The Color of Fear

by Marcia Muller

  I said, “You know what Dean’s mixed up in, Quentin. Don’t try to deny it.”

  “I’m not a racist.”

  “No?”

  “No. I swear I’m not. I grew up in a home where nigger and wop and chink and dirty Jap were common household terms. For a long time I didn’t realize there was anything wrong with them, but in fifth grade I called a little first-grade girl I liked a nigger, and she started crying, and my teacher set me straight. I never used any of those ugly words again. Or any of the ugly words men use against women.”

  “Good for you, if you’re telling the truth.”

  “I am, honest I am.”

  “Dean is a racist, one of the worst kind.”

  “I know that now,” Quentin said woefully. “I didn’t until after he moved in here; letting him in was the biggest mistake of my life.”

  “You never read his blog?”

  “No. I don’t read or create blogs. I work in the computer field, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend all my time at a keyboard.”

  “All right. Dean breached the security system on my house. You know that too, don’t you?”

  “I…”

  “Sure you do. How did you find out?”

  He shook his head.

  I took a step toward him. When I’m angry I can be menacing, even to the toughest of people. And the one I was dealing with here could charitably be called a wimp.

  “Answer the question, dammit!” I demanded. “How did you find out?”

  “I…I overheard you and Dean talking when you were here before. I asked him if it was true what you’d accused him of, and he admitted it. He…he even bragged about it. And then he told me to lie about it if you came back.”

  “What else did he tell you?”

  “Just that he and some friends of his were going to make a lot of money and use it to finance some plan they had, he wouldn’t say what the plan was. He tried to talk me into joining up with them, but I refused. I didn’t—don’t—want any part of something like that.”

  “He didn’t say how they were planning to get the money?”

  “No.”

  “Or who these friends were?”

  “No.”

  “Why didn’t you report all this to the authorities?”

  “Dean told me to keep my mouth shut or the same thing would happen to me that happened to your father.” Quentin’s already piteous expression crumpled, and for a moment I thought he might start to cry. “If he finds out I talked to you—”

  “He won’t find it out from me.”

  “I’m afraid of him and those friends of his, Ms. McCone. You should be too.”

  “Wrong. They should be afraid of me.”

  Quentin blinked at my response. To take advantage of his confusion, I said, “Before I leave, I want to take a look at Dean’s office or workstation.”

  “Oh no. I couldn’t let you do that!”

  “Who owns the house or is primary on the lease?”

  “I own it.”

  “Then you can allow me to check things out. It’s legal. I’m an investigator in the employ of a prominent criminal defense attorney.”

  As it had many times before, the ploy worked. Quentin didn’t even ask who the attorney was; I would have given him Glenn Solomon’s name and number if he had. He just gestured in a distracted manner and said, “All right, I’ll show you.”

  4:25 p.m.

  The house had four bedrooms. The two at the rear, one with a deck that overlooked an untended backyard, were Abbot’s bedroom and office, connected by a full bathroom. Quentin followed me while I searched for anything that might tell me where I could find Rolle Ferguson and Jerzy Capp.

  The office first. Computer equipment—a large Dell PC; small and large scanners; two Epson printers. The computer would be password protected, naturally. There was no point in asking Quentin if he could gain access to any of them; as skilled a hacker as Abbot was, he’d make sure no one could get into his files, especially his roommate. There were no paper files in the desk or workstation, nothing that even hinted at a connection with Rolle Ferguson, much less his present whereabouts.

  The bedroom held no leads either. All it told me was that Abbot was fairly neat, had lousy taste in clothes, and didn’t use prescription drugs or the illegal kind.

  When I was done and went back into the hall, Quentin said nervously, “Please leave now, Ms. McCone. If Dean comes back and finds you here, he’ll be furious.”

  “You’re really afraid of him, aren’t you?”

  He looked away.

  “Well, you needn’t worry. I doubt he intends to come back for a while, if at all.”

  “What…what makes you think that?”

