Send Out The Clowns (Frank River Series) (10 page)

Gerry went back to the Squad Room to organize her schedule
for the day, pondering what Sumbitch had said during the morning briefing. The
Lieutenant seemed more concerned about what Frank was doing than she was about
the murders. She'd seen women act like that before, nervous, as though they
were afraid of losing something. Was Barker afraid for her job?

Her cell phone chirped. It was Frank. "Yo, Frank."

"Rankin wasn't at home. I'm headed for the lab to talk
with Al Shuman. How'd it go with Barker?"

"She knows all we know about last night's murder,
probably more. There's an article in the morning paper, page four of the front
section. Just facts. Like a mail-in report."

"I saw that. Anything else?"

"She asked me all about you. Seems a bit paranoid. Make
any sense?"

There was a pause and she could hear traffic noises. She
figured Frank was entering the freeway. Maybe he was mulling over what she'd
said.

"When the department was filling that job, they asked
me if I wanted it. I said I didn't. She's been leery of me ever since."

"Why'd you turn it down? More money and all."

"I'm a street type. Don't want administrative
duties."

"Yeah, but as whip of the downtown precinct, you could
do both. Most whips don't sit around in the office as much as Sumbitch
does."

"Maybe you're right. If it comes open again, I might
opt for it. Listen, I found out where Laurie Lowe stayed while she was in town.
The Allen's Way Motel on Allen Parkway."

"You want to toss it?"

"Yeah. I'll get a team and go over there as soon as
we're done here. Anything else?"

"I've had some second thoughts about this being a
serial killing. We'll talk about that this afternoon. Still want to meet at
Jason's about twelve."

Gerry smiled. She was pleased to realize that Frank wasn't
so distracted as to have missed the variance in the second murder. "Let's
not do Jason's, Frank. I feel bad putting you through that. Meet you at
Charlie's in the Village."

"Let's make it La Madeline's. Happy medium. I can get
onion soup and a sandwich, and you can do the salad bit."

"You got it, partner. See you there."

Gerry called Al Shuman and asked for a CSI team. He promised
to have one waiting. She called Dispatch and requested a patrol unit to assist,
hoping that Roger Harrington would tag the call. A last quick scan and she
headed out.

It took less than fifteen minutes to reach the Allen's Way
Motel. She found a parking place in the front overlooking the highway and saw
both a squad car and the CSI van approaching. She waited for the team before
approaching the front desk. A tall, skinny young man looked up as they entered.
He wore a black vest over a white shirt and black pants. His acne and scraggly
facial hair told Gerry he was most likely a college student working nights.

She showed him a picture of Laurie Lowe. "This woman
was one of your guests recently. Do you recognize her?"

The boy took the picture for a close look. His hands shook
as he tried to keep his poise. "Yes, Officer, I was on the desk when she
checked in, but I don't know her status at the moment." He handed the
photo back. "Let me check." He turned to the computer. "Let's see.
She was in room 249. She paid in advance for three nights. The room was vacant
when the maid came by this morning. I'm assuming she left town."

"Has the room been cleaned?"

"Not yet. I don't imagine the crew will get to it for
another hour or so. What's the problem?"

"Your guest didn't leave town. She was murdered last
night. We need to secure the room and run it for evidence. Which way?"

The shaking hands consumed the entire body of the clerk. He
pointed a trembling finger across the lobby to a sliding glass door that led to
the pool. "A-across the veranda and up one flight," he managed to
say. "I'm going to have to call the manager."

"Relax, young man. You're not in any trouble. Go ahead
and call your boss. We'll get started while you explain the situation."
Gerry motioned the other officers toward the area where the clerk had indicated
Room 249 was located. Everyone headed that way, leaving the student punching
numbers into the phone with shaking fingers.

Gerry found the door open. She directed the two uniforms to
stand guard outside and let the lab techs enter ahead of her.

Phyllis Aquilla smiled as she passed Gerry. "The maid
can save some time today," she commented as she cast a glance around the
apartment. "This room is cleaner than most of the rooms I've ever checked
in to."

"It doesn't look like anyone was ever here," Gerry
said. "Go ahead and give it a good examination. I'm thinking you won't
find anything, but pump the drains and I'll smell the carpet." They both
laughed.

Gerry found a parking space in front of the Half-Priced Book
Store, across University Boulevard from the shopping area and La Madeline's.
Frank stood in front of the main entrance with his hands in his pockets,
watching the traffic creep by, each driver looking frustrated at the lack of
adequate parking.

