The Color of Fear Page 3

  “For what?”

  “All the wailing Ma was doing, like she was about to have a breakdown.”

  “Saskia says she’s been ‘emotionally fragile’ for a few months. What do you suppose that’s all about? Her reaction seemed like she was upset by more than the attack on Elwood.”

  “In a way she was. You know about their purported ‘engagement’?”

  “What!” Hy and I said together.

  “Oh, so you don’t know.” Patsy shook her head. “It’s bizarre. Truly bizarre. She’s somehow gotten the idea into her head that they’re having a romance and will be getting married.”

  This was way more news than I could take in. I stared at Patsy and finally asked, “When did you find out about it?”

  “While you guys were downstairs. I didn’t know she was seeing him at all until then. And…well, they’re kind of old.”

  I said, “They’re not ‘kind of’ old—they’re old.”

  “So what do they want with each other?”

  “The same thing we all do. Wouldn’t you want somebody to warm your tootsies when you’re in your eighties?”

  Patsy looked thoughtful, then grinned. “Why do you think I’ve been entertaining tootsie warmers my whole adult life? None of them have measured up, and I sure hope one does before I’m Ma’s age. But what I mean by bizarre is the way the news came out of nowhere. Saskia didn’t believe it, and I was totally sandbagged. Do you believe it?”

  “No,” I said, and glanced at Hy. He shook his head.

  “It’s probably just another one of her fantasies,” Patsy said.

  That gave me another pause. “She has fantasies?”

  “Well, sure. You haven’t noticed?”

  “No.”

  “She’s been having them since I was a little girl. I guess because I’m the youngest and was the last one left in the nest, she acted out the fantasies more in front of me. When Pa had gone away on deployment, she claimed he was really doing missions for the CIA. When he was away for long hours, there had to be another woman. When he went around singing those dirty songs—which I rather liked—they were a code for something.” She shut her eyes, shook her head.

  “I didn’t know anything about any of this!”

  “She kept herself in control when you were home. You were always her favorite.”

  I put my hand on Patsy’s arm. “No, I wasn’t. I couldn’t do a damn thing right. She rode me like crazy.”

  “That’s what you do with favorites; I pick on Jessamyn until the kid thinks I’m the devil incarnate.”

  I pictured my mother’s life; she had a lovely three-bedroom house with a view of the ocean in Pacific Grove. On the other hand, Elwood lived in a log cabin on the Flathead rez that he’d built himself upon his return from New York City many years ago. It was ringed by lodgepole pines, snug and cozy, but I couldn’t imagine Ma stoking the woodstove in the morning or ascending the ladder to the sleeping loft at night, any more than I could imagine Elwood being comfortable in Pacific Grove. He wouldn’t even consider such arrangements. No way.

  I said, “It’s got to be a figment of her imagination. Besides, Elwood’s been staying at our house; he would’ve mentioned it to one or the other of us if it were true.”

  Hy said, “And he certainly hasn’t. In fact, he’d been talking to me about the three of us taking one of those small-ship cruises to Alaska.”

  “You and him and Ma?” I asked.

  “No, dummy—you and me and him.” He paused, frowning. “You don’t suppose she’s seriously disturbed, do you?”

  “As in needing hospital care? I hope not.”

  Patsy didn’t look so sanguine, but then she said, “She usually snaps back from these lapses pretty quick. As long as Elwood doesn’t…well, you know.”

  As long as Elwood doesn’t die, she meant.

  Neither Hy nor I said anything.

  Patsy bit her lip. “Well,” she said then, “let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m going back to the hospital. I’ll fetch Ma and Saskia and take them to John’s condo. It’s only a short distance away, and I’ve already okayed it with him.”

  I said, “Thank you, Pats, but for safety’s sake, I think it’s better if they stay in one of the M&R hospitality suites.” I wrote down the information she’d need to get them situated. “And since Ma’s wearing on you, why don’t you stay in our guest room?”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  I looked at my watch. “I’d better go—I’ve got a staff meeting in ten minutes.”

