The Color of Fear Read online

  Emi proved difficult to track down. Her cell went to voice mail, the landlines to machines. At the Eagle’s Nest Gallery, the young woman who answered against a background of rap music said, “Whazzat? Hang on, got to turn the tube down.”

  I repeated my request to talk to Emi Nomee.

  “Oh, the bitch.” She let loose with a high-pitched giggle. “I mean the boss.” More giggling.

  Stoned. Stoned in the middle of the day and on the job.

  “When is Ms. Nomee expected back?” I asked sharply.

  “I dunno,” she replied. “She went away.”

  “Went away where?”

  “San Francisco.”

  “That’s where I’m calling from.”

  “Yeah? Cool.”

  And she broke the connection without saying anything else.

  I gave a short moment of thought to what was currently called “the dumbing down of America.” Then I decided it probably wasn’t worth my time and set off for the M&R building.

  2:15 p.m.

  And there she was, pacing the hallway like a tigress about to pounce. Ma.

  I hugged her and asked, “What are you doing here?” as I led her back to my office. “I thought you’d be at the hospital.”

  She made a huffing sound and plopped into one of the chairs. “I don’t go where I’m not wanted.”

  “Who doesn’t want you there?”

  “That nurse—the one with the fat ass. And that attendant who’s always so cheery.”

  I studied her. Her complexion was mottled and there were large pouches under her reddened eyes.

  “Maybe they just think you need some rest and regular meals.”

  “I’ll rest when I’m dead. And I don’t see you taking me into your home and feeding me.”

  “Ma, I’m involved in finding out who attacked Elwood. You want that, don’t you?”

  Silence. She stared straight ahead at the wall.

  “And you don’t like my cooking,” I added.

  “Hy’s is not bad.”

  “He’s working on this too. As well as a number of other cases.”

  A tear appeared on her lashes and trickled down her left cheek.

  Oh God, she’s going into her fallback mode!

  My mother cried only when nothing else worked.

  And, as usual, it did work. “Look, Ma, why don’t you go downstairs to the hospitality suite and rest? Then put on that great dress—the sapphire-blue one. Come back around six, and we’ll have cocktails and go out someplace nice for dinner.”

  She brightened at once. “That sounds good. I’ll see you then.”

  When Ma was gone, I collapsed onto my office couch feeling defeated once again. I’d relapsed into behavior that I despised.

  It’s hard to be Old Reliable.

  By that I mean the one everybody—family, friends, and employees—depends on. The go-to girl they know will be able to fix things.

  Need help with settling that overdue bill? Ask Shar.

  The bank statement’s fucked up? Shar’s got a friend at your branch who will help you.

  You didn’t what?…Okay, Shar will take care of it.

  Shar must know a good auto mechanic, can probably get you a discount too. Shar understands how to get discounts…She’s good with power tools…She likes kids, even if she hasn’t got any of her own…I’m sure she’d be glad to fly you to Reno two hours from now…She understands health insurance…Short of cash? Ask Shar.

  It had been that way my whole life, from the moment I rescued a little neighbor boy’s kitten that had gotten stuck in the tree outside my bedroom window. I enjoyed being able to help others.

  But often I wondered, what about me?

  Who would rescue my kitten? (If I had one.)

  Pity party coming on. No good.

  I had better things to do than feel sorry for myself.

  5:00 p.m.

  Ted Smalley, our office manager, came into my office to bring me up to date on recent happenings. Today he was dressed in a checked sport coat, a wide tie—one of the wildest pink, green, and orange in the universe—pegged pants, and lizard-skin loafers.

  “Nice duds,” I said.

  “Oh, I don’t know. The coat and tie are okay, but I’m not sure the pants and shoes are authentic.”

  Ted is a self-admitted clothing fanatic. He goes through phases: Edwardian, surfer bum, Victorian, grunge, Roaring Twenties, and Colonial—to name a few. He should have been a costumer for a major Hollywood studio.

  “What’s the fashion statement this week?” I asked.

  “Can’t you tell?”

