The Color of Fear Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 19

  WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 20

  THURSDAY, DECEMBER 21

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 22

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23

  SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 25

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 26

  WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 27

  THURSDAY, DECEMBER 28

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 29

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 30

  MONDAY, JANUARY 1

  Acknowledgments

  Sharon McCone Mysteries By Marcia Muller

  Newsletters

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Pronzini-Muller Family Trust

  Cover design by Blanca Aulet

  Cover photograph by yunjun/Shutterstock

  Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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  First Edition: August 2017

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  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017942515

  ISBN: 978-1-4555-3892-8 (hardcover), 978-1-4555-3891-1 (ebook)

  For Bill, who knows all the reasons why

  And in loving memory of my sister,

  Carol Brandt

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 19

  2:47 a.m.

  The old man stands at one of the display windows of a jewelry store in San Francisco’s exclusive Marina district. He is tall and muscular, his face nut brown and deeply furrowed, and his long gray hair is tied back in a ponytail under his knit cap, falling over the collar of his flannel shirt. His jeans are faded but clean; his athletic shoes are scuffed, well used.

  It is late, but he is not tired; with every advancing year he requires less and less sleep, as if his body is greedy to soak up every bit of life remaining to it. If even a few moments of that time should measure up to his earlier years, he will be rich in the experiences he treasures.

  He has traveled here to San Francisco from his home on the Flathead Indian Reservation in Montana to spend the Christmas holidays with his daughter and her husband. San Francisco is not a city he has visited often, although the few times he did, he was impressed with it. For a number of years—long ago—he lived in New York City, which was necessary for his work. Then a young man, he had delighted in Manhattan’s brashness and energy, but when he returned to the reserve in Montana its serenity had comforted him. Now he is intrigued by this California city that seems to be so many different things to such a diverse population.

  Tonight he has gone out for his customary walk and is contemplating a Christmas gift for his daughter. Those aquamarine earrings displayed in the window would please her, complement her black hair and dark eyes. Color is of primary importance to him, an artist of some renown.

  His daughter is also a gift—to him. The child he never knew he had until she sought him out a few years ago at his small home in St. Ignatius on the rez. “I need to trace my family’s roots,” she’d told him. “I need to know who I am.”

  At first he had been gruff with her, sent her away with orders to assemble her thoughts. His standard response when actually he’d needed to assemble his. But then she’d returned, and when all the twists and turns of their complicated lives had been sorted out, they had realized they were father and daughter. Of course, mere blood ties are less than what is required to forge a true relationship. But they’d worked at its creation, he and now his newfound child—along with her amazing extended family of relatives and friends—have made him part of something larger and stronger than himself.

  The earrings, yes, he decides. He’ll return for them in the morning. He moves along the display window, looking for a suitable gift for his son-in-law—a kind, gentle man, but what the tribes used to call a warrior when circumstances warranted it. Come to think of it, his daughter is a warrior too.

  A watch—yes! His son-in-law’s current one looks shabby and out-of-date. What if it fails him? Much of the man’s professional life depends on split-second timing. A good, well-styled watch, but not one of those foolish ones that provide extraneous useless data. His son-in-law has at his disposal far more sophisticated and reliable devices than those.

  Of course, his Christmas shopping is far from completed. There are two cats in the household, and cats always enjoy treats. There is a housekeeper—a handsome woman of an indeterminate age—who divides her time between his daughter’s home and that of her best friend. And others of the couple’s friends who have welcomed him and made him feel a part of their circle. Not to mention those on the reserve who urged him to make this extended trip.

  So much shopping. And wrapping. And mailing. But what else has he to do with the fortune he’s amassed over the years?

  So much pleasure in finally having a reason to spend some of it.

  Noises on the formerly silent, empty street interrupt his thoughts. Hard heels slapping on the pavement in a manner that reminds him of old Nazi war movies he’s seen on TV. They are coming from the west, the direction in which his daughter’s house lies. Coming close to him.

  He turns away from the display window, peers into the misty night, but he can make out only dark shapes.

  A low, almost imperceptible growl reaches his ears. That of a human, not an animal. His flesh ripples. He has heard such growls before, on the rez long ago when opposing factions allowed their passions to escalate to rage. Instinctively he whirls and tries to run, but one of the shapes rushes forward and a heavy hand falls upon his right shoulder, staying him. And then the others descend upon him, grabbing, pulling, shoving.

  “Dirty old Indian,” a rough voice says close to his ear. “You don’t belong in this neighborhood.”

  “I have every right to be here—”

  “Like hell you do.” Another hand grabs his left arm, shakes it painfully.

  “Probably planning to rob the jewelry store,” another voice says. “That’s what you bastards do when you come to our city, isn’t it, Geronimo? Break into places, steal like the savages you are.”