  “Call it an educated guess.”

  “But what if you’re wrong?”

  “I’m not.”

  He wrung his hands. “Oh, God, I don’t know what to do…”

  “You’ve got three choices,” I said. “Move out of your own house for the time being and hole up someplace. Or if you’re really desperate, call one of those twenty-four-hour locksmiths and get all the locks changed, then consult with a lawyer and have him file a restraining order.”

  “What’s the third choice?”

  “Hope I find him and his racist buddies soon and have the lot of them locked up in jail where they belong.”

  5:40 p.m.

  On my way to the Bay Bridge I put on my Bluetooth and clicked on Mick’s cell number. He answered right away. I told him about my talk with Quentin Zane, the futile search of Abbot’s quarters.

  “Did Roberta turn up anything about Ferguson and his bunch at the Divisidero condo?” I asked.

  “No. The place is still closed up tight, neighbors haven’t seen any sign of them. You coming back here now?”

  I couldn’t return to M&R and wait around doing nothing. Action was what I needed, now more than ever. Bellefleur was the only place I could think of where Ferguson and Capp and Abbot might be, or if not, where I might find something that would lead me to them.

  “No. Atherton.”

  “Shar, for God’s sake, don’t go down there alone, especially not tonight. There’s a big storm coming in—”

  I knew that. I had checked aviation weather that morning, as I often do even when I’m not flying. “Don’t try to talk me out of it.”

  “Hy would if he were here.”

  “But he isn’t, is he?” The words came out harshly, and I realized I was angry at my husband, angry at Mick and most people I knew.

  “Shar, please—”

  I turned the phone off.

  Why so much anger? I asked myself. The attack on Elwood, the other racist outrages against me and my family, the hacking shutdown and the extortion demands…all of that, yes, sure. But there was another reason too.

  I was tired of dealing with stupid crimes.

  Extortion and blackmail. Kidnapping. Bank robbery. Embezzlement. Spousal and child abuse.

  When you think about it, all crimes are stupid.

  More people get away with murder than you’d suppose, but those are usually cases where the cops aren’t sure if it is murder or not. Child and spousal and elder abuse—they’re in the same category as murder. A lot of abusers get off because the victim refuses to testify against them, but as a society we’ve become more aware, lessened the stigma of being a victim, as we have with rape. As for extortion and blackmail, they wouldn’t exist if the victims refused to comply with the criminals’ demands.

  Refused, like we were doing.

  But what about kidnapping?

  Now that was a tricky one. The risk to the victim’s life was an emotional powerhouse. But a fair amount of kidnappings are shams, or the victim is dead before the ransom demand has been made.

  Bank robbery? How many retired bank robbers did I know?

  Well, one, actually. Big, tough guy. Got caught, served his sentence. Tried to write a book, but he was semiliterate because he’d been too busy planning heists to pay attentio
n in school. Finally he went to live with his sister—and ended up working as her gardener for minimum wage.

  I was approaching the Bay Bridge now. I stopped playing pointless mind games and concentrated on my driving.

  6:30 p.m.

  The rain—not too heavy yet—had started by the time I reached the exit for Atherton. A thick overcast hung low over the Peninsula hills, making the night very dark. Visibility was poor. The narrow road I was following looked different than it had in the daylight and kept confronting me with curves and switchbacks that I didn’t remember. I couldn’t make out any lights in the big houses that I knew stood beyond the wind-whipped branches of the trees that surrounded them.

  I tuned into a weather report on the car radio. This storm was going to be a biggie, the meteorologist said, coming down in icy blasts from Alaska. Travelers’ advisories were in force: stay off the roads. As I switched off the radio a downpour hit, pelting my car brutally. I could barely see the road, and my tires were slinging up mud against the undercarriage. I crept along and finally came to a wide place off the pavement and pulled into it. It wasn’t as large as I’d thought, and my car’s nose plowed into a thick stand of brush on the other side. The car stalled, and I turned its lights out, deciding this was as good a place as any to wait out the onslaught.

