The Color of Fear Read online

  “Nosy is a quality that’s always worked for me. So what did you find?”

  “That the property is in even worse shape than I expected.”

  “Did you go into the house?”

  “No way. It was locked up tight and I wasn’t about to break in. Trespassing on the grounds is illegal enough.”

  A wind had whipped up, rattling the leaves of the eucalypti that flanked the house on two sides. Suzy shivered.

  I said, “How did you get over there? Climb the front gate?”

  “No. A tree growing on our side of the boundary line.”

  “Mind showing it to me?”

  “Thinking of doing some exploring of your own, Shar?”

  “Yep.”

  The tree, a large heritage oak, was at the back of the deep rear yard. Its sturdy, moss-covered branches topped a high stone wall between the two properties by a good dozen feet.

  Suzy said, “Put your foot into that notch there, and pull yourself onto the second-highest branch next to it. That’ll give you a look into the yard.”

  I stretched out my foot toward the notch, anchored myself, and climbed.

  The land on the Bellefleur side was so overgrown with trees and vegetation gone wild that at first I couldn’t make out anything. Then something grayish white fluttered in the breeze, and I focused on it. A badly shredded net, below it the faded green pavement of a tennis court. When I leaned forward and to one side, I had a glimpse of part of the slate roof in the distance.

  After a moment I climbed down and asked Suzy, “Can you give me the general lay of the land over there?”

  “Sure. If you go in by the main gate, you’ll see this ugly mermaid statue, straight ahead is an ugly decrepit fountain. There’s a grove of bay laurel trees to the left, a falling-down gazebo to the right, and next to it a collapsed wishing well. From the well you have a good look at the house. There’re some outbuildings—a garage, a caretaker’s cottage, a potting shed, another shed that was probably where yard furniture and lawn equipment were stored. Driveway’s mostly graveled and not well graded. Also long. You want to look out for ruts.”

  “Why would Rolle want to keep the property when it’s in such disrepair? Acreage that size would be a developer’s dream.”

  “That I don’t know. I guess a lot of us have hang-ups about our home places.” For a moment she looked pensive, then shrugged the mood off. “Want me to come with you?”

  “No. Better on my own.”

  “Well, be careful. I almost concussed myself on a tree branch when I was over there.”

  “I will. But do me a favor? Call me at this number”—I scribbled it on the back of one of my cards—“if anybody should happen to show up at the front gate.”

  4:40 p.m.

  I climbed the oak tree again. When I was a kid I used to scale trees in the canyon behind our old house in San Diego all the time. But I wasn’t so nimble any more; my right foot slipped on the slick moss and for a moment I hung suspended by my left arm. Or maybe by the left sleeve of my sweater. I could feel threads unraveling. Shit! This investigation was sure playing hell with my clothes…

  Finally I regained my footing, swung over the wall, and climbed down onto Bellefleur land. Took a moment to orient myself, then walked slowly in the direction of the main gate.

  There was the mermaid statue Suzy had mentioned, and was it ever ugly! A product of the early nineteen hundreds, probably shipped from Europe at great expense. Rich people did that kind of thing back then—trying to emulate William Randolph Hearst and his excesses in furnishing his castle down south at San Simeon.

  Unfortunately the mermaid had been badly sited and it leaned—sort of like the Millennium Tower high-rise in the city that had gradually begun sinking in recent years. More than four hundred San Franciscans were now stuck with millions of dollars’ worth of condominiums that might at any time be sucked into the muck and mire of the Bay.

  Turn right, Suzy had told me. I was to look out for ruts—and there were plenty of them. I passed the copse of bay laurel trees and was briefly so distracted by their strong, curry-like fragrance that I tripped over an exposed tree root and nearly fell.

  Pay attention, you fool!

  I could see the outlines of the collapsed wishing well now, although if Suzy hadn’t told me what it was, I would have dismissed it as a pile of long-discarded lumber. And then the fountain…

  It was three tiered and even uglier than the mermaid. Carved on the bottom tier were large fish with vicious-looking teeth; on the middle tier gargoyles grinned, their huge, gaping mouths poised to pour water into the surrounding bowl. And on the top tier little naked angels capered—what was their job? To pee on the gargoyles? Of course the fountain was dry, dead leaves and branches skittering through its pillars and pond.

