The Color of Fear

by Marcia Muller

  “Mick,” I said, “you do know what day this is?”

  He made a huffing noise; he wasn’t expecting the holiday to be pleasant. “Yeah, sure I know.”

  “Do you intend to sit home working on Christmas? I thought you were going to dinner at Rae and Ricky’s.”

  “I don’t really feel like socializing. Working keeps me from thinking about Alison.”

  “Why don’t you call her?”

  “No, she’s made it clear—I’m out of her life.”

  I didn’t try to contradict his statement because I don’t believe in Christmas miracles any more than Mick does.

  “Okay,” I said, “have it your way. But please join the rest of us for Christmas dinner.”

  “Maybe, if I feel up to it,” he said, and broke the connection.

  God, I hurt for him…

  Hy came upstairs, peered through the door. He had a large tote bag in his hand. “You look kind of glum.”

  “Mick.” I gestured futilely. “He’s hiding in his work.”

  “Well, he has a right to after what’s happened to him lately.”

  “Still, it’s not healthy for him to be alone on Christmas.”

  “Did you call or did he?”

  “He did, with news that may be important.” I related what Mick had found out about Rolle Ferguson and Jerzy Capp. “Sure seems like they could be the bastards who assaulted Elwood and keep giving the rest of us so much grief.”

  “Yeah, it does. Mick said Jerzy’s living off of Rolle?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder which one is dominant.”

  “Probably Rolle. He’s the one with the money and the smarts, so it’s likely he’s calling the shots.”

  “In any case we need to know more about these guys, McCone.”

  “Mick said he might have some info on their whereabouts by tonight.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  He sighed and sat down beside me, setting the bag between us. Some of the contents rattled.

  “What’ve you got in there?” I asked.

  He pulled out a ball festooned with red and green ribbons and held it above my head.

  “Mistletoe!” I said.

  “Yup.” He leaned over and kissed me.

  “You went out early for mistletoe?”

  “And a few other things. Champagne. That pâté you like. Brie. Sourdough. And, for dessert, raspberry tarts from what’s-his-name’s restaurant.”

  “Chef D’s.”

  “Right.”

  “And this is Christmas lunch?”

  “You betcha. We’ve got to eat, and we’re not due at Rae and Ricky’s till three.”

  2:33 p.m.

  We were getting ready to leave for Rae and Ricky’s when the landline rang. Thinking it might be Mick, I picked up.

  A rough, distorted man’s voice said, “The only good Indian is a dead Indian.” And then he broke the connection.

  I replaced the receiver, angry and a little shaken. The bastards had invaded my home again, this time on Christmas day.

  Hy came to the archway from the dining room. “What?” he said.

  “Nuisance call.” I must have looked as disturbed as I felt; he put his arm around my shoulders, hugged me tight.

  “McCone,” he said then, “go upstairs and get duded up in that killer blue velvet shirt I gave you.”

  “Why? I was planning on wearing it New Year’s Eve.”

  “Wear it today—just don’t slop gravy on it.” He gave me a little nudge toward the stairs.

  3:10 p.m.

  Briefly we stopped by the hospital to wish Elwood a good evening, but he was asleep and the nurse urged us not to wake him. “He’s had a decent day,” she told me, “and his vitals are stable. We’re hopeful of more improvement as time passes.”

  “Has he recalled anything about the attack?”

  “Ms. McCone, I know you’re anxious to find out who the men who did this to him are, and he is too. But our main goal is his successful healing, and that means rest.”

  “I know.”

  God, how I do know that—from deeply personal experience.

  5:15 p.m.

  Rae’s turkey-and-all-the-trimmings dinner was perfect: a golden-brown bird; her special dressing with chestnuts, apples, sausage, and dried apricots; creamed onions; cheese-and-potato casserole; cranberry sauce; and an exotic mixed green salad.

