The Color of Fear

by Marcia Muller

  And I’d thought I had employee problems!

  Arthur Wight was a stocky little man; at first glance he reminded me of SpongeBob SquarePants. His brushy blond head was perched on his shoulders without discernible evidence of a neck. The rest of him, clad in a yellow-and-pink Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts—in December, no less!—followed the same general body shape down to his knees, of which one was knobby and scarred, the other encased in a brace. He hobbled around his desk toward me, holding out his hand.

  “Ms. McCone,” he said, “sorry to meet you in such wretched shape. Please be warned not to take up skiing in your sixties.” Then he motioned me to a chair.

  “Actually,” I told him, “I did take it up in my teens. A broken ankle on the bunny slope told me it was not my sport.”

  “You displayed good sense.” He looked down at a file on the desk before him. “I understand you’re here about last year’s congressional hearings.”

  “Yes, I am. Someone connected with them may be making targets of me and my husband, Hy Ripinsky.”

  “In what way?”

  I explained the attack on Elwood.

  Wight leaned back in his chair, brow furrowed. “And you think I may be involved in that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “No, you don’t.” Now he leaned forward. “I will tell you this, Ms. McCone, the arms dealing back then was the act of a young, stupid, wrongly idealistic young man. I was fortunate not to go to prison for my crimes. I’m sure that with your tech support, your agency can find out about all my activities since then, but let me tell you: I have never again strayed from the law. I’ve built up a reasonable practice here. No newsworthy or outstanding cases like yours or your colleagues’. A property-line dispute here, a child-custody case there. I’ve done a considerable amount of mediating: divorces, employer-employee conflicts, neighbors-versus-neighborhood-association disputes. Most of them were resolved to all parties’ satisfaction. I’ve found that most people don’t want to fight; they just don’t want to be told what to do; they want to be left alone.”

  Amen to that.

  I asked, “Are you still in touch with any of the—as you put it—young, stupid, and wrongly idealistic people you associated with?”

  “No.” He smiled cynically. “Those I know of are too busy improving their portfolios, golf scores, or real estate values.” Now he leaned forward, hands clasped on the desk. “I’d like to emphasize, Ms. McCone, that I don’t disapprove of any of their current choices. No one, no matter how dedicated or passionate about a cause, can nurse that flame forever. There’s a rule about that: After ten years, it’s starting to burn out. After twenty, it’s gone.”

  I’d heard the same thing years before from a friend who was an EMT, and from another who was an undercover cop. So far I was still loving my work, and I hoped I would for many more years.

  Another line of investigation closed.

  11:15 a.m.

  Derek had emailed me Don Taber’s sketchy background information. He was a collector—read scavenger—of used automotive parts, many of which he found in trash cans. He would then refurbish and sell them at a tidy profit. His place of business, set back behind a high chain-link fence on El Camino Real, probably irked residents of the solidly middle-class, middle-income community. Most of them had been left out of the economic boom of Silicon Valley to the south, and the last thing they desired on their main thoroughfare was a lot containing a concrete-block office-and-shop combination and acres of car parts.

  As I got out of my car, a sun-browned man in a Giants baseball cap greeted me. “What can I do for you, miss? Can’t be you need a replacement for anything on that car—she’s a beauty.”

  “Thank you. I’m looking for information on your report to the SFPD of a beaten man on Chestnut Street—”

  “I didn’t give my name. How’d you guys find me?”

  If he wanted to assume I was a cop, that was all right with me. “When you call 911, your number appears on a screen so the dispatcher can call you back if the connection is broken.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “Could you describe what you witnessed in more detail?”

  He folded his muscular arms across his chest, pursing his lips as he leaned against a fence post. “Well, it wasn’t much. I was driving home from my daughter’s place in Marin. I saw what I thought was a bunch of old clothes on the sidewalk in front of a store. A bum sleeping it off, I supposed. But then I saw he was moving around like he was hurt. That’s when I got on the horn and called 911. You know, it takes forever to get in touch with them in your town.”

  I knew. Believe me, I knew.

  “A long time for them to come out on a call too,” he added. “I was concerned about the victim, so I parked across the street and watched. A few more minutes, I would’ve driven him to the hospital myself.”

  “Was anyone else in the vicinity when you first saw him?”

  “No. Whoever beat him up was long gone.”

  “Why didn’t you give the dispatcher your name?”

  He just shrugged. But I already knew the answer. The standard old excuse: he hadn’t wanted to get involved.

  1:10 p.m.

  Time for my meeting with Sylvia Blueflute.

  Blueflute, a Hopi, Derek’s fact sheet read, was short and plump, but with a manner that ensured no one would dare condescend to her because of her lack of stature. She greeted me in her office on the third floor of an elegant Victorian on Franklin Street and gave me coffee, and we settled into a comfortable conversation area in the corner turret. Through the wavy, rounded glass panes, I could see almost as much of an urban panorama as I could from my office window.

  “Change and Growth is a co-op, right?” I asked.