  And then the blows begin to fall—on his head, shoulders, back. Hard shoes kick his legs, a fist slams into his abdomen and doubles him over. He tries to fight back, flailing with his arms and legs, but there are too many of them. The blows drive him to his knees, then topple him forward onto his side, his head striking the pavement.

  The last thing he sees is a silver watch on the wrist of the first man
to strike him.

  The last thing he hears are the words, “You’re lucky we don’t kill you, Geronimo. The only good Indian is a dead Indian.”

  4:08 a.m.

  Hy and I are used to receiving urgent phone calls in the middle of the night, most of them requiring immediate action. But the doorbell ringing at this hour? That was both unusual and alarming. Few people know our home address.

  Hy was immediately at the ready, reaching for the .45 he keeps in his nightstand. I put a cautioning hand on his shoulder and said, “It’s probably Elwood. I thought I heard him go out on one of his late-night rambles a while ago. He might’ve forgotten his key.”

  “Let’s hope that’s all it is.”

  We caught up our matching terry cloth robes, threw them on. As we started down the stairway, Hy said, “I love your dad, McCone, but why don’t we just pin the key to his jacket?”

  “He’d probably forget it was there. Nobody on Moose Lane in St. Ignatius locks his or her house.”

  I’d left the porch light of our Spanish-style house on, knowing Elwood might go out rambling, and I could see a pair of shapes through the glass panes beside the door. The back of my neck prickled. Those were cop shapes; something was very wrong. I disabled the security system and threw the door open. The officer who regularly patrolled this area, Winifred Sighesio, and her sometimes partner Jeff Barcy stood there, their faces tense. In an uncharacteristic gesture, Sighesio put her hand on my arm.

  “Sorry to bother you this late, Ms. McCone, but it’s necessary,” she said. “May we come in?”

  “Of course.” I motioned them toward the living room.

  Elwood. It has to be something to do with Elwood.

  We all remained standing while Sighesio said, “An old man was found not far from here an hour and a half ago, badly beaten, unconscious, with a possible concussion and other injuries. Shabbily dressed, looked to be Native American. One of the EMTs found your card”—she nodded to me—“in his pocket. Your home, office, and cell numbers and this address were written on the back.”

  “Elwood!” His name burst out between the fingers I’d pressed to my lips. Hy had slipped the .45 into the pocket of his robe; he put both arms around me and pulled me back against his chest.

  “A pro bono client, maybe?” Barcy said. “We can’t figure any other reason you’d have passed out one of your cards to a homeless guy—”

  “He’s my father, goddamn it!”

  “Your father?” Sighesio said in shocked tones. “We had no idea, Ms. McCone. The way he was dressed, we took him for a derelict…”

  I blinked back tears. Through them I could see Barcy’s eyes sizing up our large living room with its buttery leather furnishings, native-stone fireplace, and big flat-screen TV. How, his expression asked, could a raggedy old Indian fit into such a place?

  “Where is he now?” I demanded.

  “SF General’s trauma unit.”

  “How is he? What exactly are his injuries?”

  “From what the EMTs could tell me, he has a broken arm, a broken femur, cracked ribs, numerous lacerations, and possibly a concussion and internal injuries. He hadn’t regained consciousness when they took him away in the ambulance.”

  My God!

  Hy asked her how Elwood had been found. She told us an anonymous caller had spotted him lying in the doorway of a jewelry store on Chestnut and called 911.

  I asked shakily, “Was my father robbed?”

  “Apparently not. His wallet contained quite a bit of cash and one credit card, Visa, issued in 2012.”

  That was typical Elwood—one credit card, and he would pay the full balance every month.

  “Any evidence on the scene?”

  “Blood smears indicating he was attacked and beaten where he was found. Nothing to point to the perps.”

  “What about witnesses?”

  “As you know, the business section of Chestnut is pretty densely populated with shops, restaurants, and residential quarters above them. But there’s very little activity at this time of night. We’re going to canvass the area, but”—she threw out her arms helplessly—“we’re so short handed right now…”

  “D’you know who’ll be investigating the case?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, whoever it is will have help from me.”

  “Now just wait a minute,” Barcy blurted. “Department regulations specifically forbid—”

  Sighesio silenced him with a look and a gesture. “Go wait outside, Jeff.”

  “But—”

  “Just go!”

  He went because she was the senior officer, but not before shooting her a resentful look.

  “He needs sensitivity training,” she apologized. “He’s young, but if he doesn’t grow up fast, he won’t be with the PD much longer. You folks want a ride to SFG?”

  “No,” I said, “we’ll drive ourselves.”

  5:37 a.m.

