“Our contact’s gone for the day and I can’t get into their files on my own. Well, maybe I could but it’d take a while, and my daddy’d kick my ass if I got arrested for illegal hacking.”
“Try checking with the INS, see if Manganaris is a resident alien. They’ll have family history if he is.”
“Already thought of that. Next up.”
She called the local Immigration and Naturalization Service office, went through a glib piece of rigmarole in which she claimed to be personnel director of the agency and needed to know if Harold Manganaris, who had applied for a job with us, had a valid green card and to verify certain information he’d given on his application. Wasted effort. No green card. So he was either a citizen by birth or adoption, or an unregistered alien.
Tamara contacted the Australian embassy, to determine if he had or had ever had a valid Australian passport. They said they’d get back to her, but when five o’clock rolled around they hadn’t called. Tamara hadn’t found out anything from any other source by then, either.
Which left me with a decision to make. Hanging around, waiting for something to turn up, was playing hell with my nerves, and it would be worse tomorrow. I craved movement, activity. One thing I could do was to drive up to Woodland and have a talk with Grant Johnson, find out if he was in fact hiding useful information about Annette Byers. Fine, but should I make the drive tonight or wait until first thing in the morning? If I left now I’d have to fight commute traffic through the city, across the Bay Bridge, and most of the way on Highway 80 as far as Vacaville — a two-hour trip stretched out into a three-hour-plus one. I just wasn’t up to it. Tired from all the running around today, not much sleep the past three nights, still stiff and sore... I needed rest more than anything else. The drive would be much easier in the morning, going against the commute. And if Tamara turned up a lead that demanded immediate attention, I could always reverse direction without losing too much time.
Tomorrow, then. Push myself too hard, and I wouldn’t be in shape to deal with Manganaris when I finally found him.
Kerry had to work late — I phoned her before I left the office — so I picked up Emily at the Simpsons. They were Diamond Heights neighbors, the Simpsons, whose daughter went to the same school and was the same age. Emily had never had many friends, but she seemed to be slowly forming a bond with Carla Simpson. Encouraging. So was the fact that she seemed to be coping better since our talk Saturday night, no longer quite so frightened or withdrawn.
I made an effort to spend quality time with her this night. She was good with computers, as most kids are these days, and I let her show me some things on her PC. Simple, basic stuff, but I had to admit that I found it of mild interest. Resistance waning a bit? Maybe. I was never going to be a full-fledged convert to modern technology, but even technophobes can get to know the enemy without compromising their principles. I said as much to Emily, and she laughed. That in itself made the computer lesson worthwhile.
I suggested we make dinner and surprise Kerry. She liked the idea, so we put together a meat lasagna and a green salad, messing up the kitchen and then giving it a good cleaning afterward. She was animated the whole time; I heard her laugh again, several times. The way she looked at me tonight, with more love than fear and uncertainty, led me to remember that she’d called me Daddy in that house in Daly City. She hadn’t done it again since, but I found myself hoping she would. I wanted to hear her use that word more than I would have thought possible a year or so ago.
Kerry was surprised and pleased when she came home. The good domestic mood lasted through dinner and afterward — all surface cheer, the kind that can be shattered by the wrong word or action, but that didn’t happen. On our way back to normal.
Later, when Kerry and I were in bed, I drew her close and said, “I’ve shut you out the past few days and I feel bad about it. I’m sorry, babe.”
“I understand what you’re going through.”
“I know you do, but you’re hurting, too. Selfish and stupid of me not to confide in you. My God, I talked to Emily about what happened. And Tamara knows more than you about what I’ve been doing since.”
“Do you want to talk about it now?”
“Yes,” I said, and I told her about Harold Manganaris, how I’d found out about him and what I believed he and Annette Byers had done. Two things I didn’t tell her, because I still did not have the right words to express them: the sense of internal bleeding and the constant reminder of the clicks.
She said, “Have you told all of that to the police?”
“Not yet. Not until I get closer to Manganaris.”
“How close? You feel you have to confront him?”
“At some point, yes. But not in any physical way — none of that revenge crap. Just to let him know to his face that I helped nail him. And it doesn’t have to be before he’s arrested. In jail afterward is good enough.”
“Then why—?”
“I need to feel I’ve done everything I possibly can before I step aside. Manganaris and Byers heaped chaos on me, my client, you and Emily by association. The job of bringing them down is as much mine as the system’s. It’s the only way I’ll ever have any peace of mind.”
“Closure,” Kerry said.
“That’s as good a word for it as any.”
“And the sooner the better.”
“Exactly.”
We lay in silence then, holding each other, warmed by each other. I felt that I could sleep tonight, without evil dreams or night sweats. The clicks were there, but they did not seem to be quite as loud. No, not quite as loud.
18
Woodland. Old Gold Rush town on Highway 5 a dozen miles northeast of Davis and twenty miles or so from Sacramento, population around forty thousand, supported these days by light industry and agriculture. Quiet, tree-shaded streets; a premium on Victorian and two-story frame houses on large lots. Sweltering hot in the summer months, but the Sacramento River ran its twisting course a few miles away and offered recreational ways to beat the heat.
It was warm there even for this time of year when I rolled in at ten o’clock. I stopped at a Shell station off the freeway to fuel up and ask directions to Benson Avenue. Fifteen minutes after that I was parked in front of RiteClean Plumbing and Heating and on my way into a sprawling showroom packed with kitchen and bathroom displays and appliances.
I had a story ready to explain my request for an audience with Grant Johnson, but I didn’t need to use it. The elderly woman on office duty told me he was taking the day off work.
“What reason did he give?” I asked, making it sound casual.
“Well, a personal matter.”
“Nothing serious, I hope.”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Did he call in today or arrange for the time off last night?”
“He called this morning.”
I asked the woman how to get to Rio Oso, saying that I would try to reach Johnson at home. She wasn’t the suspicious type; she not only obliged, she smiled and wished me a nice day.
Outside in the car, I checked in with Tamara. She said, “Mostly spam this morning.”
“Spam?”
“Junk, useless stuff. Computer term.”
“Nothing useful?”
“Well, I got his DMV records. California driver’s license, renewed three years ago. Duboce address, so that’s a dead end. Height: six feet. Weight: two-twenty. Hair and eyes, both brown. Date of birth: June 16, 1959. Place still unknown.”
“What kind of car’s registered to him?”
“Olds Cutlass, five years old.” She read me the license plate number.
“Might still be driving it, might not. One thing’s sure — he’s not using Byers’ MG.”