by Harry Hoge
The second patrol car stopped at the street as planned when Frank drove up Rankin's drive. Before Frank could get out of the car, the front door opened and a young woman stepped out. She stood at the top of the steps, looking radiant in a beige pants suit. Her hair, loose and long, touched her shoulders. Her arms were crossed and she looked vulnerable, despite her attempt to engage him with her stern expression. Frank had to admit that, although his suspicions were confirmed, and he felt a wave of regret at being right, he had never seen Sum Bitch look so provocative. He walked toward her and stopped at the foot of the steps.
"You don't seem surprised to see me Frank."
He hesitated. "No. I expected you actually," he stated, studying her face.
She nodded to the patrol car at the curb. "Good procedure. It could have been a trap."
Frank glanced back. "Routine," he agreed.
"I asked Reuben to allow me to talk to you before you take him."
"Reuben? Not Father or Daddy?"
"We dispensed with those titles years ago. He's still my father, but we're more friends now than family."
Frank didn't answer.
"He didn't do it, Frank. I've finally put it all together. If you give me one more day, I can solve this without Reuben having to be dragged downtown and booked."
"I'm sorry, Lieutenant. You know that wouldn't be proper."
"You're the lieutenant now, Frank. Holloman would understand."
"I'm not trying to please Captain Holloman. I have my own code of right and wrong."
She squeezed herself tighter and glanced up at the sky. It was clear for the first time in days, not a cloud in sight, a beautiful evening. "What if you're wrong? Then Reuben will have been put through this embarrassing ordeal for nothing."
"Am I wrong, Sheridan?"
She looked at him straight on, challenging his resolve. "Oh, yes. You're wrong." Her features drooped, displaying a heavy sadness. "Please, Frank, give me twenty-four hours."
Frank didn't answer. They both sunk into regret, their professionalism swallowed up by the heavy silence. The mood was shattered by Rankin's booming voice as he propelled himself out the door.
"Right on time as expected, Lieutenant Rivers. Let's get this show on the road."
Frank walked beside Rankin as he maneuvered the chair to the driveway, ready to help if required. He wasn't needed until Rankin was beside the back door of the squad car. He waited for Frank to open the door and deftly transferred his body into the back seat. Once settled, he held out his hands in front of him, waiting to be handcuffed.
"No need for that, Mr. Rankin."
"I thought it routine for a murder suspect," Rankin said.
"It's my call, and I don't think it's necessary."
Rankin nodded. "Thank you," he said quietly, looking down at his hands in his lap.
Frank closed the door and looked at the wheelchair, trying to discover how to collapse it and store it in the trunk.
Rankin knocked on the window and motioned Frank to open the door. He was holding a leather key pouch up so Frank could see. "That's my stay-at-home chair. It doesn't collapse. Take these keys. There's a more portable chair in the Mercedes."
Frank glanced toward the garage where the big car sat in front of the closed roll-up door. He turned back to Rankin and nodded, taking the keys. He closed the patrol car door again and walked to the Mercedes, inserted the key, and popped the trunk.
Suddenly, everything changed. Congeniality gone. The beautiful evening turned cold. Frank clenched his teeth as he stared at a body curled up in the trunk dressed in a clown suit, pink and white polka dots on one half, and yellow and red stripes on the other. Despite the broad smile painted on the face, Buddy Bigley was stone cold dead. Frank could see the jagged hole under his jaw and dead, fish-gray eyes staring up at him.
Chapter 26
Staring down at the deceased, Frank's body language must have communicated something to Sheridan Barker, causing her to walk to the back of the car and look over his shoulder. She gasped, not from horror, Frank figured, she had seen many corpses in her career, but from the shock of finding a murder victim at this particular time in this particular place.
"Jesus H. Christ on a cross," Frank muttered. He forced himself to stop staring at Buddy Bigley and looked around the concrete of the driveway. He spotted what he was searching for immediately, no more than seven feet away from the Mercedes. A small puddle of transmission fluid glistened in the lights anchored under the eave of the garage roof.
