The Color of Fear

by Marcia Muller

  Fantasies, Patsy had said. How long had this been going on? Patsy claimed it had started when she—Patsy—was a little girl. Maybe earlier. But then why hadn’t I noticed it? Why not John or Charlene? We’d been mostly out of the nest by then, but didn’t absence from a person make their unusual tendencies stand out? Or is it true that we see only what we want to see? Or don’t see anything at all?

  “Ma,” I said, stepping into the room. Up close I could see her eyes were red and puffy.

  “Sharon, thank you for coming. It’s so difficult to see the poor dear man like this.”

  I went over and patted her shoulder. So bony and brittle it had become! “We’ll have a celebration when he recovers.”

  She shook her head, returned her gaze to Elwood.

  “Ma, would you mind if I had a few moments alone with him?”

  “Why? Is there something you think you can do for him that I can’t?”

  “Of course not. It’s just that…he’s my father. I’d like to sit quietly with him for a bit.”

  Ma scowled and gave in with little grace. “I’ll be in the waiting room.”

  When she’d left, I sat down and took Elwood’s dry hand in mine. “Father,” I said, “I wish you’d wake up and talk to me, help me find out who did this to you.”

  Did his fingers twitch, or was I imagining it?

  “We’re working very hard on finding out who the people are. I know it’s not much satisfaction, but there’s so much hatred in this world that even by punishing a few, it would be setting a good example.”

  A slight twitch, I was sure of it. But it could be he was having a nightmare.

  “Oh, who am I kidding? Not you, Father, that’s for sure.” I closed and rubbed my eyes. “What I’m out for is revenge, plain and simple.”

  I sat like that for quite a while, then tucked his hand under the covers and left.

  Revenge, plain and simple. Yes.

  I didn’t want to see Ma again just now—or suffer through another of her crying fits. I moved quietly down the hall toward the exit.

  SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24

  9:57 a.m.

  I had just stopped in at the office when Saskia called my cell.

  “I wonder if you would object to Robin and me going to your house this afternoon. I thought some of those old photographs I gave you may shed significance on what’s happening now.”

  I didn’t think so, but I said, “Sure. Robin has a key and knows the codes for the security systems. But I’ve got to warn you: the photos are sort of jumbled together in a file box. I haven’t quite gotten around to sorting them and putting them in scrapbooks.”

  She laughed. “There’ll be time for that when you’re a very old lady. Where’s the box?”

  “Front hall coat closet. Is everything okay with the two of you?”

  “Oh yes. The hospitality suite is nice, far better than most luxury hotels I’ve stayed in. And the food from downstairs is said to be divine.”

  “Well, good. Please use WeDriveU. Safer with them when you go out.” I recited the number that would bring a car around.

  She asked, “Are all these security precautions necessary?”

  “Just routine. Relax and enjoy being pampered.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Something in Saskia’s tone of voice told me she didn’t believe a word I was saying. Didn’t matter, so long as she was safe.

  As soon as I ended the call, the phone buzzed again. Momentarily I thought that I’d like to get hold of whoever had invented cellular technology and throw them off M&R’s roof garden. Sometimes it seemed as if all I ever did was talk to somebody or other on the phone.

  This call was from Rob Lewis, the Identi-Kit man. He said Charley Willingham, the bartender from The Twenty-Second Century, had put off their meeting until late afternoon yesterday, which was why he hadn’t been in touch sooner. When they finally sat down together, he’d compiled a few good Identi-Kit sketches.

  “I’m on my way out to Christmas shop, so how about I drop them off at your office?”

  “That’d be great.”

  10:55 a.m.

  Lewis, someone I’d never dealt with in person, was a good-looking man, probably in his midthirties, with curly black hair and one of those little pointed chin beards that always make me think of caricatures of the devil. As he placed his portfolio on the table by the sofas, his eyes gleaming, I was again reminded of how enthusiastic he was about his work.

  He contracted with city and county police agencies from all over northern California, as well as firms like ours. Private individuals too—people who were afraid their business associates or friends or newly discovered relatives weren’t who they said they were; wives who thought they’d been whisked off to the altar under false pretenses.

  In the old days, when the police had artists on call to produce renditions of suspects from witnesses’ descriptions of them, the verisimilitude would vary according to the artist’s skill and the reliability of the witnesses’ powers of observation and memory. As demonstrated in criminology classes where professors stage an incident and then ask the students to describe it there are usually few descriptions that agree, in spite of the incident’s having played out in close quarters.

  Then came the Identi-Kits, with which technicians manually moved around various features—eyes, noses, mouths, chins, hair—to compose a likeness. Very time consuming and a strain on the witnesses’ recollections. Now there was sophisticated computer software that had improved the process considerably.

  Lewis flipped open his portfolio, took out one of the sketches. “This is of the man called Jersey,” he said, “and it works best for Mr. Willingham.”

  The man in the sketch looked to be around thirty, with pale skin stretched over high cheekbones and a military-style haircut. His eyes were close set, the mouth turned down at the corners. “You can’t tell from this, of course,” Lewis said, “but the hair is blond.”

