Send Out The Clowns (Frank River Series)

by Harry Hoge

  "Noooo.. .Bomb.. .Go back..."

  If he hadn't expected what she was going to say, he would never have understood her words. He put his hands to his lips and crouched by the chair. He wanted to touch her, comfort her, but there was no time. He dropped to his belly on the floor and keyed the walkie-talkie. "I've got her. She's alive, but barely. There's a bomb. I'm going for it now."

  He didn't wait for a response, laying the radio aside and peering at the mechanism under the chair. He'd seen this type of rigging before. A small red light was blinking at him. He knew if he messed up, he would see the light stop blinking for a nanosecond before he and Gerry went up in fragments. If he were successful, the light would go out. He fetched his utility knife from his pocket and opened a slender blade. It would do no good to sever the wires between the box holding the explosives and the outside wires. He needed to break the connection inside the box.

  Step one, get access to the box. An acetylene torch would be nice. His hand shook as he pushed the slender knife blade to a seam at the left end of the box. How much wiggle room did he have to get the blade in? He grabbed his right hand with his left and inserted the blade a millimeter, wresting his hands back and forth. It was too tight. He slumped, took a deep breath and tried again. This time the blade slid into the seam. He felt it touch the top of the box. He held it there with one hand and reached the radio.

  "I'm ready to give it a go. If you don't hear a big boom in the next sixty seconds, we're home free."

  A groan from Gerry was his only response.

  He laid the radio down, fixed his gaze on the blinking light and forced the knife toward the other side of the box. When he felt resistance, he took a deep breath, held it and forced the blade.

  The light went out.

  He kept forcing the knife across the slit.

  No back up wire.

  He left the knife in the seam and rolled away from the chair. His heart and head pounded. The adrenalin rush made him tremble, unable to control his limbs. He forced himself onto his knees and bolted for the bed. Often during major stress, Frank had strange but lucid thoughts. He saw the mash of tiny magnets sitting on the night stand. I owe Shawn Worley big time for this one.

  He grabbed the comforter off the bed and turned back to Gerry. Only then did he realize he needed his knife. He dropped back to the floor and pulled the instrument from the disarmed booby-trap. He sliced through the bonds holding Gerry to the chair, her feet first, then her hands. Gerry tumbled to the floor. He wrapped the quilt around her and scrambled for the radio.

  "Sheridan. I need you up here right now." Before he finished transmitting, he heard her high heels on the steps.

  Chapter 30

  Frank could hardly look at Gerry as he sat in the ambulance holding her hand while they raced toward the Medical Center. A taciturn paramedic monitored her heartbeat, blood pressure, and breathing, twirling dials and adjusting the IV. He had administered amyl nitrate and called the hospital for decisions about strychnine and atropine, accepting the advice to stick with amyl nitrate and transport ASAP. They would pass ER's and hospitals on the way, but Frank thought Methodist the best, and that's what he wanted for his partner.

  Gerry's breathing was raspy. Frank had never attended medical school, but he'd seen his share of the dead and dying. He observed the med-tech wheedle the knobs and gauges on the monitoring screen and watched the man's facial expressions. Gerry's pulse rate was low, and at times nonexistent. Her blood pressure was under 100, she looked gray and her heartbeat surged to 135 and dropped to 50 - erratic. The medic looked at him and said nothing, but Frank read no hope in his eyes.

  Sirens clashed from every direction as the cavalcade of ambulance and police cars screamed down 1-45 toward the Medical Center. "Hang on, Gerry," Frank shouted. "You're too tough to check out now."

  The ambulance slowed and made a turn toward the Methodist Hospital emergency room; the ER staff was waiting, reminding Frank of a gaggle of pale-green geese defending a pond against coyotes. The back door of the ambulance opened before the vehicle came to a complete stop. Two men dressed in emerald scrubs and surgical masks removed the gurney with expert control, pushing it toward the pneumatic doors while other similarly dressed personnel hustled along side, barking observations and orders to each other.

