas said, “clinical studies have shown there’s a small difference in the survival rate between a lumpectory and either type of mastectomy. The reason some women make that choice is the need for a period of radiation therapy following a lumpectomy.”

  “How long a period?”

  “A minimum of six weeks, five days a week. Longer, if necessary, to make certain all the cancerous cells in the breast have been destroyed.”

  She dreaded the thought of losing a breast, of the need for reconstructive surgery or worse, a prosthesis. It wouldn’t matter to Bill, would have no effect on their relationship, but it would matter to her; it was her breast, a part of Kerry Wade that would be lost forever. But the prospect of six weeks of radiation was no more appealing. Fatigue, all the other side effects . . . God.