Mourners

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.”