  When Frank climbed out of the ambulance, he became aware of the squad cars screeching to a stop to surround the emergency vehicle. Sheridan drove his car and had led the ambulance through traffic. Olivia Stanton and Aaron Fox came next, bolting out of the car, leaving the lights flashing and the doors wide open. Roger Harrington drove the third car and scrambled out, still dressed like a pimp. The fourth car carried two uniforms Frank didn't recognize. He could hear sirens in the distance, and knew within minutes, Methodist Hospital's parking lot would look like HPD's main compound. Officers from the city and the sheriffs department, as well as deputy constables from various precincts would appear, all prepared to donate blood or provide any assistance needed. He knew the mayor and the chief of police, along with Captain Holloman, would appear shortly too.

  For the moment though, there were just the seven highly trained policemen, pumped and ready for action with no place to go and nothing to do. Gerry's fate belonged to the medical team now. Frank and Sheridan had dispersed all the information they had and no one would be allowed in the ER to foul the well-trained physicians in completing their duties. The doors swung shut as the seven stared with stoic expressions. Frank was the first to move. He walked toward Sheridan. "It looks bad," he reported, "but there's still hope."

  She didn't answer immediately, laying her hand on his arm. After a moment she looked at him and offered, "You did good tonight."

  Frank didn't respond.

  Sheridan continued as if she hadn't expected a comment. "When I first came to the department and read your file, I assumed you were a cowboy with an undeserved reputation. After tonight, I have nothing but respect for you."

  "Thanks," Frank mumbled. "But, if Gerry dies, it won't mean a damn thing."

  Sheridan started to say something further, but Roger Harrington interrupted, facing Frank with the intensity of a raging bull.

  "Thanks, Frank. If you hadn't sent me to arrest Sammy and Gretchen, I probably would have killed those two assholes."

  Frank found a cheerless smile "Is everybody locked up?"

  "Yeah. I made sure of that. We paraded all four of them past Rankin's cell, so he'd know his whole damn family was busted."

  "Not his entire family," Sheridan hissed. "I'm not in jail yet."

  Roger stared at her without comment. Frank decided that Roger wasn't aware of all the details involving Barker's status and had decided to reserve judgment until he did. "Let's go find a place to wait," he suggested.

  Frank turned and walked toward an entrance marked "Visitors." The waiting room was not empty. A couple, looking worried and exhausted, sat holding hands on a wooden bench on the far side of the room. A young woman, maybe a distraught mother, stood against the wall, looking to be in a trance, her arms folded over her chest. Not enough seats were available for seven people, so Frank ambled down the hall and bought three cups of bad coffee from a vending machine. He carried the cardboard cups back and handed one to Sheridan and another to Roger.

  "Sorry there's nothing better to help pass the time."

  Neither Sheridan nor Roger seemed to mind, thankful to have something to do at an awkward time. After an hour of waiting, the two uniforms made mumbling apologies and left. Frank approached Olivia and Aaron, who seemed to be enjoying each other's company as best as they could under the circumstances.

  "Do either of you have anything new since we talked last?" He meant the question merely to initiate conversation, but he could see the two detectives took it seriously. They chatted a few moments and shrugged. Everyone became embarrassed by the silence. He walked to the door and gazed out. The rain had started again. While he stood there, a man drove up and filled the pay box with the early edition of
the Chronicle. Frank dug into his pocket and discovered he had no change, so he hurried out and paid the delivery man two dollars for a paper before he could get away. The man looked at the money and back at Frank.

  "Go ahead," Frank offered. "Take it. It's a tip. I'm feeling generous this morning."

  The man thanked him and left. Frank carried the paper inside to share with the others. Neither Olivia nor Aaron wanted to read, and Sheridan was curled up in the corner, pretending to sleep, so he found a straight chair in the nearby hall and began reading the newspaper word for word. The front page talked about a car-bombing in Iraq and the latest political campaign. A short article below the fold announced his having been named lieutenant to replace Sheridan Barker. The article, complete with two sidebars, one on his history and one on Sheridan's, was written by Julia Brewster. All the facts were accurate, but there was no depth to it. Maybe he imagined an undertone of innuendo that there was more to the incident than the officials had mentioned. He smirked, thinking about what Brewster would do if she knew what had happened since she filed that story.