  I was no stranger to the SF General campus, but the new Zuckerberg Trauma Center dwarfed the older buildings at the foot of Potrero Hill. The public had approved an $800,000-and-some-dollar bond measure a few years ago, but that amount covered only construction costs. Then Mark Zuckerberg, creator of Facebook, and his wife, Dr. Priscilla Chan, stepped in, donating $75 million to equip and furnish the facility.

  Fewer years ago than I care to remember, I’d been a patient at the old trauma center, first in a coma and then in a bullet-generated locked-in state where I was fully aware but unable to speak, move, or communicate in any way. Fortunately for me, its excellent staff—and later the staff at the rehab center the hospital referred me to—brought me back to the woman I’d once been, and I feel an intense loyalty to both the hospital and the center. Hy and I have directed a number of our philanthropic efforts their way—but of course in amounts nowhere near those of megarich folks like Zuckerberg and Chan.

  Hy let me off at the door of the trauma center and went off to find a place to park. I joined the line for emergency room visitors, but one of the admitting personnel motioned me over—a male nurse who’d befriended and visited me frequently when I was in my locked-in state. He took charge, cutting through the standard waiting time of nearly an hour, and soon Hy and I were speaking with Dr. David Stiles, the neurosurgeon assigned to Elwood’s case.

  As Sighesio had indicated, Elwood’s condition was very serious. He was in the intensive care unit and not allowed visitors at present. He still hadn’t regained consciousness.

  “He’s strong for a man his age,” Stiles said. “Do you have any idea of when he was born, Ms. McCone?”

  “I don’t know exactly, just that he’s in his eighties, but I can get the information on…from other relatives tomorrow.” I’d almost said “on the moccasin telegraph,” which would require too much explanation to this straightforward man of science.

  “Your father’s bone density appears to be good. Breaks in the femur, the left arm, and the clavicle have been set. The two cracked ribs”—he shrugged—“all we could do was tape them.”

  He paused.

  Oh God, here it comes!

  “The most serious potential problem is traumatic brain injury. Do you know what that is?”

  “I ought to. I was a patient here when I had locked-in syndrome.”

  “Ah—I thought your name was familiar. You’re something of a legend around here. Let’s hope your father is built of the same strong stuff you are.” He paused, then went on, “Here’s what else we’re doing: CT scans, which will reveal if he has suffered a concussion and/or a subdural hematoma; bone density and various standard tests. If a blood clot has formed, or there are indications one may form, surgery will be necessary.”

  “Is he likely to have permanent brain damage?”

  “At this point, we can’t hazard a guess. The brain is tricky, and it varies its tricks from day to day. Every case is different. Your father may have suffered brain damage of varying severity, or he could wake up one morning and be perfectly fine. Only time will
tell.”

  Since we couldn’t see Elwood yet and wouldn’t be able to for some time, Stiles suggested Hy and I return home. We would be notified immediately if there was any change in Elwood’s condition. I wanted to stay anyway, but Hy talked me out of it.

  “There’s nothing for you to do at the hospital,” he said, “and plenty at home.”

  He was right about that. It was now morning across the entire continent, and I had to face the unpleasant task of notifying our family members.

  7:01 a.m.

  Saskia Blackhawk, my birth mother—more about that later—in Boise, Idaho, had become close to Elwood in recent years, so to begin with I phoned her. She expressed shock, then full lawyer-mode anger and indignation. “I’ll be at SFO on the first available flight and come directly to the hospital,” she told me.

  Saskia is an attorney dealing in Indian rights who has argued before federal courts and the Supreme Court, winning every case. When Elwood’s attackers were found, her rage and legal expertise would make them pay the maximum penalty.

  I asked her if she knew my father’s exact birth date. She did: April 13, 1935. “Before I let you go,” she said then, “please don’t call your other mother. It’s best I break the news to her myself.”

  “Why? Is Ma—”

  “Just please let me do it. I’ll explain when I see you.”

  Next I called Jane Nomee, a weaver of great skill and the reigning gossip queen of the moccasin telegraph. Jane, a tall, strong woman in her sixties, lived in St. Ignatius, the nearest town to Elwood’s home.

  The moccasin telegraph is a loosely linked group devoted to circulating information about all things Indian throughout the nation. Once, they claim, it operated on smoke signals—and maybe it did—but these days the Internet and smartphones transmit the necessary information. When anything noteworthy occurred, Jane would be on the phone or e-mail to those who would spread the word far and wide. When I’d first visited the reserve I’d found her intimidating. Now that I knew her better she was just Jane the Reporter.

  I asked her to spread the word about the attack on Elwood, but to caution everyone to keep it strictly among themselves. Jane, who is a devotee of TV crime shows, agreed to get moving on Elwood’s mishap. Soon, I was sure, the MT wires would be humming.