  Who, I wondered, had commissioned the construction of this monstrosity? It was old, its marble chipped and discolored, heaps of dirt and debris drifting against its walls. How long had it been since water bubbled and cascaded into the bowl? And why all this neglect, if Rolle was intent on keeping the property?

  The gazebo appeared to the right. Part of its roof had collapsed, and weathered ornate trim and latticework were scattered on the ground. The pillars that had held the roof were splayed out around its ruins, as if they all had fallen at the same time. A putrid odor emanated from the wreckage; something had died there not long ago. I skirted it quickly, and when I passed through a tangle of shrubbery I had a more or less clear view of the house.

  Massive, three storied, with many wings and a stained, cracked white façade through which orange bricks showed. Hanging shutters, shingles from the roof strewn on the ground. Half-dead yew trees leaning against the walls, brown shrubs that looked as if they’d succumbed years ago. Nothing healthy growing except weeds where a lawn once might have been.

  Again the question occurred to me: why the neglect?

  I moved to the front of the house, then made my way along its right side. Doors and windows were all securely locked. Through one dirty windowpane into what might have been the living room or parlor, I could make out a grand piano, its lid lying beside it, most of the ivory torn off. I tested the latch. It was locked.

  Well, McCone? You’ve already committed criminal trespass. Do you want to add breaking and entering to the list?

  My vibrating cell phone saved me from having to make a decision. I tensed, thinking it might be Suzy reporting someone’s arrival. But no, it was Ted.

  “Where are you?” He sounded distressed.

  “On the Peninsula, at the Ferguson property.”

  “You better get back here right away.”

  “Why? Has something happened?”

  “Yeah. A car bombing.”

  Jesus! “Whose car? Where? When?”

  “Julia’s. Right in front of the building. Less than five minutes ago. The fire department hasn’t even got here yet.”

  “Was she hurt?”

  “No, she wasn’t in the car. Whoever did it didn’t mean to kill her. Must’ve been set off by remote control. But she’s badly shook up.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  5:11 p.m.

  The news made me mad as hell. The destruction of Julia’s ancient Mazda had to be related to the racist attacks, not a coincidental prank by one of the city’s “imps,” as they liked to call themselves—idiots with an insatiable desire for attention. No, this was a vicious act indirectly aimed at me, Julia’s vehicle targeted because she was my employee and a member of a minority group.

  A warning to M&R: Stop investigating us, or worse will happen to you.

  I hurried back to the stone boundary wall as quickly as I could, climbed up and over. Fortunately, Suzy had gone inside the house for some reason, so I didn’t have to take the time to say goodbye to her. In the car, as I drove out to the road, I put on my Bluetooth and called M&R’s security chief, Bud Johansen. I asked him to post extra guards on the hospitality suite where Saskia, Emi, and Ma were staying, and also to cov
er the homes of our other employees and warn those who didn’t have cars to use WeDriveU for their transportation until further notice. Then I thought of Will Camphouse, and gave Bud his cell number so he could warn him. The alert Hy had put out at the time of the invasion of our home not only covered Avila Street but the Tufa Lake ranch house and Touchstone, so all three properties were already well covered.

  As I headed north on 280, I turned the car radio on and punched the channel buttons, looking for a news broadcast that would tell me about the car bombing. Only music: pop, rap, classical, hip-hop. When you wanted music, the news was always blaring in your ears. When you wanted news…

  I drove as quickly as traffic would allow. When I arrived at the M&R building, I found the street clogged with a pair of fire trucks, a TV mobile unit and camera crew, and the usual assorted group of onlookers. A tow truck was removing the burned-out hulk of Julia’s Mazda. She stood on the curb watching them, gave the car a sad little wave as the truck lumbered off, its flatbed swaying. I parked in the vacated space and hurried to her.