  5:45 p.m.

  When I got to the agency, my staff members were already settled at the big round table in the conference room. The table was completely at variance with the rest of the furnishings in our suite: badly banged up, with evidence of spilled meals and drinks, fists pounded in rage at their owners’ losses at poker games or Monopoly, maybe even some tearstains in the mix. For years it had stood in the kitchen at All Souls Legal Cooperative, the poverty law firm where I’d then been employed. When the co-op shut down, none of us could bear to part with it and its memories, so it had followed whichever of us had room for it. I liked to think of this place as its final home.

  Before I could enter the conference room, Derek Frye—a slender, handsome man of Japanese descent with a colorful tattoo of snakes around his neck—pulled me aside. “Mick suggested I look up Indian advocacy groups on the chance that the attack on your father wasn’t random but a targeting of Native Americans. Most of the big groups—like the California Indian Legal Services—are located in Sacramento or the areas with large populations of Natives, like Escondido, Bishop, and Eureka. I called Sacto and they steered me to one here in the city—a co-op of lawyers and social workers called Change and Growth. They’ll be able to tell you about the status of Indians in the Bay Area. And—although the CILS woman didn’t overtly state it, she implied that they may have information on local crime against Natives.”

  “How do I get hold of them?”

  “You have an appointment tomorrow afternoon with Sylvia Blueflute, their San Francisco representative.” He handed me a sheet with details.

  The staff meeting began on time, in spite of the unusually late hour. “According to the police report,” I began, “the attack on my father occurred sometime between midnight, when a witness saw him crossing Bay Street near Francisco, and two twelve a.m. He was lying in front of a jewelry store on Chestnut Street when a passing motorist spotted him and called the police.” I was trying to keep my voice level, but the image of Elwood bloodied and broken and tossed away like a heap of old clothing was nearly too much for me. I paused, closing my eyes. Then I composed myself and went on, “He was badly beaten and uncommunicative. Was taken to SFG emergency, where the doctors are performing surgery to relieve pressure on his brain. The SFPD assault unit has given us permission to assist them. As you know, they’re short handed, and we’ve done them a few favors in the past. Sergeant Priscilla Anders, the officer in charge of the investigation, and her team are presently canvassing residents in the area for witnesses, but not a lot of people were awake or out and about at the time the assault happened. But there’s still the possibility that somebody heard something or might’ve glanced out the window at the right time.”

  “So we divide the area up into sectors and canvass it too?” Julia Rafael, a tall, good-looking Latina, asked.

  “Right. Derek has already divided it and is considering which available operatives should be assigned to a sector. We may have to co-opt people from another agency. Please speak to him about it. Keep in mind that in neighborhoods like the Marina, people are not exactly forthcoming, in fact they can be downright testy about answering questions.”

  Derek said, “The research department’s also interfacing with the residents in the area, as well as checking on other attacks that might be racially motivated. We’re contacting people who have been tracking hate crimes, as well as people who live in the area where the crimes have occurred.”

  I aske
d, “Any luck so far?”

  “No, but we’ll keep at it.”

  Julia raised her hand. “The police—have they given us permission to investigate however we choose?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they’ll report to us anything the PD comes up with?”

  “Right. But don’t count on them coming up with much. They’re into their usual chaotic state over there.”

  “I thought this new chief they brought in was supposed to fix that.”

  “He will. He’s a good cop. But you can’t clean up a mess like he’s faced with overnight.”

  Roberta Cruz, the newest addition to our team, asked, “What about this ‘passing motorist’ who called it in? Did he identify himself?”

  “No.”

  “Can anybody get a fix on who he is?”

  “Just the number that came up on the screen at the 911 switchboard. It was a mobile phone, which makes it trickier, but not impossible, to trace to the owner. I’m pretty sure the cops are working on it. But I’ll check with Anders to make sure.”