  Everybody stuffed themselves: Saskia (whose arm injury had required no more than two stitches and a bandage); Robin and Emi; Hank, founder of All Souls Legal Cooperative and my best friend since college; his wife Anne-Marie, another attorney; and their daughter Habiba. Ted and his partner Neal. Derek. Even Mick, who had decided to join us after all; his lonely, violated house had been too much for him to bear on Christmas. The only one at the table who had just picked at her food was Ma. She was strangely subdued about Elwood’s having regained consciousness—maybe because she was afraid he would disrupt her fantasy about the two of them. She, Saskia, Emi, and Robin left shortly after dinner. I could tell Robin wished she could stay longer, and resolved to invite her over more often.

  After they left, the rest of us exchanged yet more gifts. Nothing expensive, mainly local crafts and artisan wine, beer, and foodstuffs that we’d picked up at the holiday fairs. Jack the cat jumped through the wrappings as he had the night before and then curled up in a big terra-cotta pot that held an overgrown ficus plant. The rest of us lounged around the living room, and occasionally someone or other would yawn.

  Anne-Marie and Hank looked half-asleep. Habiba was passed out on Hank’s lap. Ted and Neal were curled up at opposite ends of the couch, their feet touching. Neal was snoring.

  Ricky went to the kitchen to open more wine.

  The Savages’ landline rang. Rae picked up warily, listened, and said, “Great news!” and gave the receiver to me. Patsy, at home in Napa with her children and Ben, her current lover. “Guess what?” she said. “Ben and I are engaged!”

  “To be married?”

  “What else does engaged mean? He even gave me a ring.”

  “So when is the big event happening?”

  “As soon as we can get permission from the kids.”

  “What!”

  “This will have a big impact on them. They deserve to have a say in it.”

  Modern parenting! We talked a little bit more, I asked for Ben and congratulated him and then went back to share the news.

  A few minutes later, the door chimes sounded. Rae went to see who it was. When she came back she said, “One of the new M&R security guards.”

  “Some sort of problem?”

  “No. Just checking in to let us know everything’s all right. Frankly, it’s a pain in the ass having them around all the time. I’m beginning to feel as if I were living in a fortress.”

  “Me too. They’re all over Avila Street.”

  She nodded and fell silent. I suspected she was thinking of the security on Ricky’s tour when she was first with him—and how badly it had malfunctioned because nobody on his staff suspected that the stalker they were supposed to be protecting him from was someone with easy access to him. If it weren’t for Rae’s detecting skills, things could have turned out badly for all concerned.

  To distract her I said, “I guess we should do something about this mess, so Mrs. Wellcome’s employees won’t quit on her.”

  11:33 p.m.

  As tired as Hy and I were when we got home, we had a glass of wine and reflected on the day and Elwood’s recovery. I loved my gift from my father: somehow Rae had divined why Elwood had been outside the jewelry store where he was attacked, and had bought the aquamarine earrings as a gift from him to me. The same with Hy’s new aviator watch. Rae had supplied catnip for the beasts who, happy to have us home, snuffed it up and then rocketed around the house like lunatics.

  “This has been a pretty good Christmas,” I said, “considering how the season started.”

  “Better than ‘pretty good,’ now that Elwo
od’s back with us.”

  “Tomorrow, though, we’ve got to get up to speed and nail the bastards who attacked him.”

  “We will.”

  “Really? I don’t know. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

  “Stop waiting, have one of those chocolates, and come to bed. Shoes won’t rain until tomorrow.”

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 26

  5:45 a.m.

  In the middle of the night, though, we thought the other shoe might have dropped.

  A ponderous knocking sounded at the front door.

  Hy’s hand went to the bedside drawer, came out with his .45. “Stay here,” he said.

  “No way.” I grabbed my bathrobe from a nearby chair.

  The knocking was repeated. As we went down the stairs, I couldn’t help but remember the last time we’d been summoned out of bed by visitors in the middle of the night. The police again with more bad news?

  There was a judas window in the door. Hy peered through it, then eased it shut.

  “Who?” I whispered.

  “Some freakish-looking guy.”

  “Let me see.”

  The figure outside had a ski cap pulled down over his brow and a heavy beard, and he wore a denim jacket and a red bandanna around his neck. When he lifted his head and knocked again, I had a clearer look at his high, beetle-browed forehead. Recognition made me let out the breath I’d been holding in a relieved sigh.

