The Color of Fear

by Marcia Muller

  “Young, college age or a little older. Short hair, but not like the neo-Nazis wear. All of them white, of course. Nicely dressed. Expensive-looking jewelry, but none of this bling you see on pro athletes. One of them had a watch that could’ve been one of those new Apples.”

  “And you’d never seen them before?”

  “No.”

  “Could you identify them if you saw them again?”

  “I sure could.”

  “Was there anyone in the group who stood out, seemed to be the leader?”

  He thought about it. “Yeah. The guy with the Apple. He was maybe older than the others, and they all kind of deferred to him. I heard somebody call him Jersey—you know, as in the state.”

  “What did this Jersey look like?”

  “Tall, maybe six three. Skinny. Don’t know about hair color—he had a Giants baseball cap on the whole time.”

  “Eye color?”

  “He wore shades, even inside and at night.”

  “Any identifying marks? Tattoos?”

  “No. Wore a Giants jacket too, and he kept it on.”

  Giants fan. Affluent enough to buy an Apple Watch. No identifying marks.

  Not much to go on.

  “A couple more questions, Mr. Willingham. When did you hear of the attack on Elwood Farmer?”

  “The morning after. I was setting up in here, and the neighbor runs that motel down the block came in and told me.”

  “And why didn’t you report what you just told me to the police?”

  Behind his thick glasses, Willingham’s eyes widened. “Go to the cops? Why?”

  “Because the more time that elapses between a crime and a person’s probable knowledge of it, the less likely it’ll be solved.”

  “I didn’t have any definite knowledge a crime was gonna be committed. Besides, I can’t afford to get involved in stuff like that.”

  That old excuse again. “I’m afraid you’re already involved, Mr. Willingham.” I held up my recorder. “You consented to me using this.”

  9:51 p.m.

  “Well, that shut him up,” Roberta whispered as the owner turned away to serve another customer.

  “Tape recorders usually do,” I told her. “So what do we have? Five men, their leader a tall, thin guy called Jersey wearing a Giants cap and jacket, sunglasses, and maybe an Apple Watch.”

  “More than we had before,” Hy said.

  “Right. Our best lead so far.”

  Roberta said hesitantly, “Willingham’s a talker, but he seems pretty sharp. What if we got that sketch artist you’ve used before—Rob Lewis—to work with him?”

  “Good idea,” I said, “if Willingham will go for it.”

  “I’ll find out.” She motioned to Willingham, spoke softly to him.

  I said to Hy, “She’s amazing—from the way that he’s bobbing his head, she has him wrapped around her little finger.”

  Roberta gave a thumbs-up sign, then turned back to Willingham. I guessed that she was explaining to him about Rob Lewis and his Identi-Kit.

  I phoned Rob Lewis. He was home, and when I explained the situation, he agreed to a meeting with Willingham. He couldn’t do it the next day because of another commitment. He suggested two o’clock on Friday afternoon.

  “It’s set for Friday,” I called.

  Willingham and Roberta came over to our booth. He said, “Bertie here has explained how important this stuff is, and I’m happy to help. Frankly, it scares me that there’re so many of these vicious animals going around pretending to be human. And they’re not always what you expect. They look respectable, could be any of us, except that something’s been left out of them. Sympathy, empathy, whatever you want to call it.”

  “My mother would’ve said their hearts’re empty,” Roberta said.

  Willingham replied, “I just say it’s a tragedy—for them and for the people they hurt.”

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 22

  9:18 a.m.

  The first thing I did when I arrived at M&R was to call Sergeant Anders. She had nothing new to report. I told her about the five young men who’d been making racist comments in the Twenty-Second Century.

  “Their leader is apparently named Jersey. Tall, thin, a Giants fan—wears a cap and jacket with the team’s logo, as well as an expensive watch. Ring any bells?”

  “No. But I’ll see if we have anything on him in our files and let you know.”

