Mourners nd-31

by Bill Pronzini

  “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 that, 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 sm
ell 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.”

  “In San Francisco?”

  “I hope so. I had the idea he’d met someone there.”

  “A woman, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ask him if he had?”

  “I did,” she said, “but he just smiled and said he wasn’t ready to talk about it yet.” Pause. “It couldn’t be the woman you’re looking for, could it?”

  Runyon said, “Maybe. Does the name Erin Dumont mean anything to you?”

  “Erin Dumont… no. Is that her name?”

  “You’re sure he never mentioned her?”

  “Positive. Sean’s never talked about any woman with me.”

  “When did you get the idea he’d met someone?”

  “Not long before he moved out. He was so happy-a new man, so totally different from the Sean I grew up with. A lot more… confident is the word, I guess. I could see it as soon as he came here from Sacramento.”

  “When was that?”

  “A year ago this past February.”

  “How long was he in Sacramento?”

  “Not long. Nine or ten months.”

  “So he moved up there right after he quit his job with SunGold Bakery.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you know why he quit SunGold, left San Francisco?”

  “Not really. A wanderer, like I said.”

  “Where did he work in Sacramento?”

  “I don’t know. Some sort of driving job.”

  “Did he live with you the entire time he was in Santa Rosa?”

  “Lord, no,” she said. “My husband would never have stood for that, he made enough of a fuss having Sean around for a month. No, Sean had his own apartment over by the fairgrounds until the lease ran out. He tried to arrange to stay on for one more month, until he could move into his new place in the city, but the landlord wouldn’t agree to it. So I talked Gene, that’s my husband, into letting him stay with us.”

  “What was his job here?”

  “Avondale Electric. They manufacture solenoid valves-he worked in their warehouse and made deliveries.”

  “Avondale is located where?”

  “On Petaluma Hill Road, do you know where that is?”

  “Yes. Did Sean have any friends in Santa Rosa, somebody from work he hung around with?”

&nbs
p; “Not that I know about. He doesn’t make friends easily-he’s always been shy, doesn’t relate well to other people. Women especially.”

  “So he didn’t date much.”

  “Not at all when we were kids. He seemed almost afraid of girls after that time he was expelled from high school. If he did finally meet someone, I couldn’t be happier for him.”

  “Why was he expelled?”

  “For fighting. It wasn’t his fault, he’d worked up enough nerve to talk to a girl he liked and the little bitch laughed at him and some of the boys overheard and started taunting him. Sean is easygoing but when he’s pushed too far… well, he has a temper.”

  “Violent temper?”

  “Just a temper. I have one, too, when I’m picked on.” Her mouth made a lemony pucker. “The Ostracized Ostrows.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The Ostracized Ostrows. That’s what we called ourselves. Neither of us was popular growing up, Sean because he was so heavy and me because…” She broke off, nibbled flecks of dark red off her lower lip-embarrassed now. “I shouldn’t be talking like this, to a stranger. And I really should get out on the floor and do some rearranging and restocking. If the supervisor comes by and catches me wasting time.. ”

  “Just a couple more questions. Does your brother still drive a brown, eighty-eight Ford Taurus, license number 2UGK697?”

  “Still does. It’s old but he keeps it in good condition.”

  “Do you have a photograph of him I could borrow?”

  “A photograph? Well, not with me. And not a recent one.”

  “Even an old one might help.”

  “Well… I could look when I get home. But that won’t be until late-I’m on overtime tonight.”

  “I’d appreciate it. My cell phone number’s on the card I gave you. If you have a photo, I could come by tomorrow and pick it up.”

  “All the way from San Francisco again? On Sunday?”

  “I’m on overtime myself this weekend.”

  “All right,” she said. “If you’ll do me a favor when you find Sean.”

  “If I can.”

  “Ask him to call me? And let me know yourself if everything’s all right with him? I really am starting to worry.” She sighed heavily, and the lines of weary resignation in her face seemed deeper as she said, “Poor Sean, nothing ever seems to work out for him. I had so much hope this time… so much hope for one of us…”