  I sat still for a few moments, gathering my wits, which seemed widely scattered, then reached for my phone. But a banging sound made me fumble it, and pellets began to bounce off the hood.

  Hail! What more would this horrible night bring?

  More hail, descending harder. Larger pellets, and a freezing cold that penetrated the metal cocoon around me. I recovered my cell, but reception was spotty here. Finally, after several dropped connections, I reached into the cramped space behind the seat and pulled out a heavy blanket I kept there. It was zipped into a plastic cover, and at first my fingertips were too numb to open it. Once I did, I swaddled myself in it head to toe.

  Dammit, the car needed a new paint job, but I’d planned on having it done in the spring. But with the cracks the hail was probably opening up, I’d better get to the repairs quickly before the salt air from the Bay irreparably corroded the body.

  7:10 p.m.

  Finally the hail stopped and the rain abated somewhat. I started the car. At first I feared I’d be mired in the thick mud, but I eased out gently and breathed a sigh of relief when I was on the road and once again on my way to Bellefleur.

  Downed trees—mostly the fragile eucalypti—were confined to the brush to either side of the road. Branches of all sizes were strewn everywhere, making it difficult to navigate. Dripping water from the thick pine branches made it seem as though it were still raining heavily, and wind continued to rock the car.

  At a place where the road split into two lanes around a huge, ancient sequoia tree, I paused again to consider my options. I could park somewhere near the entrance to Bellefleur, well out of sight, and try climbing the gate. But it was topped with spikes, and I doubted I could see enough of the house from the road to tell if it was occupied. Gaining access to the estate’s grounds would be easier and safer via the oak tree on the Hoffman property.

  As I passed the gates to Bellefleur I slowed down and peered through its bars. Right. I couldn’t tell if there were any lights in the house. I went on to the Hoffmans’.

  The gate there was open, as it had been on my last visit, and I drove through and up the drive. The house was completely dark except for amber nightlights. Nobody home. Suzy had said something about taking her aunt to a care facility, I remembered. Had that been scheduled for today?

  I parked to the far side of the driveway, where the car would be partially obscured by the shadow of one of the eucalyptus trees. The rain had dwindled to a drizzle, but if the National Weather Service reports were accurate, this was only the calm before the biggie.

  I had a sudden desire to give up this quest. Go to a phone booth—if I could even find one of the nearly extinct devices—and call the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Office. Turn it over to them. Go home. Lie in a warm bathtub for twenty-four hours. Sleep in my own bed for a week.

  Sure. You never have abandoned something like this. You never will.

  I locked my purse inside the car, after removing my gun and the small, powerful pen flashlight I carried. Then, with the .38 in the pocket of my jacket, I zipped up and angled through the side yard to the stone boundary wall.

  Climbing the oak tree was much more difficult in the rainy dark. My foot slipped as I eased out onto the branch above the wall, and I nearly fell before regaining my balance. When I’d crawled out far enough that I feared the branch might break, I dropped down, my rain boots sinking deep into mud. They made a sucking sound when I pulled them out.

  I drew the hood of my parka up, but it seemed to have lost its waterproofing. Cold rain from the trees’ leaves rolled down my face as I made my way, the shielded beam of the penlight guiding me, through the shrubbery and bay laurel, the untended grass and tall weeds. Then, through the rain, I saw the main house looming ahead.

  It was dark, and there were no vehicles, no signs of life anywhere in the vicinity.

  On my earlier surveillance, I’d noticed that one of the windows near the rear corner of the house had a hole in it. I made my way there and held the light up close to the glass, moving it around so I could see inside. The glass was dirty, but I could make out that the room beyond was a kitchen.

  The inside catch was fastened, but the hole was down near the sash.

  The cracks were spidery, with some of the glass missing, small pieces and larger ones starting to separate from the frame. I used the butt of my .38 to break out a few shards and widen the hole. Then I lifted the sash and climbed inside.