  He read the sports. The Rockets had lost again; the comics, they didn't make him laugh; and then the business section. The lead story talked about the executives who had precipitated the Enron scandal, old news, and speculated whether the economy was recovering or going the other way, more old news, and then he saw the story about the recent joining of forces of two movers and shakers in retail fashion. As in the article about him being named lieutenant, there were two sidebars. He didn't know the accuracy of the description of Mark Simeon, but Paulette's coverage lacked the same nuances as his and Sheridan's piece.

  The only section left was the society page. He sighed and grabbed the section. He wished he hadn't. There staring him in the face was Pauley, wrapped in the arms of Mark Simeon, both showing broad, toothy smiles, apparently attending some sort of victory celebration. The article involved their merger and announcement of new retail stores, but the writer speculated that a budding romance stirred behind the scenes. The old cliché, "do I hear wedding bells in the future" clawed at Frank's insides.

  Before he could wad the paper into a ball and throw it across the room, the double door to the hall slammed open and a doctor in scrubs entered, his facemask dangling from one ear. The man stopped, perplexed to see so many people in the waiting room. Frank was the first to approach him. "You have news on Geraldine Gardner?"

  "She's stabilized. Resting quietly for the moment. The poison was powerful, and I can't say how she might be affected. It will be several hours before I can say she's out of danger, but I think we got her in time. Of course, it will be days before we'll know what long term effects may result, if any."

  "Can we see her?" The doctor shook his head. "She's in ICU. She's unconscious and needs lots of rest."

  "When can we see her?"

  "Maybe tomorrow morning."

  Frank turned to pass the information along to the others, and realized they had formed a huddle behind him, listening intently to what the doctor had to say. Each face looked drawn and on the brink of exhaustion, reflecting, no doubt, the expression on his own. Cops are tough. They deal with sorrow and violence on a daily basis and don't wear their hearts on their sleeves, but they also carry a deep-seated tank filled with empathy, intended, if not for their fellow man, to spread thick on their compadres.

  Frank fished in his pocket and drew out his business card. It didn't have the phone number of the lieutenant's office, so he scribbled his cell phone on the back and handed it to the doctor.

  "Please, call me the moment she's able to receive visitors."

  The doctor took the card, nodded, and left. Frank waited a beat before suggesting they all meet at HPD in about an hour. Roger begged off, saying he had told Frank everything he knew. Frank didn't answer immediately. His mind had drifted to that early morning when the case began. He recognized that Roger Harrington had looked into the murky darkness. He had nearly become that which he hated. His reasons for wanting time off weren't all related to a relationship with the woman in ICU. He needed time to sort himself out. Roger must have taken Frank's silence for refusal.

  "I can't be of any use until I know something more definite about Gerry," he explained. "I want to stay here, if it's all right."

  Frank clasped the big officer on the shoulder and squeezed. "Of course," he agreed. "I'd stay too if I didn't have to tie up the paperwork at the office."

  Roger slumped in relief and walked to the window to watch the rain. Olivia and Aaron left together. Frank turned to Sheridan.

  "You hungry?"

  "I could eat a horse."

  "I know a quiet cafe that serves the best breakfast in town. My treat."

  Sheridan smiled. "Lead the way, officer," she said.

  They were both quiet in the car as Frank drove through the early morning grayness to the Southwest Freeway and headed west. He noticed Sheridan was picking at her fingernails, with a furrowed brow.

  "You okay?" he asked.

  She stopped and glanced out the side window. "Yeah, I guess." He didn't push, deciding if she wanted to talk, she would. After some time, she volunteered, "I was thinking about what Harrington said. My entire family is behind bars and a talented, beautiful detective is lying in a cold emergency room with tubes running from her nose. It's a lot to consider."

