Bleeders

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.”

“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.”

“Where do you suppose he went?”

She shook her head.

“To see Annette Byers?”

“He saw her yesterday. He said we didn’t have to worry, she was leaving right away.”

“Start at the beginning, Mrs. Johnson. Make it easier on both of us.”

She drew a breath before she said, “That woman called here last week. Out of the blue... Grant swore it was the first time he’d heard from her since she gave up custody of Kevin. He wasn’t lying. He was as surprised as I was — I could see it in his eyes.”

“What day was that?”

“Saturday. Early Saturday morning.”

“Where was she calling from?”

“She wouldn’t say.”

“Purpose of the call?”

“She wanted a place to stay for a week or two. She said she was having problems with an abusive boyfriend, had no one else to turn to.”

“She wanted to stay here, in your house?”

“Lord, no. She wouldn’t dare have asked that. Grant has a fishing shack on the river that belonged to his father.”

“Sacramento River?”

“Yes. Up beyond Knight’s Landing. She knew about it from when they were... seeing each other, hoped he’d still have it.” Melanie Johnson’s mouth flexed and tightened, as if she were tasting bile. “He used to take her there. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was where Kevin was conceived.”

“What was your husband’s reaction to her request?”

“He didn’t want anything to do with her, after all this time. But she begged him... she was crying; he said she really sounded terrified. Grant has a soft heart... too soft sometimes. He gave in. I guess I can’t blame him. He said she could stay at the shack as long as she kept away from us, from Kevin. He told her where he hides the key so he wouldn’t have to see her.”

“Just her staying at the shack, no one else?”

“That’s what she said.”

“Did either of you hear from her again?”

“No. But then we read in the papers that the police were looking for her, that she was mixed up in that murder case. And yesterday a San Francisco newspaper reporter called Grant and asked about her. It scared us. If the police found her at the shack, we were afraid Grant would be arrested, too... aiding a fugitive or something.”

“So what did you decide to do?”

“Grant said the best thing was to tell her she couldn’t stay any longer, make her leave if he had to. There’s no phone at the shack, so he drove up yesterday afternoon after work.”

“And?”

“She didn’t give him any trouble, he said. Agreed to leave right away. But he was gone a long time, and he seemed upset when he came home.”

“Did you ask him about that?”

“Yes. He said it was painful seeing her again, and he stopped for a couple of beers afterward.” She paused and then said, “Only now you tell me he’s not at work today. If he went back up there... why would he do that?”

The question was for herself, not me. I said nothing.

“I don’t understand it. He’s not a liar, really he’s not. We’ve never had any secrets from each other. He’d never start up with that bitch again, I know he wouldn’t... But now that I think about it, his breath didn’t smell of beer last night...”

I was not going there with her. I said, “There’s probably a simple explanation, Mrs. Johnson,” and then I asked, “Where exactly is the fishing shack?”

She told me; it sounded easy enough to find. Then she said, “You have to tell me something now. How much trouble is my husband in? Can he be arrested for aiding a fugitive?”

“Not if everything you’ve told me is the truth.” And if he hadn’t been helping her in some other way, last night and/or today.

“It’s the truth, believe me.” She sighed heavily. “He’ll be mad at me for talking to you like this.”

“You did the right thing, Mrs. Johnson.”

She lifted Michael’s thin body, hugged him so tight against her breast he began to squirm. “Yes,” she said a little grimly, “I know I did.”

I crossed the Sacramento River on Highway 113 out of Woodland. The Sacramento is a big river, 375 miles of loops and bends and white-water rapids from its headwaters near Mount Shasta to San Francisco Bay; an important river in terms of agribusiness, transportation, the endangered Chinook salmon; a controversial river for the ongoing, often bitter struggles over water use, pollution control, and its fragile ecosystem; a badly used river by logging, mining, manufacturing, developmental, and political interests. But you might not guess any of that if you saw it for the first time from the bridge at Knight’s Landing. From there the Sacramento looks small, tame, insignificant — a none too appetizing muddy brown, glinting under the rays of the midday sun.

Along the rivercourse south of Knight’s Landing is where Sacramento’s gentry live in expensive ranch-style homes and pink-and-white estate villas, their pleasure boats kept in ritzy marinas; north of the village is not much of anything except open grassland and wetland, a fifty-mile stretch up to Colusa that unrestricted logging has all but denuded of the riparian forests that once grew along there. Grant Johnson’s fishing shack was in that stretch, a few miles upriver.

Highway 113 continues northeast to Yuba City, but at a wide spot called Robbins, Melanie Johnson had told me, a back road branches off to parallel the river. I found it and followed it a couple of miles to where a rutted track angled over to the river hamlet of Kirkville. Look for a dirt lane just outside Kirkville, she’d told me. I looked, spotted it, turned, and jounced along its narrow, snaky length for a tenth of a mile until I could see the river again.

That was far enough in the car. I left it sitting in the middle of the lane, not because the track was little used, but to block any potential escape. Before I got out, I checked the loads in the .38 and put the weapon in my pocket.

I walked ahead slowly, keening the way an animal does. Blackbirds chattered in a line of bushes that partially blocked my view of the river; there was no other sound that I could hear. A gusty little wind brought the water smell to me, a good, fresh smell in spite of its muddiness.

The bushes helped screen my approach. When I reached them, I had a clear look at the river, a few hundred yards wide at this point, and part of the near shoreline. Stunted willows, wild grape, and three tumbledown, board-and-batten shacks squatting at the water’s edge at fifty-yard intervals. Two of the shacks had stubby, rotting piers jutting from their backsides; the one I wanted was the second of the the two, the farthest upriver. From where I stood, I could see only its outer half. I eased ahead a pace at a time until the bushes thinned and the rest of it came into sight.

The front of the shack had two steps leading up to the door. A man was sitting on the top one, hunched forward, elbows on knees and chin on the backs of his hands. Brown-haired, brown-bearded, and unfamiliar — Grant Johnson, no doubt, because the pickup truck parked nearby had the words RiteClean Plumbing and Heating on the driver’s door.

But what tightened the muscles in my neck and shoulders, my fingers around the 38’s grip, was neither Johnson nor his truck. It was the other car parked there, drawn up close on the shack’s far side.

Annette Byers’ MG.