  On my way down the hallway to my office I went in to see Derek and gave him the same information. “Giants caps and jackets and flash jewelry are all over the city these days,” he said. “But Jersey’s not a common name, even as a nickname. I’ll see if I can dig up anything.”

  In my office I buzzed Patrick, who had recently taken over the scheduling of our operatives, and asked him to make sure one or more of them would night-patrol the area where Elwood was attacked, and keep an eye on the Twenty-Second Century in case the predators showed up again.

  “Sure. I’ll put a friend on it for tonight.”

  “Is he qualified?”

  Patrick laughed. “He’s a former San Jose cop—five years on the force. He moved north when his marriage broke up, and has been filling in at various jobs with agencies since last summer. Is that qualified enough for you?”

  “More than.”

  I spent the rest of the morning on the usual paperwork. I was trying to transfer much of my administrative work to Ted; he in turn had been trying to turn his over to anyone who would have it. As a result the M&R work flow resembled a backed-up sewer pipe. Not a very nice way to refer to our clients and their problems, but that was what I visualized when I thought about it.

  As I passed Roberta’s desk on my way to fetch more coffee, I said, “Hi, Bertie. Good work last night.”

  “Sssh!” She put a finger to her lips and flushed. “Thanks, Shar. But cut the ‘Bertie’ stuff—it’s a kid nickname I use as a kind of alias when I don’t want people to know how to find me. You know—people like Willingham.”

  “I know. Believe me, I know.”

  “Hey, McCone,” Hy said, stepping out of my office. I hadn’t yet talked with him this morning, since he’d been in the shower when I left. “Anything to report?”

  “Nothing further from the hospital. I put Derek onto locating the racist trash-talker called Jersey.”

  “It’s a start, anyway.”

  I told him about the patrol duty in the Marina. Hy thought it was good idea too. Then he said, “I was wondering: this woman you spoke with who makes the masks—did she seem reliable to you?”

  “Well, her claims to feeling something’s wrong in the neighborhood don’t have any definite basis.”

  “But there are people with heightened senses. Look at you and me: from the very first we’ve shared a psychic connection—and a damn hard one to break. During that confidential case I handled for the FBI up near the Canadian border, I had to work like the devil to shut you out.”

  “True.”

  “And some of the connections you make in your investigations defy reason, but they’re mostly correct.”

  “So you’re saying I should open myself to the ‘vibes’ around me?”

  Hy smiled. “Sounds very sixties, doesn’t it? But I’ve got no new jargon to replace it.”

  “Well, the idea has validity. Not everybody was stoned out of their minds back then.”

  The phone rang, interrupting us. I picked up without checking to see who was calling.

  “Don’t hang up on me,” a deep, familiar voice said.

  Glenn Solomon, one of the city’s premier criminal defense attorneys and my former friend until he put my life at stake by withholding critical information in an investigation.

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because I am calling to atone—and you know how difficult that is for me. Besides, Bette sends her love.”

  Bette Silver, Glenn’s wife, an outstanding interior designer who had done much of the work on our house.

  “I send min
e back to her.”

  “I am sorry, deeply sorry, for the situation I put you in. And as part of my atonement, I wish to offer my services.”

  “To do what?”

  “I’d rather do this in person. Can you come to my office? Or I’ll come to yours.”

  “I’ll be at yours in forty-five minutes.”

  10:41 a.m.

  Embarcadero Center has long been a fixture on the San Francisco skyline, a complex of five office towers, many commercial establishments, and two hotels on a four-block area between the financial and waterfront districts. Glenn’s offices were in Embarcadero Four, the tallest in the complex at forty-five floors, and—wouldn’t you know it?—on the top floor.

  Glenn was a big, burly man with a thick shock of white hair, impeccably attired in a custom-tailored gray suit and elegant tie. Although he had to be in his seventies, his face was as smooth as a baby’s. I’d long wanted to peek behind his ears for the telltale suture marks of a facelift, but now I decided that would be overstepping the boundaries of our former friendship. Or maybe new friendship, as it seemed to be on again.