"This complicates the situation," Sheridan grunted.
Frank glanced at her and caught motion out of the corner of his eye. Rankin was waving through the window of the patrol car mouthing something, his expression caught between curiosity and dread. His cell phone buzzed before he could register how he should handle this new development with Rankin. It was one of the uniforms calling from the street.
"Got a civilian down here who's insisting he should be allowed to come up the drive. Claims he's Mr. Rankin's lawyer."
Frank glanced toward the street where the patrol car blocked the entrance of a Lincoln Town Car.
"Send him up," Frank ordered. He closed that call and dialed Olivia Stanton's number.
"We've got a problem up here," he said. "Call CSI, and the task force room, then come on up." He closed the phone and walked to the patrol car, arriving at the same time as Rankin's lawyer. He opened the back door of the car so he could talk to Rankin.
"What's wrong, Frank?"
Frank didn't answer.
"If something happened here, I have a right to know. That's my car. This is my house. Talk to me, Lieutenant."
Frank turned to face Rankin's lawyer.
"Sorry I'm late," the lawyer said. "My name is Cedric Oliver Stiles, C.O. for short. Have you read my client his rights?"
"I was waiting for you to show up before I Marandized him," Frank responded.
Sheridan pulled Frank aside. "Surely you don't intend to go forward with the arrest now?" she asked.
Frank shot her a look. "Why not?"
"Sheridan, what's going on?" Reuben shouted.
She ignored the question, directing her comments to Frank. "Reuben obviously had nothing to do with this new victim's death, and it's the same MO."
"Ms. Barker." Frank's voice was stern, official. He had never addressed Sheridan as "Ms. Barker" before. "You've compromised this whole damned investigation from the beginning. You can hardly approach any of this with objectivity, and if you were in my place, you would probably be considering yourself seriously as an accomplice." Frank paused. His voice softened. "Uh, Sheridan, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't say anything to either your father or his lawyer about us finding Buddy Bigley."
They stood, searching each other's eyes, each recognizing the strong commitment of the other. Sheridan surrendered first. "You're right, Frank. Okay. This is how my father wants to play this out. But, remember when it's over, I was right."
Frank watched her until it was clear she had said her last words to him, then studied the toe of his shoe, thinking. He didn't move until the other two police cars came up the drive and the officers got out. Chad Sherman busied himself by hanging "Crime Scene" tape around the approach to the garage, and Olivia Stanton came to report to Frank.
"Phyllis Aquilla has the duty," she reported. "She's on her way with the lab techs. George Foster's coming too. He thought it best to keep Grisham and Fox at headquarters and busy."
"Good. I'll wait until Foster gets here, then I'll take Rankin in and book him."
Olivia looked in the trunk of the Mercedes. "Looks like the same MO, but this is the first one I've seen first hand."
"It does look the same, but let's treat it carefully. Things aren't always what they seem." He heard the CSI team coming, the sirens a cacophony in the surreal silence of the high-class residential area. George Foster came directly to Frank. Frank briefed him and turned the duties over to him. He walked back to his patrol car and beckoned C.O. Stiles,
who was in a whispered conversation with Sheridan. The lawyer excused himself and strode to the car.
"I wanted you here when I read Rankin his rights," Frank said. He turned to the car and began the ritual. Reuben mouthed the words as Frank recited, seeming as familiar with the routine as Frank.
When Frank finished, Reuben stated, "I've never been arrested before, but I've heard and read that spiel so many times I can say it in my sleep."
Frank turned to the lawyer. "Do you have anything further to say here?"
"No."
"You can follow us in your car. We'll meet in the back parking lot." He turned without waiting for a response, went to the driver's side of the car, got in, started the motor and maneuvered his way down the drive to the street.
Bea Black ended her routine to enthusiastic applause and rushed off the stage. She couldn't believe the audience had liked the mish-mash she had delivered. She couldn't let her mind get hung up on her performance for long; she had to get to Roger and tell him about Sumbitch. lona Carr bumped her as they passed and mumbled, "Wow! You were great!" She could see Roger towering over a smaller man with white thinning hair and a three-piece dark suit. The man was smiling and had his hand outstretched. She shot Roger a plea for help, but the man was already talking.
