Send Out The Clowns (Frank River Series)

by Harry Hoge

  Chapter 21

  Frank climbed from the squad car and stood in the rain, wondering how the scene with Pauley would play out. He opted to leave the beer in the car and walked to the stairs, ascending slowly, oblivious to the soaking rain. He stood in front of the door, his hand on the knob and took a deep sigh. "Here we go," he said to himself, and opened the door.

  Paulette stood by the kitchen window, a half eaten carrot in her right hand. She had been watching out the window. She turned toward the door as it opened. What struck Frank first was that she was dressed in her working clothes. No doubt she did not intend to spend the night.

  "Hi, Cisco," She uttered with a fleeting smile. "Wet out there?"

  Frank closed the door and walked to the table where he placed his briefcase. "Is it?" he said, the answer sounding more terse than he intended. "I didn't notice."

  "You angry with me for not coming home last night?"

  Home... that's an encouraging word. "I'm not angry with you about that, but I'm pissed that you didn't call and let me know. I was worried."

  "Ah." She dropped the carrot in the sink, leaned against the counter with her arms crossed over her chest, and looked down. "You're right. I should have called. I tried, but my cell was out of service."

  "Really? Where were you?"

  "We went to Corpus in the afternoon then drove to San Antonio. I tried at both places. I need a new server, I guess."

  "We? You and Simeon?" She nodded. "Are you planning to open stores in Corpus and San Antonio?" She nodded again. "I see."

  Actually Frank didn't see. He never understood why successful business people needed to expand, take on more responsibility, more stress. There was enough work with one outlet, and certainly enough income, but all entrepreneurs wanted to open more and more stores until the whole enterprise often collapsed under its own weight. Obviously, Pauley was no different.

  "Where do we fit in this new corporation?" Frank asked.

  Paulette eased across the room toward him. She reached up and placed her hand along his cheek. Frank forced himself not to grab her, trying his best not to shudder from the pleasure of her touch. He sensed how this confrontation was going to play out and vowed not to make it any more emotional than necessary.

  "Ah, Cisco. I love you. I've loved you from that first time so many years ago."

  "But? There's a but at the end of that comment."

  Paulette dropped her hand and turned to the sink. "Right now I'm so involved with this expansion, my mind can't stay on anything but my business." She turned back. "I think it's best we not try to fix our problems until I get this mess organized. I wouldn't be good company for you. It would be difficult for you and your work."

  "The old 'this is for your own good' routine. I've heard that before. "What are you suggesting?" he asked.

  "I've got my bag packed in the bedroom. I'm going back to my old apartment. I never stopped paying rent there."

  Frank was shocked. "I didn't know that. Why did you keep that lease?"

  "I'm not sure, but I guess in the back of my mind, I always doubted what we had would last. We've both been growing. I knew the situation might change. I don't know, Cisco. I hate me for doing that and this, but I think it's best if we aren't a couple for a while."

  Frank nodded.

  "After things settle down, we'll know better what's in store for us."

  "Sure."

  "I still love you."

  "Yeah, but I'm a burden right now."

  She sighed and walked back to the window. "No, Cisco. You're not the burden, I am."

  He didn't respond.

  "This is a huge moment in my life. I've got to see it through. If I don't, I'll never forgive myself for not trying."

  He looked down at his wet shoes amid the puddles on the floor. There it was. Everything had been said that needed saying. The only problem left was the departure without an emotional scene. His stomach felt filled with lead. He wanted the beer from the car. "Okay, Pauley. I understand how you want to make a go of this opportunity. I hope it works for you. Come on, I'll help you out with your bags."

  She turned. He smiled. "Let's do it now before we both lose it."

  There were two suitcases. Both were heavy. The effort of carrying them down the stairs to the car helped him forget the knot in his throat and the lead in his stomach. She held her purse over her head and scrambled into the car while he put the bags in the trunk. She had rolled down the window by the time he came to the car door.

  "I'm not going to kiss you goodbye, Pauley. I don't trust myself to do that and remain civil."