  Frank grunted. There was nothing to say. He always crashed at this phase of a case, even when his partner wasn't at death's door. All that would be changing. Always before, he would ponder the next time, hoping there would be a lull before he got the call to go and walk around another corpse, grimacing and waiting for the outpouring of curiosity and excitement to kick in, like a bloodhound, tucking its tail as it sniffed the article of clothing to set the scent before bounding away after the quarry.

  He fought off the depressed feeling, telling himself at this particular time there were too many things for him to handle. If he opened his mind to one murky situation, all the variables that were bearing down on him would collide head on and drive him over the edge into the pit.

  He turned north onto the 610-loop toward the Galleria. "The cafe is right up here on the left," he explained. Thelma raised an eyebrow when Frank entered with a striking blonde on his arm, but she sensed the tension emanating from the couple and held her tongue. Frank ordered his usual and Sheridan opted for an omelet made from Eggbeaters and a rasher of bacon. They ate mostly in silence, chatting about unimportant topics like the weather. As they made their way outside, Sheridan stopped and took hold of Frank's forearm.

  "I know how the system works as well as anyone, but please, use your influence to spare Reuben if you can. He's my father and he's suffering more than any jail time can mete out." Frank nodded. "I'll do what I can."

  A gaggle of reporters huddled under the eaves near the entrance, trying to avoid being soaked by the rain, when Frank and Sheridan drove into the parking lot at HPD. Captain Holloman had evidently been watching from the foyer, because he pushed out through the door and headed off the surge of newsmen that moved toward the squad car en masse, like insects drawn to an outdoor spotlight. He grabbed Sheridan's arm and ushered her forward, yelling "No comment. There will be a press conference this afternoon."

  They made it inside, and Frank felt some of the tension ease in the familiar environment. They moved quickly to the interview room.

  "Let's start with Rankin," Frank suggested.

  Holloman nodded to a uniform, sending him off to bring the subject from the holding cell. "Molly Shapiro is ready and waiting. This is going to be an interesting morning."

  "May I watch with the ADA?" Sheridan asked.

  "Your call, Frank," Holloman stated.

  "Are you sure you want to do this?" Frank asked Sheridan.

  "Yes," she answered without hesitation. "I'm all he's got, no matter how this turns out."

  When Rankin was escorted into the room, Frank was the only officer waiting. The old man looked totally defeated. Cedric Stiles followed
him in, also looking dejected. The lawyer's suit was mussed and his eyes were rimmed in red. No one had had a restful night.

  When Rankin and Stiles were seated, Frank looked at them both, and settled his stare on Reuben. "Do you want to stick with the confession you made yesterday?"

  Rankin couldn't hold Frank's penetrating stare. He looked at the tabletop. "Yes," he said. "No matter what you found out since we last met, I'm responsible for what my family does. If any of them are guilty, it's my fault for not providing the proper guidance. I'm the head of the family."

  Frank reached out and activated the recording he had from Gerry's apartment. It might be cruel for this man to hear his family rake him over the coals, but he needed to know.

  The interviewing team decided to discuss the morning's disclosures over lunch. They went through the cafeteria line and sat at a long table in a private room. Molly Shapiro was the first to speak.

  "We have a strong case on all of them. The tape is inadmissible in court because it was gained from an illegal surveillance system. It would be best if Detective Gardner could testify, but we have enough to get convictions without her."

  "I think we should cut Gretchen Sullivan and Rankin loose," Frank suggested.

  Everyone looked at him. "I can understand the daughter-in-law," Shapiro nodded. "She seems to have been completely out of the loop, although I think she was aware of more than she admitted to. But why let Rankin off the hook? We can get him on conspiracy, and as an accessory at the very least."

  "I agree," Frank replied, "but I don't think there's anything to be served by holding his feet to the fire. Regardless of complicity, he was only trying to protect his family. He had no idea his daughter or Gus was involved until I pointed out the oil spot in his garage."

  "What about harboring those deadly plants in his house?"

  "None of them are restricted. It may have been a macabre hobby, but anything that came from there could have been gathered from a lot of yards elsewhere in the city. We might release him under some sort of probation with the condition that he destroy the plants."