  “Give the number to me,” Derek said. “I can do it easier than the cops can.”

  I wrote it down and passed the paper to him.

  Mick, who had rushed in late, said, “I know you’re approaching this as a random crime, but did it occur to anyone that it could be tied to an old case? Like this past year’s congressional hearings?”

  I thought. “Most of the people involved are in federal prison, but a couple got off scot-free. I’ll check my files, see if I can locate them, and follow up.”

  Mick said, “What about other cases?”

  “I’ll deal with them too.”

  Mick looked annoyed.

  “Any other questions?” I asked. “No? Then let’s get out there and find the assholes who did this.”

  7:10 p.m.

  I’d just pulled into my driveway when Dr. Stiles called to tell me Elwood had survived the surgery and the blood clot on his brain had been relieved. Greatly relieved myself, I sucked in a deep breath of the cool evening air. The prognosis for Elwood’s full recovery was still dependent on his strength and recuperative powers, Stiles said, but there was cause for cautious optimism.

  “We can all only hope to be as constitutionally strong at his age,” he added.

  When I relayed the news to Hy, he said, “Elwood’s a tough old bird. He’ll be all right.”

  “God, I hope so.”

  “He will be. I’m sure of it.”

  Yes. So was I.

  I asked, “Those congressional hearings we testified at—do you recall the names of the two people who went free?”

  “Yeah—Melanie Jacobs and Arthur Wight. I think they both lived in the Bay Area. Why? Do you think they’re connected with this current trouble?”

  “Seems a long shot, but I’m going to look into it.”

  While I was hanging up my jacket, he said, “This is a bad time to look for, much less try to talk with, anyone. Have you even thought about Christmas? It’s only six days away, and our Christmas Eve dinner with Rae and Ricky only five days.”

  “I haven’t, what with all that’s been going on. You?”

  “Nope. Maybe we should. It might help take our minds off the grim stuff for a while.”

  “Just what I was thinking. Tell you what: I’ll build a fire while you uncork a bottle of that good Zin from the Alexander Valley. And we’ll call that Italian restaurant on Twenty-Fourth Street that delivers. Then we’ll make a plan.”

  7:53 p.m.

  The Christmas list we made out struck me as kind of pathetic.

  Elwood: No way of knowing what he needed or wanted. A return to good health, we couldn’t give him.

  Ma: She’d always been big on Christmas, but she wouldn’t be this year. We’d have her over for dinner and give her small gifts. Saskia and Robin would join us. As I thought of my second family, I said, “I forgot to send Darcy his candy.” One of the few constants in my crazy half brother’s life is a love of peanut brittle.

  “There’s still time if it goes FedEx.” Hy noted it on a legal pad he held.

  “Rae and Ricky?”

  “An ornament for their tree. You remember how they loved the handblown glass cat? And maybe some stuff from L.L.Bean or Lands’ End.”

  “Right. Charlene and Vic?”

  “They don’t need anything. A call to them in London—where they should be arriving about now—from all of us should suffice.”

  “Ricky and Charlene’s kids?”

  “Gift cards, except for Mick.”

  “And Mick?”

  “A brand-new Thirty-Eight Special to replace that old forty-five of yours that he keeps in the safe at the office.”

  “Good idea. I never should’ve given him the forty-five anyway. It’s a piece of shit. What about John?”

  “A telescope so he can view the city from his new condo.”

  “Patsy and family? I know. Some obscure kitchen gizmo that will baffle the hell out of them.”

  “What about the folks at the agency?”

  “I’ve already distributed the bonuses.”

  “Ted and Neal?” My office manager and his longtime partner.

  “They wanted one of these things.” I pointed at a beautiful hand-carved wooden stand that sat on the end table beside me. “They hold up books or anything else while you’re reading.”

  “Elegant. Can we get them on time?”

  “I’ve had them since September.”