  “No.”

  “Late sixties to midseventies. Mannix style.”

  “What’s a mannix?”

  “Oh, Shar, I despair of you. Mannix was a major TV show, starring Mike Connors; he always wore Botany 500.”

  “What’s Botany 500?”

  “Did you spend your time back then in a cave?”

  “Apparently I must have. Where can you buy Botany 500 clothes now?”

  “Can’t. They went bankrupt long ago.”

  If what he had on was any example of their work, I wasn’t surprised.

  “Where do you find this stuff? Amazon?”

  He smiled. “Trade secret.”

  “What does Neal think of it?”

  Neal was Ted’s husband. It had always seemed to me an unlikely relationship: Neal was a rare-books dealer with clients all over the world; his appearance was correct almost to the point of being stodgy. Ted was…well, Ted. But it worked beautifully.

  “Neal thinks it’s one of my better fashion statements. Of course, he loved the Mannix show.”

  Emi Nomee had flown down here to be with Elwood and lend moral support to her mother’s best friend, Saskia. She was a strongly built woman, her black hair haphazardly piled on top of her head. This told me that she was aware of how handsome she was, but didn’t want to flaunt it.

  She’d come up to my office immediately upon her arrival so we could talk before Ma arrived for the cocktail hour.

  I related what her mother had told me about the artist who’d come to St. Ignatius looking for Elwood. “What do you remember about him?” I asked.

  “Well, he was short, almost gnomelike, with flaming red hair and an aggressive manner. Everybody wondered about him because he holed up in his room at the Wigwam most of the time. It didn’t puzzle me; there’s really nothing to do in town, unless you’re interested in drinking to excess. Besides, maybe he’d had a rough trip from wherever he lived—New England, I think—and needed to rest.”

  He could be one of the thugs who’d attacked my father. There was just no way to tell without more information.

  “You can’t remember his name?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “But you do remember his paintings.”

  “I wish I couldn’t. They were horrible, violent.”

  “I understand they were all battle scenes.”

  “Cavalry versus Indians, Little Bighorn stuff.”

  “With the Indians getting the worst of it?”

  “No. Almost all the victims were soldiers. Twisted limbs, lots of blood—you know, all distorted and weird.”

  “Like Bosch.”

  “Except this guy lacked Bosch’s talent.”

  We both fell silent for a time. Then Emi said, “I understand you spoke with my daughter on the phone earlier.”

  “Oh, was that your daughter?”

  “Yes. I phoned my gallery a while ago and she told me there’d been a call from ‘some woman in San Francisco.’ I assumed it was you. She didn’t give you any trouble, did she?”

  “Well…she was a little vague.”

  “Stoned, you mean. She was when I talked to her. She usually is, these days. Three therapists, and nothing took hold. I hope she wasn’t rude to you. She sometimes is when she’s high.”

  “No, she wasn’t. I’m used to teenagers; my sisters have several of them, and they spend a lot of time with me.” />
  “Then you should be nominated for sainthood. One Astral Plane is more than enough for this world.”

  “I’m sorry. Who?”

  “That’s what my daughter’s calling herself—now.”

  “She didn’t tell me her name. It’s…different.”

  “It’s awful. She changes it every month, and goes into a rage if you don’t instantly recognize and use it.”

  Well, Astral Plane was marginally better than SlumBag or Fuggit.

  They were the current claimants to the top of the pop music charts.

  Emi said, “I swear it’s the ten thousand and fifty-fifth reason I’ve counted for not having children. But you shouldn’t have to listen to my gripes about my poor parenting skills.”

  5:50 p.m.

  After Emi left I went down the hall to Mick’s office. My nephew was slumped in his desk chair, contemplating his tennis shoes, which were propped next to his keyboard.

  “I have a lead for you.” I told him about the artist who had traveled to St. Ignatius to see Elwood. “You think you can find out who he was?”

  “These paintings—violent battle scenes—they weren’t very good?”

  “Not according to Emi, and she owns a gallery.”