"Miss Black, I'm J. P. Schwinn. I have clubs all over Houston and on both coasts. Reuben called me and told me he had a star down here, and I came to catch your act."
"I'm pleased, Mr. Schwinn, but I can't talk to you right now. Sorry, but I have something urgent to take care of."
"Excuse me," Roger interrupted. "I'm Miss Black's agent,"
he volunteered in his deep baritone, as he shook Schwinn's hand. "If you'll meet me at the bar in five minutes, we can discuss your offer."
"Of course, but I really want to talk to Miss Black before I leave."
"That can be arranged," Roger agreed, and flashed a broad smile. "Five minutes, please."
Schwinn waddled off and Gerry grabbed Roger's arm, guiding him toward the dressing room. "Thanks for bailing me out. I've got to tell you something I discovered this afternoon.'' They went into the dressing room and shut the door. Gerry told him about the picture and her dread about the breach of security in the department.
"That's very interesting. I thought I had news for you, and I guess I do, but it's probably all related. Reuben called Frank this afternoon and offered to surrender. Frank was supposed to go to Rankin's house about the same time you went on stage. Your boss should be in custody by now and tucked away at HPD."
Gerry was still gaping at that news when a soft tap came at the door and it opened.
Marsha Meyers poked her head around the door. I've got your glass of wine here, Bea. Am I intruding?"
Roger answered. "No, Mars. I was jus' tellin' Bea how she blew the house away. I got an appointment with a gentleman at the bar." He turned to Gerry. "I'll be back in a little bit, before your next show. Get some rest." He smiled at Marsha and eased past her, closing the door behind him.
"Thanks for not forgetting the drink, Marsha. I can really use it right now." Gerry sipped the wine, and then took a gulp and another sip before setting it on the dressing table. Marsha was gushing about Bea's routine, all smiles and giggles as she repeated some of the jokes Bea had used.
"I must say, Bea, I owe you an apology. You're even better than promised. I thought you were just one more down and out clown with an overblown portfolio, but..."
Bea reached for the wine glass and knocked it over.
Marsha remained seated, but she leaned forward with her elbows on her knees and studied Gerry.
"Are you all right, Bea?" Her voice sounded concerned.
"I can't seem to control my arms, and I'm a little nauseous." She tried to turn and stare at Marsha, but she found her head moving as if in slow motion. Her vision was blurry and when she tried to talk, it came out in a mumble. She had tried to say, "You put something in my drink, you little slut," but all that came out was a garbled groan. Her brain was working, but the rest of her body was totally out of control. She felt herself slipping out of the chair.
Marsha got to her before she fell, and pulled her to her feet. Gerry realized the girl was much stronger than she looked.
"Do you like flowers, Bea? I do. My favorite flower is the Lily. I'm particularly fond of one that grows wild in California, Veratum californium, sometimes called the Death Camas. My daddy grows some of the best in Texas. But, don't you worry none. You didn't ingest enough to kill you, just slow you down. A little fresh air and you'll be fine. Come on, you can walk. There's an outside door off Reuben's office."
Lily?
Death Camas?
Shaman Lily?
Gerry tried to resist Marsha's efforts to force her through the door and into the office, but she found she could do nothing except loll her head around and go along. When they reached the office door, she managed to glance toward the bar, hoping Roger would see what was going on, but people were three deep around the bar, buzzing and calling for drinks before the next act was introduced. She heard the office door open and close, her feet shuffling on the carpet. Marsha leaned her against the wall. She thought she was going to vomit. She heard the outer door slide open, felt the cool night air rush over her, easing her affliction momentarily. Before she could take advantage of the moment, Marsha grabbed her again and pushed her out the door and into the arms of a hulking form of a man who smelled like gin and wore a silly pigtail.