  “It is. This splendid house was left to us a number of years ago by a woman who was interested in Native rights, Alice Witherspoon. A number of us live, as well as maintain offices, here. Much like your All Souls Legal Cooperative was.”

  She’d done her homework.

  “What happened to All Souls?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “A faction came in, wanted to take it over, ‘go downtown,’ as they said. Most of us didn’t agree with that, so we went elsewhere, leaving the dissident faction behind. Plus poverty law firms were on their way to becoming passé by then. I established my own agency, and I’ve never regretted it.”

  “And later the co-op dissolved?”

  “Yes, amid a lot of bickering over what direction it would take.”

  “A loss.”

  I shrugged again. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. I’d been able to do far more with my own agency than I would have within the confines of the co-op.

  “Ms. Blueflute,” I said, “I understand you and your associates have extensive ties within the Indian community here.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Do you gather information on what goes on within the community?”

  “Not on a formal basis, but”—she grinned—“our spies are out there.”

  “Have there been any incidents of violence against Indians in the city recently?”

  “Why are you asking? Because of the man who was found beaten and unconscious on Chestnut Street?”

  “Yes. He’s my father.”

  “Your father?”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “Well…we get reports about incidents involving Native Americans from the police. But his name was different from yours. And he was described as being dressed in rags, while you—” She waved her hand at my suede jacket.

  “My father is not into stylish clothes. He is, however, one of the foremost painters in the country.”

  “Painting…as in houses?”

  “As in art.”

  “Oh.” She paused, nibbling her lower lip. “How is he?”

  “Still critical. You say you receive reports of crimes against Indians?”

  “Native Americans.”

  “Are you correcting me, Ms. Blueflute?�
��

  She flushed. “It’s just that the term lends us so much more dignity—”

  “To the heathens? Look, we could go on with this debate for hours, but I really don’t have the time. So let’s skip the semantics. I pretty much don’t care about them, so long as our people get a fair deal. Now, have there been similar incidents recently?”

  “A moment.” She picked up her phone, dialed an extension, and spoke in a language that was completely foreign to me. Then she nodded, scribbling detailed notes on a legal pad.

  “Yes, Ms. McCone,” she said after she hung up. “There have been two. A woman named Samantha Killdeer was roughed up three weeks ago on Lombard Street—not the famous crooked part, but the block that rises from Van Ness. She’s since given up her apartment and left town. An elderly man, Thomas Muniz, was mugged two months ago in the same area as your father; he succumbed to his injuries a few weeks later.”

  “Who was Mr. Muniz?”

  “A janitor at Marina Middle School, on his way home to his room in the Mission. According to the police, he had no enemies and had committed no crimes.”

  “Except for being born of the wrong race. What else can you tell me about him and his attack?”

  She flipped the pages of the pad in front of her. “A friendly man. A family man. He was seventy-one years old, and devoted to his grandchildren. He hadn’t…well, done much with his life, but he was loved by all his relatives.”

  “When did his attack occur?”

  “Around eleven thirty on a Friday night, at the intersection of Lombard and Van Ness.”

  “What was he doing there?”

  “Waiting for the bus which would have deposited him a few blocks from his home.”

  “Had he been drinking?”

  “His family swore he never took a drink, and the autopsy proved them out.”

  “Bad companions?”

  “Not that anyone knew of.”

  “Drug use?”

  “The autopsy said no.”

  Seemingly an open-and-shut case, but so many of them aren’t.

  I’d set my people on it, see what they could dredge up.

  Blueflute stood, dismissing me. “My assistant will provide you with any further information you may need.”

  “I appreciate your talking with me,” I said. “If you hear of any more incidents, please let me know.”

  2:01 p.m.

  Blueflute had certainly made short work of our appointment, and I was fresh out of leads. I was just about to check in with Mick when he called.

  “I’ve got the info on your painter,” he said. “My friend at Cal says his name was Calvin Cook and he hailed from New York City. He didn’t know Elwood there, but admired his work enough to travel to St. Ignatius to try to meet him.”

  “You said his name was.”

  “He shot himself in an Oklahoma City motel room four years ago. He had mental issues and his work wasn’t selling. He’d only had one show, in a downscale gallery in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho.”

  One more possible suspect eliminated.

  “Well, thanks, Mick. Here’s something else for you to check on.” I told him of the murder of Thomas Muniz and the attack on Samantha Killdeer. He said he’d put someone on both right away.

  2:33 p.m.

  There was a message on my voice mail from Julia. She had talked to five residents of the three-story glass-and-chrome apartment building directly across the street from the site of the attack on Elwood, none of whom had seen anything. I drove over there and made contact with one more who had returned home since Julia’s canvass. The matronly-looking woman had no knowledge of the attack.

  Between two modern buildings was an architectural anomaly of a kind often found in the city: a narrow brick structure straight out of a Gothic novel. I was buzzed in by the first-floor tenant, a stooped old woman wearing a purple velvet sweat suit. One look at her cataract-clouded eyes told me she’d make a poor witness, but when I explained who I was and what I was after, she said, “So that was the commotion I heard. I couldn’t see what was going on”—she motioned at her eyes—“but my hearing is acute. The senses compensate. My name is Martha Daniels. Please come in.”