  “So we wouldn’t be able to find them in a museum.”

  “Not likely.”

  “Hmmm. I’ve got a friend at Berkeley. Her area of interest is what she calls the ‘alternative arts.’ The works can be good or bad, but more often they’re bad. Or the subject matter is warped. For instance, the guy back in the seventies who only painted celebrities riding on sheep.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Nope. They became very popular, made him a lot of money. Now I suppose they’re stashed in attics. I’ll give her a call, see if she can shed some light on who this ‘artist’ is.”

  I thanked him and went to my office to await my cocktail party guests.

  When they arrived, Saskia’s and Robin’s tired faces indicated they’d been keeping a long vigil at the hospital.

  Robin also strongly resembles me, even though she and I had different fathers. Robin is the result of Saskia’s happy marriage to a Boise attorney, Thomas Blackhawk, who put her through law school but had not lived long enough to see her career blossom. Darcy was also Thomas Blackhawk’s child, but some component had been left out of him.

  No, components, plural: such as impulse control; logic; understanding the effects of one’s actions. Add to those basic problems drug and alcohol addiction, pathological lying, a sometimes uncontrollable temper, paranoia—and, well, there you’ve got a dangerous mix.

  Fortunately, for now at least, Darcy was residing in a clinic near Denver with tight security and a staff who seemed to know how to deal with him. But he had been in such places before. If he kept running away or getting kicked out of them, we’d eventually deplete the supply in several states.

  Saskia said, “The no-visitors rule is still in force, but Dr. Stiles allowed us to look in on Elwood briefly. He used to be so tall and robust, but now he looks shrunken. And the lines on his face have deepened.”

  Robin—short, with her black hair caught up in a ponytail tied with a long red scarf—added, “All those monitors beeping and displaying lines and zigzags on their screens—they’re downright creepy.”

  I flashed back to my own hospital bed, where I’d been tethered to tubes and IVs. I’d been unable to speak, move, or communicate in any way.

  Robin saw the look on my face and said, “Oh, sorry, Shar. That must bring back bad memories.”

  “Yes, but I survived. So will Elwood.”

  “Maybe,” Saskia said, “it would be better for you if you didn’t visit him so often. Better emotionally, I mean.”

  “No. When I was locked in, Elwood came all the way from Montana to see me, at a time when we barely knew each other. He talked to me and kept me going. I need to do the same for him, even if he can’t hear me.”

  Ma arrived, with Emi in tow.

  “I’ll make some drinks,” I said, feeling a sudden need for one. This was going to be one hell of an evening. Having them converge on me made me feel like someone trapped in a revolving door that would spew her out wherever she was needed.

  Yes, indeed, it’s hard to be Old Reliable.

  Saskia touched my shoulder and said, “Don’t put yourself to all that trouble. We can have drinks at the restaurant. I’ll call for one of those cars. It should be here shortly. We’ll wait for it downstairs.”

  “You go ahead. I’ll be along in a few minutes. I need to use the restroom.”

  I didn’t need to, it was just an excuse. Instead I poured myself a glass of straight bourbon and guzzled it down.

  9:57 p.m.

  The dinner at Boulevard had been long and tedious, the conversation full of strained silences. After I’d made sure everyone was tucked into a WeDriveU car—the service the agency has an account with—I fetched my Mercedes from the M&R underground garage and drove to SFG to visit Elwood.

  Luckily, there was no one on the floor desk, so I slipped into Elwood’s room. He seemed to be resting quietly. I took the hand that wasn’t in a cast and held it. His fingers, contrary to my expectation, were neither cold nor brittle.

  I put my lips to his ear. “Father,” I said. “It’s Sharon.”

  Did I imagine a slight twitch?

  “I know you can’t tell me anything now, but I’m looking for the people who did this to you.”

  Motion around his dry lips. He seemed semiconscious now and aware of what I was saying. Then he became agitated, moving his head from side to side. I rang for the nurse.

  She came at once. “No, he still hasn’t regained consciousness,” she said after examining him. “He must have been having a nightmare. Your presence isn’t helping him. You do not have permission to be here.”