  "Goodbye, Frank. It'll work out. You'll see."

  He nodded. "Goodbye, Pauley. Good luck."

  There were tears welling in her eyes. She started to say something and then thought better of it. She smiled a wan smile and put the car in gear, easing back from the parking spot, her eyes still fixed on his. Frank shoved his hands in the pockets of his pants and watched until she turned and drove out of the parking lot, out of sight and out of his life. He stood staring down at the pavement, the rain washing over him, drenching him to the skin. Finally, he walked to his own car, retrieved the beer he had bought earlier and trudged back up the stairs, water squishing in his shoes.

  It was later than Frank planned when he arrived at Chad Sherman's house the next morning. Chad took one look at him and settled in the rider's seat without comment. Neither man spoke until they were pulling into the parking spot at HPD. Frank grabbed his briefcase and headed for the front door. Chad hurried after. It was still raining.

  The task force room was busy. The four detectives were drinking coffee, shuffling through their notebooks and studying two white boards pushed against the wall under pictures of the victims. A portrait of Nguyen hung on the left above one board, along with a photo from the crime scene and another from the autopsy, Laurie Lowe's side displayed only pictures of her after her death. Columns on the white boards detailed evidence that was known—similarities in blue, differences in red.

  Nguyen

  Found downtown near Minute Maid Park.

  Clown suit.

  COD—Poison.

  Killed & cleansed in apartment.

  Gaffed over tub after death.

  Rising star on way up.

  No trace evidence recovered.

  Local resident, no known enemies.

  Lowe

  Found downtown in parking garage on Congress at Fannin.

  Clown suit.

  COD—OD. Peyote

  Killed & cleansed in Motel.

  Gaffed over tub after death.

  Down and out entertainer.

  No trace evidence recovered.

  Last known residence unknown.

  Frank picked up the blue felt marker and uncapped it, holding it poised as he read the items. He added "Transmission fluid puddle" to both lists. He turned and looked at the other detectives.

  "I didn't mention this before because with all the stains at the scenes, what with both of them being parking garages that are littered with drippings, but I've been thinking about it and decided that a car with a leaking transmission wouldn't leave a puddle unless it was parked in one place for a while."

  George Foster nodded approvingly. Olivia Stanton, Arnold Grisham and Aaron Fox continued staring.

  "Never know," Foster said. "Could help."

  "Do we have anything new?" Frank asked.

  Foster picked up his notebook. "We were just discussing whether the information Olivia and I got on the string of deaths due to peyote should be put on the list, or if it would only confuse the investigation." He glanced at the others. "Seems at least five of these OD's are probably murder and are related. All those victims we're considering were found stripped of their clothes and left in places after they were dead. No useful trace evidence on any of them except one. Probably the first, the perp hadn't perfected his cleansing technique yet." "What was that?"

  "Blood on the body, not belonging to the victim." Frank smiled. Foste
r returned his smile. "Yeah, we got DNA, but so far there's nothing to compare it with." "Better than transmission fluid," Frank remarked. "You know, Frank," Olivia Stanton commented, "there are two other interesting items here. All of the victims had some connection to entertainment. They weren't comedians, but one was a waiter in a club, another a blackjack dealer, and the other three worked clubs as singers and piano players. The second noteworthy item is, the trail of the bodies are like an arrow from Las Vegas to Houston."

  "Sounds like they're related."

  "I don't think there's any doubt about that," she responded. Frank nodded and turned to Arnold Grisham. "You guys learn anything?"

  Aaron Fox answered. "The best information we got came from our undercover source. Turns out Rankin's real name is Sullivan and his brother, Sammy is married to the bartender, Gretchen Sullivan."

  Frank raised an eyebrow. "At least we know Rankin isn't opposed to nepotism. His body guard slash caretaker, Gus, is also his brother."

  "Everything else was a dead end," Grisham added. "We had trouble because nobody goes by their real name, but we were able to run down all the employees except Marsha Meyers." "What's the problem with Mars?"