  We kept on going down the list until we reached the point of “Others—phone calls or the Christmas cards I bought last summer.”

  I sighed. “We’re done.”

  “Not by a long shot,” he told me. “Now we’ve got to buy and wrap all this stuff.”

  11:11 p.m.

  We’d taken our list and gotten on Internet sites that promised next-day delivery and gift wrapping. Everything was in stock and ready to ship. All was well with the holiday world.

  But not our world. Not unless Elwood fully recovered, and not until the bastards who assaulted him were behind bars.

  WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 20

  8:25 a.m.

  How could you have let me sleep so long?” I asked Hy when he woke me with a gentle hand on my shoulder.

  “Because you badly needed to.” He sat down on the bed. “I was being overprotective, and I’m sorry. But you’ve had some pretty heavy things on your plate recently. So have I. And I’m sure Patsy—who’s currently sleeping in the guest room—has too; the restaurant business is pretty brutal, especially at the holidays.”

  Patsy had begun her career as a restaurateur when she bought a dilapidated resort on an island in the Sacramento Delta, planning to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast. The experiment had not been a success. But when she tried a similar venture in Napa, Patsy’s Place had taken off, and she was now bargaining for a second in Sonoma.

  9:29 a.m.

  Before I left the house, I received a call from Jane Nomee in Montana, wanting to give me some information she hadn’t recalled during our short conversation yesterday.

  “I don’t know if this is pertinent to what happened to Elwood or not,” she said, “but I thought you ought to know. A few years ago, this white guy arrived in St. Ignatius. Claimed to be an artist and started asking around about Elwood. It turned out he really was an artist; he tried to sell his paintings to the only gallery in town, the Eagle’s Nest, but—the then owner told me—they weren’t very good, so she turned him away. Said something didn’t seem quite right about him. And the people in town, they were protective of Elwood, so nobody pointed the man his way.”

  “Did he give anyone his name?”

  “If he did, nobody remembers it.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “A normal, white-bread young guy. Flaming red hair, shades and boots and clothes like they show in the hunters’ catalogs. I’m fairly accurate on this information. Last night I had a short conversation with Mingan—excuse me, I sometimes revert to t
he old ways—with Will, and he refreshed my memory.”

  “Mingan—what does that mean in English?”

  “Gray Wolf. He was so fierce as a child. But about this artist…is it possible he’s involved in the assault on Elwood for some reason?”

  “Possible, but not likely. Anyhow, there’s no way I can investigate him without knowing his name.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t provide you with one. I was postmistress at the time—before the government took the office away—and no letters or packages came for him. He stayed for a week at the Wigwam motel, on the northern side of town. It’s out of business now.”

  I’d stayed at the Wigwam on an early visit to St. Ignatius—twelve shabby units where everything was screwed in place to walls or floor, presumably so guests wouldn’t steal it. I’d wondered why anyone would want to.

  “Do you have any idea what happened to the motel’s registration records?”

  “Up in smoke. The drunken owner incinerated himself, the motel, and all its contents three years ago.”

  “Do you have the owner’s full name or any information about his next of kin?”

  She hesitated. “I don’t know anything about his family or where he came from. Anyway,” she went on, “the artist was very interested in meeting Elwood. This was right after Elwood’s wife Leila died in the car wreck, so we didn’t want him bothering Elwood and wouldn’t give him information about his whereabouts. You know what, though: you might call my daughter Emi. She bought the Eagle’s Nest—and remembers the so-called artist trying to peddle his paintings to the previous owner. They were pretty bad, she says, all bloody battle scenes. But if he really was trying to peddle something, he would’ve given his name, right?”

  “Right. Actually, I know Emi. The last time I was up there she was director of a youth-and-family services organization. Why the change?”

  “Budget cuts. Nobody in Washington cares about Indian youth or families.”

  I couldn’t deny that.

  I copied down Emi’s contact information, then began phoning her various numbers.

  12:47 p.m.