  I said, “It’s Will Camphouse, my symbolic cousin from Tucson.”

  Hy relaxed too, and tucked the .45 into the pocket of his robe as I unlocked the door. Will came inside, hugged me, then pulled off his ski cap and shook out his black hair. I introduced him to Hy and then took his jacket and cap.

  “What is this?” I asked. “A disguise?”

  “The cap I bought in the hospital gift shop when I saw the fog was coming in—more rain than fog now. The beard is on account of a bet with a friend who claimed that Indians can’t grow them thick. He’s out fifty bucks. And, besides, I kind of like it.”

  “Me too.”

  “I went straight to the hospital to see Elwood, but they wouldn’t allow it. The night nurse told me he regained consciousness last night and his condition is good.”

  “He’s getting stronger every day. Still can’t remember anything about the attack, though.”

  “Where are Saskia and your other mother?”

  I explained about the M&R hospitality suite.

  “I’m glad they’re safe.”

  Hy fetched the bottle of Zin we’d opened earlier and three glasses. After he’d served us, Will took a sip and smiled in appreciation. “Here’s to the death of another bit of erroneous popular wisdom about Indians: that one whiff of alcohol makes us all turn into slavering drunks.”

  We toasted and drank.

  “I went up to Montana to make sure Elwood’s cabin and studio were secure and to make sure his friends on the rez stayed put. They all did except Emi, who had already left to come here. I did have a great Christmas dinner at the community center. Everybody sent their best wishes to Elwood.”

  “He’s a popular man on the reserve.”

  “And not so popular here in the city.”

  “The police think the attack on him was motivated by somebody with a grudge against either Hy or me, and I’m coming around to their viewpoint. I thought it was a random hate crime to start with, then escalated into something more when the perps found out he’s my father. I’m still not sure, but there’s a lot of hate in our city—against Indians, blacks, Jews, Hispanics, Chinese, Japanese, LGBT people, and any other minority you can think of.”

  “Not so different from Tucson, although the Hispanics take most of the heat there. And it’s on a much smaller scale.”

  Hy finished his wine and stifled a yawn.

  I asked Will, “So what’re your plans now?”

  “I’ve got a leave from the agency. I guess I’ll hang around and see what happens with Elwood. Maybe I could help you investigate.”

  I remembered the times my brother John had “helped” on my investigations. Could Will be as much of a distraction as John had been? I doubted it, but I had no intention of finding out.

  “Well,” I said, “let’s talk about that in the morning. You look really beat.”

  “I am. I had to go through Denver and then take a couple of feeder flights and then rent a car to get to the rez. Coming back here…Who says that air travel has revolutionized the world? What I’m gonna do is drive over to Lombard Street and crash in the first motel I see that doesn’t look like it’s got bedbugs.”

  “No, you’re not. You’ll stay here. And I promise: no bedbugs.”

  9:31 a.m.

  Early in the morning Mick had e-mailed color photographs he’d accessed of Jerzy Capp and Rolle Ferguson. Jerzy’s matched Rob Lewis’s sketch of a thin-faced man with high cheekbones, but when the photo was taken his sandy hair had been long and he’d worn a wispy beard. His eyes were a luminous blue. Rolle was short, dark complexioned and clean shaven, his eyes hooded so their color wasn’t apparent. Something about the two men’s stances—both photos were full-body shots—struck me as menacing.

  When I called Mick to thank him, he said, “Some pair, huh? All-American white racists you wouldn’t want to meet in the proverbial dark alley.”

  “No further information on their whereabouts?”

  “Nope. I made contact this morning with the former housekeeper at the Atherton place. She said Rolle fired her and the other help in October. She has no idea where he is now. Could be the summer home in Tahoe—”

  “The operatives in our office in Reno can take care of that. As for Europe—no winter vacation for you.”

  He gave a martyred sigh. “My work is never done, et cetera, et cetera,” he muttered before he hung up.

  10:13 a.m.