Gus pinned her arms, hustled her roughly into the back seat of a maroon Honda, and slammed the door. She heard both front doors open and close, and the car began moving with a rattle of the transmission. She was suddenly very sick and bent over, hurling the contents of her stomach on the floor. After a bout with the dry heaves, she rolled over on the seat and began to drift away. The last voice she heard before passing out, was Gus saying, "You better get this transmission looked at. The seal must be leaking like a garden hose."
Chapter 27
A uniformed officer was waiting when Frank drove into the parking lot at HPD. He took charge of unloading the wheelchair and helping Rankin haul himself out of the patrol car and into the chair. Frank escorted Reuben down a corridor to an interrogation room, C.O. Stiles huffing along behind. Frank noted that Rankin had fallen into a sullen mood since the discovery of Bigley's body in his car. No one had informed either Rankin or his lawyer of the nature of the find, and Reuben's attitude puzzled him.
They entered the interrogation room, dimly lit with a long table with chairs on either side and an observation area mirrored off along the left wall. Frank indicated that Rankin and Stiles should sit on the right side of the table facing the mirror. He stood in front of a chair on the other side and opened his briefcase. He removed a tape recorder and placed it near the middle of the table. While he was flipping through his notebook, Aaron Fox came in and nodded as he closed the door. Fox leaned against the door, his arms crossed over his chest. Rankin didn't miss anything, silently observing the procedure.
Fox's presence told Frank that Captain Holloman and the ADA, Molly Shapiro, were in place in the observation room. He looked at Rankin and Stiles, asking silently if they were ready. Both men nodded.
Frank turned on the tape recorder and stated the time, place and date. "This is the interrogation of Mr. Reuben Rankin, aka Reuben Sullivan, concerning the death of Nguyen Qui Mang and Miss Laurie Lowe, both in the employ of Mr. Rankin immediately prior to their deaths, and other possibly related cases. Mr. Rankin has been informed of his rights by law, and his lawyer, C.O. Stiles is present at this hearing. Mr. Rankin is here at his own request subsequent to the issue of a warrant for his arrest.
"Mr. Rankin, do you have any additional questions or statements before this interview begins?"
"No," Rankin responded without looking at Stiles. "I'm eager to cooperate in any way I can, and to clear away this mystery as quickly as possible."
"Let the record show," Stiles stated, "that I have advised my client
not to make any incriminating statements, but that he has directed me to not grossly interfere with his comments."
Frank turned off the recorder. Aaron Fox stepped forward and, with Rankin's help, filled out the release forms allowing Rankin to signify that he had been informed of the seriousness of the charge, that he understood his rights, and that he had volunteered to the interrogation. Frank turned the recorder back on.
"Mr. Rankin, did you invite me and Officer Chad Sherman to your home prior to this interview for the purpose of observing your atrium and private living areas?"
"Yes I did."
"Do you feel that either Officer Sherman or I abused that privilege in any way?"
"No, I do not."
"Mr. Rankin, do you have any information about the deaths of Nguyen Qui Mang and/or Laurie Lowe?"
"Yes I do, in both incidences. Mr. Nguyen Qui Mang was in my employ, and an outstanding young comedian on his way up. I thought of him like a son. Miss Lowe was hired as a one-night entertainer because I knew of her from previous business transactions. Both Nguyen Qui Mang and Miss Laurie Lowe were murdered in a horrific manner while they were under contract at my place of business."
"Define 'horrific manner,' Mr. Rankin."
"As I understand, they were poisoned and hung up in their apartments to remove trace evidence, dressed in clown suits and dumped in parking lots around the city."
"Are you familiar with the deaths of..." Frank checked his notebook and rattled off names of the people that had been killed in a similar manner out of state.
Rankin looked shocked. Stiles advised him not to answer the question. It was obvious to Frank that neither man had anticipated the question. Rankin quickly recovered his composure and nodded.
"Let the record show that Mr. Rankin nodded in response to my question. Mr. Rankin, did that gesture indicate that you are aware of the deaths of those people I mentioned?"