  Tears stained her cheeks. This was the first time I’d seen her cry. She put her arms around me and her head on my shoulder.

  “Oh, Shar, what am I gonna do? My sister needs the car to take Tonio to school and do the shopping. I need it to work my cases. Why do these things always happen to me?”

  Julia had had a rough time in the worst part of the Mission district—a life laced with drug use and prostitution—until the birth of her son Tonio six years ago, when she’d determinedly turned her life around.

  “You didn’t do anything,” I said, smoothing her wet hair back from her cheek. “The bombing was aimed at me, and I’m pretty sure I know who did it.”

  “You do? Who?”

  “The same bastards who attacked my father.”

  “Dios mío!”

  We went inside, the night security man waving us through. His eyes were kind as he said, “So sorry, Ms. Julia.”

  “Thank you, Roy.”

  In the elevator I said to Julia, “I’ll get somebody to arrange for a rental car for you.”

  “Thank you, but I can’t take advantage—”

  “Your car was destroyed while you were on the job. M&R owes you a rental.”

  “I think I have enough saved up for a new used car. That one was becoming unreliable.”

  “Then start checking the automobile ads. If you need help, I’m sure the agency can float you a loan.”

  We found a handful of people waiting with Ted and Mick—SFFD and SFPD investigators with questions about the bombing. I dealt with them as quickly as I could, then took Ted and Mick aside to make sure Elwood and Ma and Saskia and Emi were all still safe and sound.

  “No problems on that front,” Mick said.

  “And on other fronts?”

  “A lot of messages have been piling up for Ripinsky, but he’s unreachable.”

  “Closeted with security people, maybe, or in transit.”

  “Aren’t you worried about him?” Ted asked.

  “I’ve been a lot more worried about him in the past. Anything new on Rolle Ferguson and Jerzy Capp?”

  “No,” Mick said. “Whatever their agenda is, they seem very good at hiding it. But Derek’s still working on it.”

  “Okay.”

  “I take it you didn’t find out anything at the Ferguson place in Atherton?”

  “Not much. I wasn’t there long enough.” I told him about what I’d seen there and what Suzy had told me about Rolle.

  “Pretty much tallies with what I’ve been able to find out,” he said. “Do you want me to summarize all this and e-mail the report to Sergeant Anders?”

  “Good idea. She’s swamped with work, but I want to keep her in the loop.”

  “She’ll get the news about this car bombing through departmental channels, but I’ll mention it too. Do you suppose it’s connected with Ferguson and Capp?”

  “I’d be surprised if it wasn’t.”

  “What’re you going to do now?”

  “Catch up on some routine stuff.”

  “I’ll be doing the same at home. Call me there if you need anything.”

  6:35 p.m.

  The offices had gradually quieted down, except for the clicking of computer keyboards in a couple of cubicles. The phones had ceased ringing.

  I’d thought I needed some time to myself, but now felt restless, totally out of sorts, as I often did while waiting for something to happen. Pacing around my office did nothing to calm me. In fact, all it got me was a broken fingernail from smacking my hand on a file cabinet. I repaired it and sat at my desk until the polish dried, gazing at a nearby bookcase. My eyes settled on the latest edition of Hints on Criminal Investigation, a twenty-pound tome that had been more or less my Bible since I’d started in the business. I took it down, cradled it in my arms, and curled up in the armchair under Mr. T., the schefflera plant.

  I wasn’t looking for anything specific—the book contained nothing I didn’t already know—but paging through it might set free an idea that would steer me onto a different track. I was rapidly coming to think of the present one as nonproductive.

  Practically since the first day I could read I’ve had a habit of poring over heavy volumes such as Hints and the California penal code. Not because what they contained had anything to do with my world; at seven years old, I was just curious, and the weighty books felt good in my small hands. But I ask you, how many seven-year-olds know that it’s illegal to trap birds in a public cemetery? Or that animals are barred from mating publicly within 1,500 feet of a tavern, school, or place of worship? Or that it’s unlawful to let a dog pursue a bear or bobcat at any time?