  I was drinking coffee in the kitchen when Will came loping down the stairs, a spring in his step showing that he was well rested. I poured him a cup and motioned him to a chair at the table.

  “Breakfast?” I asked.

  “Never eat it. What can I do to help on this investigation?”

  “I think my staff can handle it, but thanks anyway.” I asked, “So what’re your plans for the day?”

  “I’ve got some personal business to attend to. And then I’ll drop in on Elwood.”

  I said, “I doubt I’ll have time to drop in at the hospital, but we’ll touch base later.”

  1:48 p.m.

  Nothing was going on at the office. I’d saved a bunch of brownies from yesterday’s dinner—Rae always bakes too many—so I distributed them to our skeleton staff.

  A few minutes later, my weekly rose arrived. Years before, when I’d scarcely known him, Hy had begun the practice of sending me a single long-stemmed rose on Tuesdays. The first ones had been yellow—my favorite—but as our relationship had deepened, the colors had also deepened, finally reaching a red so dark that it was nearly black. This red had supplanted yellow as my preference. I added it and water to the bud vase I keep on my desk and fingered its soft petals. Hy and I didn’t believe in traditions—we’d stopped giving each other Valentine’s cards because for three years we’d exchanged the same ones. But the roses persisted, and every time I received one I was thrilled.

  Hy was waiting in his office for me and suggested lunch, but then he had a call from a woman named Terry Neditch at TechWiz, the firm he’d contacted about savvy people in the Bay Area. He put his phone on speaker so I could listen and join in the conversation. “I have information for you: an off-the-charts techie, Dean Abbot. If anyone could pull off the kind of scam you people have been subjected to, it’s him.”

  Dean-of-the-closet.

  Hy said, “This Abbot—exactly who is he? What’s his background?”

  “Grew up in Los Altos. Attended Stanford but dropped out in his sophomore year. Founded a start-up four years ago called EStuff—it sold castoffs that other sites and stores couldn’t move. It went under
two years later. Since then his name appears here and there, but nobody knows exactly what he’s doing.”

  “This EStuff sounds like a winner. Why did it fail?”

  “Inattention on the part of Abbot. Apparently he’s one of these guys who leap around from one project to another and never settle into a leader’s role. He’s been involved in other start-ups, but most of them went under after his departure.”

  I said, “A dabbler, then. A follower.”

  “I guess to him the becoming is more interesting than the being.”

  “Does your information tell you if Abbot has ties to the white supremacist community?”

  “I was just about to get into that. He’s connected. Has an unpleasant blog under an alias, Michael Bonds, regularly posts inflammatory opinions. But unlike Ferguson and Capp—whose names he’s mentioned on his blog—the alias tells me he keeps a low profile. No protest rallies, passing out flyers, that kind of stuff. I can’t speculate as to why, but he doesn’t seem to want public scrutiny.”

  “You have an address for him?”

  “Yeah, in Piedmont.” She read it off to us.

  Piedmont. A small, semiaffluent residential community in the Oakland Hills.

  When we ended our call with Neditch, Hy asked me, “This Abbot—why d’you suppose he’s intent on keeping such a low profile? Most of those hard-core activists thrive on publicity.”

  “Well, when you’re low profile, you can get away with a hell of a lot more.”

  “Such as what? Assaults on innocent citizens?”

  “Could be. His low-profile attempt isn’t working all that well, anyway. Publicizing his opinions—even under an alias—on the Net where the world can see them, how stupid is that?”

  “So he’s stupid or confused or even psychotic.”

  “Wonderful choices,” I said. “You want to come along to Piedmont with me?”

  He did, but as luck would have it, he couldn’t. He received another call just as we were getting ready to leave, and when he answered and listened for a moment, he mouthed the words, “My contact at the Bureau,” to me.

  Then: “So what’s the situation there? The hostage? Yeah, I know him. What happened? Jesus! Don’t these clients pick up on what we try to teach them? Send me the whole pdf on my cellular and a chopper…No, I’ll go straight from SFO to Orly. Let me know who’s going to meet me there.”