  He selected another. “This one also works for Mr. Willingham, but I don’t know. It looks very much like a younger version of himself; could be he was influenced by his own image.”

  “Why would that be?”

  “It happens for various reasons. In Willingham’s case, he’s frequently confronted by his image in the backbar mirror. Now this one”—he brought up a third sketch—“rings true to me. Nobody could imagine a face like this.”

  The subject had a narrow face pitted by acne scars; his eyes were small and mean, his thin lips twisted in what I assumed was a habitual sneer.

  The last three sketches were fairly good likenesses of the other men, according to Willingham. One subject had dark-brown hair that the bar owner said he kept pushing off his forehead; he’d been the best dressed, in a dark suit and a red tie whose knot had been pulled loose. Another had been almost bald, casually dressed in chinos and highly polished loafers. The last was younger than the others, with fine blond hair and—as Mr. Willingham had described him—“a choirboy’s face.”

  I asked, “Did Mr. Willingham remember anything more about any of them?”

  “A few things. One, the bald guy, wore a lot of gold chains and bracelets; the guy with brown hair had a glittery stud in his right ear. The one called Jersey wore a fancy watch—maybe one of those iWatches.”

  “Yes, I know about that. Willingham mentioned it when I spoke to him.”

  “He told me he noticed because the guy kept checking it, as if they had someplace to be.”

  Yeah, out on the street assaulting innocent people.

  12:25 p.m.

  Rob Lewis had lifted my spirits. I thanked him and told him we’d be sure to use his services in the future. After he left, I went out to see if anyone else had come in. No. Mick was working at home, the others were out pursuing their real lives, and I was alone. I typed and printed a message to my staff, then left photocopies of the sketches on their desks, asking them to show them around in the Marina and lower Pacific Heights, where someone might recognize the people.
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br />   Now my spirits needed more lifting.

  So what did I do?

  I went shopping.

  In spite of the fact that all our wrapped gifts had been steadily arriving by FedEx, I needed something to take my mind off business for a while and put me in touch with the season.

  The holiday crowds around Union Square didn’t bother me as they usually did. Last year they’d seemed pushy, greedy, and mean. This year I sensed a gentleness, as if they’d put the country’s turmoil and anxiety on temporary hold. I actually smiled at some of the more frustrated-looking shoppers—and they smiled back. I contributed a few dollars to bell-ringing Santa Clauses. I bought a red carnation corsage from one of the street vendors, and he pinned it in my hair. Then I headed for Macy’s.

  Once inside the heady, perfumed atmosphere, holiday Muzak piped into my ears, I adopted the one-item-for-you, one-item-for-me approach.

  This scarf is perfect for Patsy, and this other one is perfect for me. A red hat? I’ve never owned a red hat. Oh yeah, it looks just right.

  I paused next to a counter full of beautiful ties. Hy hated ties; he wore them only for the occasional formal affair, and he owned plenty. Actually, all the males I knew were like him. Reluctantly I was about to move on, until I thought of Glenn Solomon: he’d been the first to extend the peace offering between us. This muted blue tie would be my token of forgiveness. And I’d spotted a stunning silk scarf at the counter where I’d bought Patsy’s and mine that would perfectly suit Bette.

  Driving gloves? The steering wheel on the Mercedes got awfully hot in sunny weather. Come to think of it, so did the one in Patsy’s van. And Mick could use a new comforter—Alison had taken the good one. Hy and I had decided Rae and Ricky didn’t need anything, but those candlesticks would look great on their dining table. Those sculpted red tapers too. And that fleece pullover—Rae loved fleece, wore it all the time. And Ricky could always use travel items. Toys for their new cat—whatever his name was.

  My God, if I kept this up I’d max out my credit cards and be paying them off till next Christmas! Best to stop while ahead.

  As I was stuffing my purchases into my car in Union Square’s underground parking lot, I remembered the time years ago that I’d witnessed a fatal shooting here. The memory ended my frenzied focus on Christmas.

  Money, a big bank account, plastic, and an ability to pay the bills after you run them up too high don’t ensure happiness. Sometimes they bring the opposite. Of course, I didn’t rush back to the stores and return the items. But the realization made me thoughtful as I headed home.

  2:45 p.m.

  The short drive from Union Square to Avila Street was tedious. In spite of local praise for the “new exceptional access” to the Golden Gate Bridge, cars clogged Van Ness Avenue and Lombard Street. I whipped a right turn, navigated stop signs on the side streets.

  As soon as I turned onto Avila and saw the police cars and ambulance blocking the street, I knew something bad had happened at my house. Apprehension surged through me. Saskia, Robin…They’d been supposed to come here this afternoon for the box of photos…

  I parked as close as I could get and jumped out. Ignoring a command from a uniformed patrolman, I pushed my way through the milling crowd.

  A man in a dark jacket stepped in front of me. “Hey, you’re Sharon McCone. Phil West of the Chronicle.”

  “Fuck the Chronicle! Get out of my way!”

  Just then the front door opened and a pair of EMTs came out with someone strapped on a stretcher. Oh, God, no! I ran forward, straining to see. Black hair. Saskia? No, the outline of the body too slight.