  Tell that to the animal kingdom.

  As I sat there, paging through the tome, the phone rang. Saskia and Robin and Will had heard about the car bombing and called earlier with a flurry of concerned questions. Now it was Elwood, who had been in physical therapy most of the afternoon. I did my best to reassure him, but he still sounded worried when we ended the call.

  I was about to pack it in and go home when a call came in from Sergeant Priscilla Anders. She sounded tired and discouraged. “I haven’t made any headway on your father’s case, Ms. McCone. And they’re piling the workload so high over here that I’m about to collapse under it. And now this car bombing…”

  “My nephew, Mick Savage, is going to e-mail you the details of our agency’s investigation, bring you up to date on what we’ve found out.”

  “If I’m lucky I’ll get to it by a week from next Tuesday.”

  I knew the kind of burnout that was getting to her. My former operative Adah Joslyn had experienced it at the SFPD before she came to work for me. Now she and her husband, Craig Morland—once with the FBI—had recently formed their own agency and were enjoying a more low-key life.

  I said to Anders, “Mick’ll send the file anyway. No hurry on reading it.” But I knew she would read it tonight. That’s the kind of cop she was.

  Hy remained incommunicado. The offices grew chilly—my fault for decreeing that we must conserve energy. I decided to read Hints at home in the comfort of my warm bed.

  But on the way down to the garage, where I’d moved my car after the tow truck departed, something interesting occurred to me. I sat down on the elevator floor, propping its door open, and again began leafing through the pages of the heavy volume. Something I’d read earlier had jogged my memory.

  8:55 p.m.

  I finally found it, on page two hundred under the heading “Criminal Techniques.”

  A common tactic among criminals seeking to avoid detection is MISDIRECTION. Let this be a warning to neophyte investigators that very often in a case, the scenario of a crime, whether generated by oneself or the suspect(s), is not always as it seems. Criminals will often prepare a story backed up by a few convincing facts. Others will construct elaborate tales whose vast details will require a great deal of time and effort to untangle. Evaluate those acts and details carefully. In
consistencies may appear among them that will set you on the road to a solution.

  Well, I knew all that, but reading it set down in such a matter-of-fact manner reinforced my past experiences. So who, if anyone, had misdirected me recently? Dean Abbot? He’d been deceptive from the first, and there was little doubt in my mind that he was mixed up with Ferguson and Capp. Maybe I hadn’t been watching the currents that eddied around me as carefully as I should have. Dozens of people had gained my trust over the years, and there was no guarantee that one of them hadn’t turned on me. Or that someone who had nursed a strong but well-concealed grudge hadn’t finally acted on it, as had been the case with the man who’d torched my house on Church Street.

  No, I hadn’t been careful enough; in this business you need to harbor a good measure of paranoia, but I’d become lax in that department. Complacency, owing to my relatively comfortable and peaceable life, had set in. Time to fan the flames of paranoia and let it take over.

  Sure. How about Elwood had orchestrated his own attack for some incomprehensible reason? (Utterly ridiculous notion.) Or maybe Julia had firebombed her own car for the insurance money. Or Suzy was another racist in cahoots with Rolle Ferguson. Or Will Camphouse had had ulterior motives in coming here. Hell, maybe Chef D was trying to poison me with his pasta al Cubano—it had made my stomach hurt.

  Stop! This is the way to madness.

  Footsteps on the concrete stairs beyond the open elevator door. I jumped as Will’s voice called out to me.

  9:10 p.m.

  Well, think of the devil and he may appear. But if Will was a devil, he was an exceptionally cheerful one. “Hey,” he said, “I’ve just come from the hospital. Elwood’s doing okay. But he was semidelirious and mumbling a lot of mismatched things that didn’t make much sense taken separately or together.”

  “What things?”

  “‘Expansion’ was one. Another was ‘Stomp foot.’”

  “Applicable to the attack, I suppose.”

  “Another was ‘Special ops.’ Funny, because he was never in the military.”