“Uh-uh. Still hasn’t been found, by the way. I checked with Felicia. Also no word on Byers, and the cops haven’t turned up her connection to Manganaris yet.”
“They will eventually,” I said. “How about other people with that name? Any in the state?”
“Surprise there. Three — one in L.A., one in Hollister, one in Yreka.”
“Could be they’re all related in some way.”
“That’s what I’m digging on now.”
“All right, but don’t phone any of them. We don’t want to alert a relative Manganaris might be in touch with. As far as he knows, no one’s ID’ed him as the shooter.”
I had a little more difficulty finding Rio Oso than I had Benson Avenue. It was a one-block cul-de-sac that looped in behind another street in a solidly middle-class neighborhood of older homes. The Johnsons’ address was a two-story brown-shingled house with a porch that wrapped half around on one side. A gnarled old black walnut provided shade in front and on the porch side. The driveway and the curb in front were empty, but I could see a garage in back and the doors were shut.
Nobody answered the doorbell. I thought about walking up the drive to check the garage, decided that wasn’t such a good idea in a neighborhood like this, and went back to the car. Wait awhile, see if anybody showed up? It was either that or talk to the neighbors, and I was not ready to try that yet. But waiting here, one man alone in a parked car, was a bad idea for the same reason as trespassing. Better to go away somewhere for a time and then come back.
I drove around until I spotted a strip mall that had a cafe in it. Breakfast had been a cup of coffee and a glass of orange juice, so I sat in there and drank more coffee and ate eggs and toast that I didn’t particularly want. That used up half an hour. I made myself linger another ten minutes before I climbed back into the car and returned to Rio Oso.
The Johnson driveway was occupied now, by a dark blue SUV that must have just pulled in. The driver’s door was open, and a blonde woman in Levi’s and a white shirt was balancing a baby in one arm and using the other to open one of those fold-up strollers they have nowadays. A little boy of about four skipped around beside her; from a distance it looked as though he was performing some sort of ritual dance.
I parked, walked over there and up the drive. The woman looked startled when she saw me; the boy stopped his dance and stared with big round eyes like a kid in a Keane painting. I said through what I hoped was a disarming smile, “Mrs. Johnson?”
“Yes? What is it?” She was about twenty-five, big-boned, and attractive. But the Levi’s were a mistake, pointing up the fact that she had heavy thighs and broad hips.
“I need to talk to your husband. Can you tell me—”
“What do you want with Grant?” Wary and nervous, both.
In the detective business you learn to read people quickly and to make snap decisions in how to handle them. Game-playing would not get me anywhere with Melanie Johnson. A direct, straightforward approach was the one chance I had at cooperation from her. I unpocketed my wallet, doing it slowly so as not to alarm her, and flipped open to the photostat of my investigator’s license. I said my name at the same time I showed her the license.
She went pale. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again, fishlike, before she said, “You... you’re the detective who was almost...”
“Almost murdered in Daly City. That’s right.”
“Oh, God. What do you... why are you here?”
“To see your husband, as I said.”
“Why? Grant doesn’t know anything about that. He’s a good man; he never hurt anyone in his life.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“Then what do you want with him? For Lord’s sake, we have a family, little children...”
“I mean no harm to you or your husband or your family, Mrs. Johnson. Information is all I’m after.”
“I told you, he doesn’t know—”
“Annette Byers,” I said.
She caught her breath. Made a little sound in her throat and said, “Oh, God,” again.
“How long has it been since you’ve seen her?”
“I’ve never seen her. That was all over before Grant and I met. I don’t know that bitch, I don’t want anything to do with her.”
“How long since your husband saw her last?”
The baby in the stroller set up a sudden wailing. The little boy moved over and hugged his mother’s leg. Melanie Johnson looked at the infant, at the boy, at the SUV, at the house, at the street — everywhere but at me. The beginnings of panic glistened in her eyes, created a twitch at one corner of her mouth.
“I meant what I said about no harm to you. Finding Annette Byers and the man she’s with is the only reason I’m here. If you have any idea where they are, I’d advise you to tell me now. It might save you a visit from the police later on.”
The baby yowled louder. Mrs. Johnson said almost desperately, “She needs changing. We can’t talk out here... the neighbors... I can’t think with her screaming like that.”
“Inside would be better,” I agreed. “Were you just out shopping?”
“What? Oh, shopping, yes...”
I gestured at the SUV. “Groceries inside?”
“Yes, but...”
“You go ahead with your kids. I’ll bring the groceries.”
My offer eased the panic in her; the look she flashed me was more stunned than frightened. She nodded, turned to push the stroller toward the front walk, the four-year-old clinging to her leg. I opened the SUV’s rear door, hauled out four large bags of food and paper products, and lugged them onto the porch. She had the front door open by then; I followed her inside.
The house was cluttered with toys but otherwise reasonably well kept. She said, “The kitchen’s this way,” and led me out there. I put the groceries on the sink counter while she lifted the squalling infant from the stroller. “I have to change her right away. She gets a rash if she’s wet too long.”
“All right.”
We went back into the toy-strewn living room. She said distractedly, “Will you watch Michael while I change the baby?”
“Sure.”
She told the boy to sit down, took the infant into another room. I leaned a hip on the arm of a recliner and watched Michael watch me with his big round eyes. After a time, when the baby’s yowls subsided, I winked at him and made a rocking gesture with folded arms. All that got me was a pooch face. I treated him to one of my own in return. He stuck out his tongue; I did the same. He was giggling and mugging at me like Red Skelton when his mother returned.
She said, “You’re good with him. Do you have children?”
“One adopted daughter. She’s ten.”
“My other son is adopted. He’s in kindergarten now.” Her mouth quirked. “Grant’s son by that bitch. But I guess you know that.”
“Yes.”
“I love Kevin like he’s my own, I really do. I’m the only mother he’s ever had. She never wanted anything to do with him. Or with Grant anymore until...”
“Until when, Mrs. Johnson?”
She sat heavily on a corduroy sofa. Michael ran over and hopped up beside her and laid his head in her lap. She stroked his dark-blond hair absently as she said, “I want to tell you, but I don’t know... I shouldn’t say anything without Grant being here.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“At work. I’d better call him...”
“He’s not at work,” I said.
“He... what? He’s not?”
“I stopped by RiteClean Plumbing before I came here. The woman in the office said he was taking the day off to attend to personal business. Called in about it this morning.”
“Oh, God,” she said.
“He didn’t say anything to you?”
“No. He... no, not a word.”