Mourners: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery) (17 page)

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.”

“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?”

“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 . . .”

Avondale Electric was open on Saturday. Runyon talked to a woman in the office and a man in the warehouse; both had good things to say about Sean Ostrow’s job performance, but nothing at all to tell him about Ostrow’s present whereabouts or the new job in the city. If he’d used Avondale as a reference, his new employer hadn’t seen fit to follow up.

The residential section where Ostrow had lived in Santa Rosa, between the county fairgrounds and Luther Burbank Park, was close by. Runyon drove over there, even though he knew it would be wasted effort. And it was. He spent an hour at the apartment building and in the neighborhood looking for somebody who’d known Ostrow, and couldn’t even find one person who remembered him.

Half the day still lay ahead of him. He drove around Santa Rosa for a time, then took Highway 101 to the small towns that lay to the north. Windsor was a newish collection of tract houses and shopping malls, Healdsburg an old tourist-laden wine-country town built around a square, Geyserville a wine-country village without the tourists or the square. He didn’t stay long in any of them, just enough time to mark and memorize the territory. From Geyserville he went west through a long valley filled
with vineyards, small wineries, and droves of early summer tourists, then up around Lake Sonoma, then south through a different part of Dry Creek Valley and back to Santa Rosa.

Still only four o’clock. He could hang around up here and if Ostrow’s sister called and had a photograph, he could go pick it up. No. He’d had enough of the North Bay and its backroads for one day, and there was still Sunday to get through. He drove back down 101 to the city.

When he came through the toll plaza on the bridge, he took Lincoln Boulevard down through the Presidio. Even before he reached Sea Cliff and Twenty-fifth Avenue, he knew where he was going without thinking about it.

Risa Niland lived a block off Geary and another block from Washington High School. He turned up Thirtieth Avenue past the school’s athletic fields. In big letters strung across the front of the stadium entrance on that side were the words
OF ALL VICTORIES THE FIRST AND GREATEST IS FOR MAN TO CONQUER HIMSELF—PLATO
. Nice sentiment, but how many students paid attention to it, took it to heart? Safe bet that it wasn’t many. For that matter how many people could look back on their lives from any age and say honestly that they’d conquered themselves? Not him, for damn sure.