  She ushered me into her comfortable parlor and invited me to sit in a lounge chair.

  I asked, “Do you mind if I record our conversation?”

  “Not at all. Perhaps I might have a copy, something to amuse—and quiet—my noisy grandchildren when they come for Christmas?”

  “Of course.” I made a note on my pad. “You said there was a commotion?”

  “Yes. I was sitting in this room, listening to an old radio program—The Fred Allen Show. You’re too young to remember it, I assume.”

  “That particular one, yes. But my husband and I love those shows. We’ve got an old radio that’s been modified for CDs, and we often listen to them in the dark.”

  She gave a hearty laugh. “In the dark, of course. That was the only way to listen to the mystery serials like Lights Out and The Whistler. They could scare the pants off you. Anyway, the noise in the street was loud. Stamping footsteps—hard heels, you know? A collective rumble of voices, as if a riot were starting. Sounds of blows. I should have had my phone with me so I could call 911, but for some reason I’d left it in the kitchen.”

  “And then?”

  “I started to get up and locate it, when there was a shout. A man yelled, ‘Come on, guys, let’s get outta here.’ And they ran.”

  “Would you recognize the man’s voice if you heard it again?”

  “I certainly would. As I said before, the senses compensate.”

  2:55 p.m.

  Martha Daniels had told me that many of the other residents of her building worked at home, so to spare them an interruption, I saved them for later and went on to the next—an undistinguished modern three-story pile with too much glass and peeling trim and bars on the lower-floor windows. To keep intruders out or the tenants in?

  Probably the latter; anyone who would choose to live in such a dump must be insane.

  A snob, McCone, that’s what you’ve turned into. Consider some of the places you’ve lived.

  Well, yeah…

  My college residences had consisted of a series of small apartments—no, call them rat holes—in which any number of indigent students crashed from time to time. My primary reason for getting into the security business was that it was easier to study at night while guarding mostly empty office buildings than in places where loud music, parties, and personal crises might erupt at any moment. Hank Zahn had solved that problem by inviting me to live for my last two years in a big old house he and several others rented close to the UC campus. Sure, there were loud music, parties, and personal crises, but there were also civility and respect for each other’s privacy, and no crashers were allowed. Still, I was happy when I graduated and was done with communal living. My studio apartment on Guerrero Street in the Mission wasn’t a step up, but it was mine alone. My house on nearby Church Street was a handyman’s nightmare, but fortunately I’m handy, and so are a number of my friends and associates in the building trades…

  I stopped reminiscing and started up the building’s steps.

  It looked to have four apartments to a floor. There was no response at the first three apartments I buzzed, but I received an answering buzz from the fourth. I went through the door into a maroon-carpeted hallway that smelled strongly of mildew.

  “Over here,” a male voice called. “You the new therapist?”

  “Uh, no. Are you expecting one?”

  “Yeah, but I should’ve known you weren’t her. Therapists’re never on time.” The man stepped out into the hallway. A big curly-haired black man on crutches, wearing a blue bathrobe.

  I exclaimed, “You’re Traynor McManus!” McManus had been a star interior line player with the 49ers until he sustained a severe spinal injury.

  He inclined his head. “Thank you for remembering me, miss.”

  “And thank you for not calling
me ‘ma’am’—makes me feel like my mother.” I handed him my card and explained who I was; he ushered me into his front room, which was equipped with two leather Barcaloungers and one of the largest flat-screen TVs I’d ever seen.

  “Sit, please,” he said while lowering himself into what was obviously his favorite chair. A table sat on either side of it, both covered with books and DVDs; the table next to my chair held nothing but a lamp.

  He saw me looking at it and said, “It’s what happens in a weak marriage when the star stops being one.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  He waved my words away. “Was over two years ago. I’ve acclimated. No kids involved, thank God. Actually the whole mess has opened new worlds to me.” He motioned at the books and DVDs. “So much fascinating stuff out there that it’s hard to decide what or who I want to be when I grow up. So what brings you here today? Not my faded fame.”

  “No, but meeting you is an unexpected pleasure. Actually, I’m canvassing the neighborhood for witnesses to an assault that happened on Tuesday between midnight and two a.m. on the other side of the street.”

  McManus scrutinized my card. “The old guy who was beaten by a gang of thugs, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “News said he was an Indian, same as the Muniz man.”

  “Correct.”

  He peered more keenly at me. “And you’ve got a vested interest in the crime. You related to him?”

  “His daughter.”

  “Thought so.” He flipped the card between his fingers. “I’ve heard of you, you know. You get decent press. And I want to help you. I didn’t see or hear anything; my bedroom’s at the rear. But I can steer you to people who might have.”

  I took out my recorder and asked his permission to turn it on.

  McManus held up a cautioning hand. “I don’t want my name associated with this, and I want you to be very careful. A few of these people are just plain mean. And you never know about the others.”

  “I can read people well, and usually I know when to keep my big mouth shut.”