  I let him hug me, after which he steered me to one of a pair of comfortable armchairs.

  I said, “I’m surprised to hear from you.”

  “I’m here to catch up, now that all the hoopla’s ended.”

  “What hoopla?”

  “Last week Hanukkah began. Bette and I don’t really celebrate it, but she does light the menorah. I’ve strayed a long way from my Jewish faith, but at this time of year something touches me in a way I can’t explain. Makes me want to connect with people I’ve slighted or hurt. This year, mainly you. I’ve been following your latest case on the Internet; it’s compelling, because the kind of people you’re battling are the same type who herded my people into cattle cars less than a hundred years ago.”

  I was touched, but I didn’t know what to say.

  Glenn went on, “I understand, from sources I can’t reveal, that you are wading into potentially dangerous waters. The groups in this city who organize to promote bigotry are extremely retaliatory and vicious.”

  “My father—”

  “I know about the incident. How is he doing?”

  “There’s been a little improvement in his condition, but not as much yet as we hoped for.”

  “Would you like a second opinion? I could send in my own doctor.”

  “That’s not necessary, but thanks for offering.”

  Glenn pulled a legal pad in front of him and began to write. In a moment he tore off the top sheet and pushed it toward me. “Talk to this woman. She has her finger on the pulse of the city and may be able to help you.”

  “Okay to give your name as a reference?

  “Of course. In fact, I’ll call her and tell her to expect to hear from you.”

  12:30 p.m.

  Cynthia Sharpe, the woman Glenn had referred me to, was willing to see me at her Pacific Heights mansion—she actually called it a mansion—if I arrived at twelve thirty. The Spanish colonial house on California Street was in total confusion when I arrived: caterers’ and florists’ trucks clogged the street; men were erecting Christmas lights in the front yard and shouting. Inside it was more of a melee: servers carrying trays and bashing into each other; frantic men on ladders trying to trim one of the most enormous Christmas trees I’d ever seen. And in the midst of all this on a pale-green sofa sat Cynthia Sharpe in a yellow silk lounging suit, surveying the workers with a bemused smile and sipping a glass of champagne.

  She snapped at one of the workmen, then rose and extended her hand to me. Apparently I was a rung up from the hired help—but she didn’t offer me any champagne.

  “Please sit down, Ms. McCone,” she said. “These holiday benefits are a pain to put on, but they do so help the orphans.”

  “The orphans?”

  “Indian children, deprived of their families.” She studied me, her eyes narrowed. “Do you have Indian blood yourself?”

  “Yes. Shoshone.”

  “I don’t believe I know much about that particular tribe.”

  “We’re very peaceable. The most notable thing we’ve done was introduce the horse to the other tribes in the Old West.”

  “Interesting.” She drank more champagne, then added briskly, “Glenn Solomon said you need information for one of your cases.”

  “Yes. My father, Elwood Farmer, was severely beaten on Chestnut Street in the Marina district early last Tuesday morning. Apparently his attackers were a group of affluent-looking whites who were overheard making racial slurs in a nearby bar beforehand. Glenn thought you might be able to shed light on their identities.”

  “I? For heaven’s sake, why?”

  “He didn’t say. Perhaps because of your commitment to the Indian orphans.”

  With an airy wave of her hand, she dismissed a goodly portion of my people. “Oh, that. You know how it is with charities in this town, Ms. McCone. Unless you’re a true do-gooder or high up on the social ladder, you take what you can get. I ended up with Indian orphans.”

  My spine stiffened, but I kept my face emotionless. “Do you know any of these orphans, Ms. Sharpe?”

  “Oh, there’ll be a couple of them at the fund-raiser, cleaned up and dressed decently.”

  “But you don’t actually know any of them.”

  She frowned. “Why should I?”

  “What about members of hate groups?”

  “Members of what?”

  “Groups of people who organize to do Indians or other minorities harm.”

