Bill Pronzini - Mourners

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 him?”

“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?”