  The kitchen was cold and musty. Once inside I flashed the light around to orient myself. The kitchen was old, evidently never remodeled: kitschy brown-and-yellow tiles with gingerbread men on them; black-and-white checkerboard floor. The paint on the yellow cabinets was peeling, and a few of their doors were missing. Inside one I could see a massive flour sifter, in another a set of canisters enameled in a plaid tartan pattern. The sink was porcelain with a drain board and a number of chips; the stove was a gas model probably dating back to the 1950s. The refrigerator—of the same era—was working but contained nothing but a jar of Skippy peanut butter.

  Scattered about on the countertops were pizza boxes, Chinese takeout cartons, crumpled beer cans, and liquor bottles. A trash can overflowed with more beer cans and bags from fast-food outlets. The typical detritus of people who didn’t care about their surroundings.

  I followed my light’s beam into the other downstairs rooms. It looked as though vandals had been at work in them: the damaged piano, smashed gilt-framed mirrors, ripped and slashed silk upholstery on the sofas, little side chairs with their legs broken off. The huge dining room table had scar lines as if someone had tried to ice-skate on it. I hated to think what I’d find upstairs.

  Again I wondered why Rolle would have allowed such a valuable asset to deteriorate so badly. Or did someone besides him have control of the estate? Maybe our information was flawed; that could happen in the area of estates, trusts, and the like.

  A marble-floored staircase that I could swear I’d seen in dozens of B movies curved to the second story from the tiled foyer. I moved up it, feeling the give of the risers and banister. Dry rot. A fixable problem, but costly, and the owner would have to care…

  The faded red carpet of the second-floor hallway was threadbare. The walls were covered with similarly faded wallpaper in a maroon fleur-de-lis pattern that must have dated back to the sixties. Doors spread out along a gallery to either side of the staircase, some open, some slightly ajar. In spite of the empty silence, I kept a tight grip on the .38 as I moved along, nudging at each door until I could see the room beyond. Most were empty—stripped by vandals, I supposed. Two doors were closed.

  I took hold of one of the knobs and eased the door open. The room here looked as
if someone had been living in it: rumpled blankets and sheets and pillows on the double brass bed. A coverlet hung off onto the floor on one side. I checked the closet, found jeans and shirts and underwear in a heap on its floor. Men’s clothing: medium-size denim shirt; jeans, size thirty-six by thirty-eight; size thirty-six briefs. Smaller than the average man, as Rolle’s description and the photographs Mick had turned up indicated.

  I checked the pockets of the shirt and jeans. Nothing in the shirt. Small change in the jeans, as well as an unused matchbook from the Twenty-Second Century. Circumstantial evidence at best; Charley Willingham hadn’t identified Rolle as one of the rowdy group in the bar the night of Elwood’s beating, and Rolle could have picked it up at any time.

  A bureau stretched along the wall that backed on the gallery. Its drawers were full of more clothing, same sizes. A smaller central drawer had evidently been used as a catchall: scissors; baggies of extra buttons; souvenir key chains; obsolete tie tacks; a pair of those air freshener balls that are supposed to take the stink out of your athletic shoes; two Bic pens, both dry. The key chains were from standard places: Disneyland, Cal Expo, Marine World—probably childhood acquisitions. A key—a big old-fashioned gold-plated one—had been pushed to the rear, probably forgotten.

  I took it out and examined it, then looked at the doorplate. A key to a room in this house, perhaps?

  A second door led to a shared bathroom, a common feature in houses of this vintage. My flash showed blue-and-white tiles on the walls and floor: a whimsical Dutch pattern of windmills. The windmill pattern was repeated in the borders of the white window curtains.

  I looked into the medicine chest above the pedestal sink. Pills. A lot of pills, most of their bottles without labels. The two with labels—benperidol and fluphenazine—showed Rolle’s name; the bottles were nearly full, their date from two years earlier.