  It was Robin. Her eyes were closed and there was a smear of blood on her forehead, but there weren’t any IVs attached to her. I reached her side before the EMTs could put her into the ambulance. A uniformed patrolman tried to get between me and the stretcher, but I said, “She’s my sister!” and shoved past him.

  Robin opened her eyes when she heard my voice. “Sharon. Don’t worry, I’m okay…”

  “Thank God. Saskia?”

  “Her arm…but it’s not broken. She’s inside…”

  I said to the EMTs, “Take good care of her.” Then I rushed into the house. Saskia was in the entryway with Sergeant Priscilla Anders and another EMT, saying no, she didn’t need medical treatment, she’d get to the hospital to see Robin under her own power.

  “Ma’am,” the EMT said, “I really think you should come along now.”

  “I said no and I meant it!”

  God help the medical person or anyone else who tried to stand up to Saskia. She’d once even stared down late Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia. She turned to me as the cowed EMT left.

  “Sharon, I was just about to call you. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “And I’m glad you and Robin are all right. What happened?”

  “We came to retrieve the box of photos and there were two men here in the house.”

  Jesus! “What men? What did they look like?”

  “I can’t say. They were young, dressed all in black, wearing ski masks and gloves. They came at us and there was a bit of a…set-to. Then they ran out.”

  “How did they get in?”

  “We don’t know,” Anders said. “There’s no sign of forced entry.”

  “And I suppose nobody saw them leave.”

  “I have officers checking with your neighbors.”

  “Most of them work during the day. I’ll be surprised if any of the ones who don’t saw anything. People in this neighborhood mind their own business.”

  Saskia said, “There’s something you need to see, Sharon. In the dining room.”

  The three of us went there. Mixed rage and horror welled in me when I saw what was spread over the only windowless wall. Part of the rage was directed at me. I shouldn’t have allowed Saskia and Robin to come here unescorted, to be confronted by sick, dangerous bastards who would do something like this. Dammit, I should’ve been more careful!

  What was on the wall was a painting of a dream catcher, one of those Indian wall hangings woven on willow hoops that resemble spiderwebs. Their powers are said to banish bad thoughts and dreams. Nowadays, the tribes consider them commercial assets and they sell like the proverbial hotcakes at tourist shops.

  This one was anything but your traditional dream catcher. Entangled in its weblike interior and held on with staples were plastic replicas of dismembered body parts, bloody knives, weapons of all kinds. A cloth that I supposed was intended to resemble a blood-soaked shroud was pushpinned below the painting.

  I could see signs of the “set-to,” including black paint that had been spilled from a gallon can onto the floor. Angrily I kicked at the can; it rolled twice, leaking its contents, and then splashed more streaks of paint on the wall.

  To Saskia’s credit she didn’t say anything like what my other mother would have: Now you’ve made even a worse mess. That black paint is going to be impossible to get off the wall. You’ve got to learn to control your temper.

  Out of gratitude and relief, I turned and put my arms around her and snuffled, fighting back tears.

  “I know,” she said, “believe me, I know.”

  When I regained control I called Hy, but reached only his voice mail. I left a brief message describing what had happened here and asked him to come home ASAP.

  Anders was still trying to figure how the intruders had gained entry.

  She said, “This house is practically a fortress. It’s equipped with nearly every surveillance and security device known to mankind.”

  “Well, Hy and I, because of our work, are high risk, so we accept the inconvenience.”

  “So how do you suppose they breached the systems?”

  I said, “It couldn’t have been through someone we know. We’ve never given out our security codes to anyone, except for trusted relatives like my nephew Mick.”

  “A highly skilled techie, then?”

  “That’s the only answer I can think of.”

/>   But I had a suspicion: Dean Abbot was an expert techie.

  3:38 p.m.

  Hy came home as soon as he received my message; he viewed the damage and was even more pissed off than I was. It was too extensive for a quick fix, and there was the possibility we’d be targeted again by the vandals, whoever they were. Anders was even more convinced now that the attacks were personally motivated, and my feelings tended that way. So did Hy’s.

  He said, “Let’s go sit in the kitchen.” I supposed he felt, as I did, that the dining room had been contaminated. Once we were there, he poured us glasses of wine and we sat at the table. Even the kitchen felt strange, violated. The cats felt the weirdness too; they were excessively clingy when they finally came around. Both of them must have hidden when the invaders came, and they’d stayed hidden until everybody else had gone.

  “How in hell did whoever did this get our address?” I asked.

  Hy shrugged. “With the Internet it’s hard to conceal anything from smart hackers, no matter what you do. One of the bastards who broke in here or planned the break-in has to be a techie.”

  “I have one suspect: Dean Abbot, the guy who was hiding in our supply closet.”

  “Do you really think he’s skilled enough to breach a state-of-the-art system?”

  “Do you have any other suggestions?”

  “Only a few, most of them employed at M&R.”

  “And the others?”

  “There’s a guy in Japan, but he’s an old friend.”

  “What about that woman in Vienna?”

  “Elisa? She died last year.”

  “Anybody in Silicon Valley?”

  “Well, that’s problematic. They’re very protective of their talent. I’ll call my buddy at TechWiz later.”

  “What’s TechWiz?”