  "There must be thirty or more people named Marsha Meyers m the Houston area, and the one we're looking into doesn't have any concrete information prior to last May."

  Frank considered a moment and looked at his watch "Okay .had and I have an invitation to shake down Rankin's house' Maybe we can find a reason to get an official warrant. George' you and Olivia follow up on the peyote killings. Dig deep See if you can find any tie-in with our current cast of characters. Arnold, you and Aaron keep working on Marsha Meyers. I'll be back after lunch and we'll compare notes again."

  He waited to see if there were any questions, then started for the door, Chad in tow.

  "Oh, hey, Frank," Aaron Fox yelled. "I almost forgot. Gerry and Roger were followed from the club to their motel last night. They were able to identify the car as Rankin's, but they're certain he wasn't driving."

  "He can't drive," Frank answered.

  "Yeah, but they said he wasn't even in the car."

  Chapter 22

  The rain had stopped by the time Frank and Chad left HPD. "Thanks for minor favors," Chad remarked.

  "You got that right," Frank answered with a grin. "Let's go shake up Mr. Reuben Rankin."

  "What exactly are we looking for?"

  "Clown costumes, make up, gaff hooks—that sort of thing. But, the most important target is a steel door in the lower level that I want to see behind."

  "Oh, what kind of a door?"

  "One that's locked and rolls up like a garage door. Not something you see in every house in town.'

  "Sounds intriguing."

  "I'll tell you something else. Reuben Rankin has a detailed file on all my cases. He has more information about me than I can recall about myself. How do you suppose he collected that? And why?"

  Chad pondered that, shrugged. "I don't know, newspapers?"

  "I'm not often written up with the type of detail Rankin's got."

  "Maybe that reporter, Julia Brewster dug up stuff on you. She's always sniffing around the department."

  "That's one explanation. I'm sure we've got a leak somewhere, but with my standing right now, you'd have to take a number to be the one giving out bad press on me." Chad shrugged, didn't reply. "If it works out the way I think it will, you make some excuse to get into the bathroom. Snoop around, but don't remove anything. If we find evidence, we'll come back with a warrant."

  "Gotcha."

  They pulled into the long drive and up toward the house. Rankin's Mercedes was parked outside on the driveway, and the garage doors were closed. Frank and Chad climbed out of the car and started toward the front door.

  "Wait a minute," Frank paused. He hurried over to the Mercedes and knelt down, scanning the pavement for signs of a transmission leak. He stood and brushed his hands together, a curious expression on his face as he stared at Chad. "Let's go," he ordered.

  They walked to the door and rang the bell. Gus answered immediately. It occurred to Frank that Gus had been watching them. Rankin's taciturn associate stood back and indicated they should enter, never changing his expression from the stoic and sullen look he most often wore. Rankin came toward them, his chair humming and his face beaming.

  "Right on time," he smiled. "Never let it be said that my favorite detective trifles with an agenda. Welcome Frank, I've been looking forward to this. Where should we start?"

  Frank remained silent for a beat or two, attempting to gain the upper hand in the interview. "I want to see three areas: the bedrooms, the garage, and behind that roll-up door downstairs. Then we'll see."

  "Great. Let's start downstairs. That's my favorite place in the house." He spun his chair and headed for the specially constructed stairway. He maneuvered the elevator chair without Gus's help and shifted to the second wheelchair that waited at the bottom. The two Boxers sat waiting in the lounge/exercise area, their ears planed and stubby tails swishing back and forth. One uttered a brief whine as Rankin stroked their heads and muttered endearing comments before putting the chair in motion toward the steel door.

  "Sometimes I feel those two dogs are more loving and loyal than any person I know," he commented over his shoulder, not caring whether Frank or Chad heard or agreed. When he reached the door, he laid his hand on an electric scanner and the door rattled upward.

  "Are you the only one who can activate that door?" Frank asked.

  "No, Gus can too. It wouldn't be prudent for me to have the only access, in case something happened to me."

