Mourners nd-31

by Bill Pronzini

  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 hi
m?”

  “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?”

  “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 leavin
g. 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.