  “Why would I…?” She paused. “Well, there is Rolle.”

  “R-o-l-l-y?”

  “No, with an e. Rolle Ferguson, of the Atherton Fergusons.”

  “Important people?”

  Ms. Sharpe widened her eyes as if surprised I hadn’t heard of them. “Oh my, yes. Rolle’s great-grandfather established the First Pacific National Bank and Trust. The family went on into other lucrative business ventures.”

  “Why did you mention him?”

  “He has very conservative views. And often protests racially sensitive causes.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well…when he was in high school, he picketed his class’s junior prom because the king and queen were an interracial couple.”

  “What else has he protested?”

  “Affirmative action programs. Amnesty for undocumented immigrants. A Black Lives Matter rally.”

  “Anything to do with Indians? Orphan relief funding, for instance?”

  “Yes. That too.”

  “Have any of his protests been violent?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Has he ever been in trouble with the law?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “What else can you tell me about him?”

  “That’s all, I’m afraid. Now if you’ll excuse me, Ms. McCone, I have a great many things that require my attention.”

  Right. Such as another glass of champagne.

  1:32 p.m.

  The first thing I did when I got back to my car was call Mick. “I have a possible lead,” I said. “There’s a man named Rolle Ferguson—that’s r-o-l-l-e—of the Atherton Fergusons. A woman I interviewed today mentioned him. He has a background of protests that mark him as a bigot.”

  “The violent kind?”

  “Ms. Sharpe didn’t know. See what you can find out about him and his activities.”

  “Will do. Oh, and Derek told me to pass on the nonnews that he hasn’t been able to find out anything yet about the guy called Jersey.”

  “Okay. Talk to you later.”

  I broke the connection and phoned Priscilla Anders at the SFPD. She had nothing to report to me either. There was nothing in the department’s files or the CJIS pertaining to anyone known as Jersey. I considered giving her Rolle Ferguson’s name, but decided to wait until I had more information about the man.

  Before I returned to the agency, I detoured to SFG for another check on Elwood’s co
ndition. Ma was in the small waiting room, curled up sound asleep on the sofa. Nobody else was there, but Ma was stubborn enough to want to keep a continual vigil.

  Dr. Stiles wasn’t available, but one of the nurses told me Elwood had spent a restless night. This was not necessarily a bad sign; it might mean he was starting to come out of the coma. I sat with my father a while. He was not restless now; in fact, he looked as if he were carved out of wax.

  My father…How easily I accepted Elwood now. But for a long time I’d fought the notion, perhaps because I’d loved my adoptive father very much. Andrew McCone. A big man, with a full head of white hair and a ruddy face. A former chief with the US Navy who, after his retirement at thirty years, had devoted his time to woodworking and puttering around the house singing dirty ditties. He’d died at his workbench in the cluttered garage of our old San Diego house, putting together a small box made of finely cut pieces of exotic woods; I’d finished it myself, and today it stands on a special table—also Pa’s work—in my living room. Miraculously, both of these precious items had survived the fire when my house on Church Street burned to the ground, and I’d been able to restore the smoke damage.

  In a way, I thought now, Pa and Elwood were much alike: both artists, although in different ways; both easygoing and good natured; both with a sly sense of humor. I’d married a man much like them, except there was an edge to Hy, which complemented my own edge. Where I’d gotten that I wasn’t sure. Maybe from Saskia.

  I smiled as I thought of the elk horn–framed photograph Elwood had presented me with upon my first visit to him: Saskia, my great-aunt Fenella, and others whom Fenella had met on a visit to the reserve the year before I was born. Although Elwood had had no idea I was his daughter when I visited, some feeling must have stirred him, because the photo was a treasured possession. When my Church Street house was the victim of arson, the photo fortunately had been out on loan to the Native Americans’ Museum for a special exhibition, and thus saved. It now resides on our mantelpiece.

  After about fifteen minutes, I kissed Elwood on the cheek and went on to the office.

  2:15 p.m.