  Frank stared through the opening at what looked to be a jungle, an arboretum consisting of trees, shrubs, and flowers of exotic origin, some of which Frank recognized, but many he did not. Immediately to the right of the door was a work area constructed to cater to the necessities of a person in a wheelchair. It included a massive stainless steel desk with room for a computer and workspace for dissecting and observing specimens. There was a binocular microscope, scales, and chemicals in glass bottles, tweezers, Exacto knives, Petri dishes, and a Bunsen burner among other paraphernalia Frank wasn't familiar with. Beside the desk were two cabinets, one obviously containing books and magazines, the other, a supply cabinet with solid steel doors. The remainder of the area seemed organized and divided into rooms separated by clear plastic walls. Some walls were dripping with condensation, others were clear.

  Frank could feel Rankin watching him, to register his reaction. He concentrated on keeping his face blank, not giving away anything he was thinking. He was surprised, but at the same time not. This could be the source for the rare poison Al Shuman found during Nguyen's autopsy.

  "My passion," Rankin explained. "Several years ago I became fascinated by the kinds of plants that ensure and at the same time threaten man's survival. Each of these specimens can provide lifesaving medicines or immediate death, depending on the knowledge and intent of the user. Can you imagine the courage and dedication primitive societies must have required to understand how provocative their natural environment could be? Trial and error was their only laboratory. Even now, in many places around the globe, people experiment with newfound toxic cures and poisons. Most of these plants grow naturally, some here in Houston, and appear innocent to the unknowledgeable. Some I've imported, and all are legal. I have lists of those considered controlled substances, and would love to have them growing here, but that would be imprudent, not to say illegal. Here, let me show you."

  He moved the chair to the locked glass bookcase filled with books and journals with colorful titles. Frank read Justifiable Euthanasia, by P.V. Admiral, and Forensic Pathology: a Handbook from the Department of Justice, Poisonous Plants and Fungi, by P. North. Before he could read in more titles, Rankin reached a thick volume from the shelf.

  "This is my personal favorite," He uttered, handing the tome to Frank. "It's relatively recent and is fascinating - an impressive life's work by one
Mr. Daniel E, Moerman."

  Frank read the title: Native American Ethno Biology, published by Timber Press. He leafed through the massive book, a very impressive catalog of plants used as drugs, food, fibers, dyes, hunting and fishing supplies, incense and fragrances, fuels, tools and many more uses. Before he could begin to grasp how thorough the research had been, Rankin was moving away from the bookcase along a concrete path between the arrays of vegetation.

  "I imagine you're more interested in death-dealing plants than medicinal and narcotic specimens. One form of toxicity rating is based on a one to six ratio. It's the one I'm most familiar with, where one is the least and generally takes fifteen grams per kilogram to be lethal. That would be more than one quart, or a little over two pounds, not all that efficient. A plant rated as a six only requires five milligrams per kilogram to cause death. About seven drops." He stopped in front of a shrub Frank recognized immediately.

  "The well known Castor Bean," Rankin said, "Ricinus communis, often referred to as 'Gourd' in the Bible and known in the U.S. as the African Coffee Tree, castor-oil plant or Palma Christi. They call it koi in Hawaii."

  "That sucker's been in the news lately," Chad remarked. "It's the source of ricin, a terrorist tool."

  "You're so right, but you need only drive around the block to find it used as a decoration. This plant is so common anyone could produce immense amounts of poison in their kitchen in a matter of moments. It has a toxicity rating of six."

  "What's this Azalea doing here?" Frank asked. Rankin spun his chair.

  "Ah, yes, Rhododendron arborescens, related to Mountain Laurel elsewhere and one of the most common decorative plants in the southern U.S., especially in Houston. It's rated a six."

  "This can kill you?" Chad asked.

  "It would be a long and nasty way to go. Only a sadist would choose it as a poison. Any part of the plant can cause nausea, irritation, drooling, vomiting, tearing, paralysis, diarrhea, coma and death. It takes about six hours. The Romans discovered that even a honey made from this plant could kill. That's also true for other rhododendron, laurel and oleander, our commonly used freeway flora." Rankin pointed to each of the plants as he named them.