  “He’s my father.”

  “And I’m his nurse.”

  God, I’d forgotten how bossy they could be!

  I just stood there, looking at Elwood.

  The nurse firmly grasped my elbow. “Ms. McCone, you have to go. You don’t understand hospital routine and protocol.”

  I let her usher me out, but then I said, “I understand them all too well. Haven’t you heard? I’m a legend here: the locked-in lady. There’s very little about hospitals that I don’t know.”

  THURSDAY, DECEMBER 21

  8:32 a.m.

  As I was about to leave home, Derek phoned with the name of the “anonymous caller” who had reported Elwood’s beating to the SFPD, Don Taber, and the man’s contact information. Taber lived and worked in San Mateo, on the Peninsula, which fit perfectly with my morning’s plans.

  “Am I still invited to Christmas dinner?” Derek asked.

  “Of course! We’re not letting anybody spoil that.”

  I didn’t bother calling Mick; if he’d gotten anywhere on the search for the mysterious artist of ultraviolent paintings, he would have contacted me immediately. I grabbed my purse and set off to question the two individuals who had avoided imprisonment after last year’s congressional hearings and who might hold enough of a grudge against me to attack a member of my family.

  Hayes Valley, near the Civic Center and various performing arts venues, has, since 1989’s Loma Prieta earthquake brought the oppressively looming Central Freeway crashing down, become an ultrachic place to live, eat, and shop. Galleries and eclectic restaurants—anything from French to Asian to southern Brazilian—abound. Shops offer choice merchandise from far-flung corners of the earth. All of this, of course, adds up to expensive. The Well Knit Lady, owned by Melanie Jacobs, was no exception, although the goods displayed in its windows were more conservative than those in the other stores’ windows: suits and dresses one might wear to a ladies’ luncheon and a gown suitable for attending the opera or symphony.

  I went inside and came face-to-face with Melanie, a short woman with frizzy black hair and a sharp nose. Her lipstick was bright red, her eyes overly m
ade up, and her expression, when she saw me, outraged.

  “You,” she said. “How dare you come in here!”

  “This is an interesting shop you have, Melanie.” I looked around, then touched a blue-toned alpaca cape; its price tag read $8,500. “You’ve done well since the hearings.”

  “No thanks to you!”

  She had been accused of bankrolling an arms dealer to ship weapons to Southeast Asia. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been enough evidence in Hy’s files to indict her.

  I moved along to a selection of cashmere sweaters, for which the lowest price was $600. “These are lovely.”

  Some of her initial hostility had leaked out of Melanie Jacobs. She leaned her back against the sales counter, her arms crossed. “I’ve done better during the past year than ever. Sometimes negative publicity like having my name linked to those congressional hearings helps. If people come in out of curiosity or pity, I can usually sell them twice what I normally would.”

  “You still have hard feelings toward Hy and me?”

  She shrugged. “Not really. I did what I did. So did you. It’s all behind me now, and I’m smiling all the way to the bank.”

  I believed her.

  One line of investigation closed.

  9:41 a.m.

  Someone once described Daly City to me as “San Francisco with an acute inferiority complex.” It was also the inspiration for the Malvina Reynolds song about “little boxes made of ticky-tacky.” True, most of its hills are covered with tracts that should have been torn down over fifty years ago. But the views from many of those homes are spectacular, stretching from the Pacific to the Bay. The downtown shopping area where Arthur Wight had his office isn’t particularly attractive—mainly small stucco buildings with an amazing tangle of electrical and trolley bus wires overhead—and it doesn’t help that quite often it’s socked in by fog. But many people who live there love it for its lower home prices, relative peace and quiet, plentiful parking, and community services. Better than the city, especially for families with children.

  I parked in the lot fronting Arthur Wight’s suite, in a strip mall pretending to be an upscale office building. When I asked for Wight, the receptionist, who was sucking on a purple lollipop, jerked her thumb at me and said, “Back there.”