"Been waiting long?" she asked. He shook his head
and opened the door for her. She walked through the big open room, past the
deli cases and the long serving area with the cafeteria-like rail for pushing
trays, to a small table for two near the back, close to the coffee pots and
delicious smelling baskets of free fresh bread. Bread. Soul food. She shut her
eyes and gritted her teeth.

The room was empty and they chose a table for two by the
wall. Frank stayed to watch Gerry's bag while she grazed through the serving
line. Like a robot in a trance, he filled two glasses with water, ice and a
lemon slice each and grabbed a pile of napkins. When she returned with a bowl
of soup on a tray and a wooden block with the letter "B" carved in
the side, he went to the front. Gerry watched him inch past the case filled
with pastries, inhaling the sweet smell of cheesecake, peach turnovers and
other exotic desserts. She had done the same, resisting temptation for the sake
of maintaining her weight. He ordered a turkey and cheese sandwich and received
his own wooden block, and then, after deciding on a bowl of onion soup, he set
a cup and saucer on the tray and paid the girl behind the register.

"Got your coffee yet?" he asked as he put the soup
and the wooden block on the table. Gerry nodded. By the time he returned with
his cup filled, both his sandwich and her salad had arrived. The wooden blocks
were gone. They each tried a bite or two of the lunch.

"What's this new idea about these not being serial
killings?" Frank asked. He chewed on the bite of sandwich, touching a
napkin to his mouth as he swallowed.

"Even though there's a ritualistic method going on
here, there are too many variables. It's more like the killer wants YOU to
believe it's serial. I think it's directed at you." That brought a raised
eyebrow.

"Why's that?"

Gerry placed her elbows on the table and leaned over.
"First of all, this is my first homicide case. No one even knows me
downtown. I've been working out in Kingwood, remember? Second reason is the
care the perp takes to sanitize the scene. I can almost feel the killer trying
to think like you do, and stay one step ahead. Then third, this last one had
the juggler's clue. As if to say, you've got too many balls in the air,
Detective."

"You mean as if he knows me like a book and is trying
to outsmart me?"

"Right. Laughing at you."

Frank hesitated. Sipped at his coffee. "That points
back to Rankin. I told you about the files he had on my career. He knows more
about me than I know about myself." Frank squinted. "I tried to get a
search warrant, but Sumbitch wouldn't sign it. Not enough evidence. She's
right."

Gerry leaned back and picked at her salad. "I'm not so
sure it's Rankin."

"Why's that?"

"You told me there's no way he can get out of his chair
without help, that his legs are atrophied. Both of these murders took place on
upper floors where the handicap ramps would make it difficult to come and go
without being seen, and no man in a wheelchair was seen at either place."

"Maybe that goon, Gus, helped him?"

"Same problem. It's even harder for two men, one in a
chair, to avoid being seen."

Frank sighed. "Yeah, I know. I've thought about that a
lot and don't have an answer." He shoved chips into his mouth and drank
some water before taking the last bite of his sandwich.

"What did you learn from the lab report?" Gerry
asked.

"Nothing we didn't already know. Aquilla has matched
the blood type from the motel drain with Laurie Lowe. She said she would run
DNA to tie it. Al Shuman is almost certain Lowe was poisoned like the first
victim, but hasn't confirmed anything yet. What did you find out?"

"After we finished at the motel, I went back to the
office and spent time on the computer." She took out her notes.
"Laurie Lowe doesn't seem to have any family. Grew up in a home for
abandoned children in Albuquerque. Moved around a lot since leaving home,
trying various ways to get into show business and has been pretty much a bust
at them all. Her address in Albuquerque has been her base for the last two
years. Even her web page isn't memorable. There's nothing I've found in her
past to connect her with Rankin, or Nguyen, or anyone else at either comedy
club. Aquilla said the autopsy showed she had a rough childhood. Evidence of
overwork at a young age, and multiple broken bones as though she'd been
beaten."

An older woman came into the room. A tote bag hung on her
arm like a purse. On the side of the bag, a decal of the Tasmanian Devil stuck
his tongue out at the detectives. They put their conversation on hold as the
woman filled a glass with ice and water and piled several pieces of free bread,
butter and jam on a plate. She took a seat by the window in the same room and
pulled a book from the tote bag. Frank and Gerry stood and carried fresh coffee
out to the patio and a wrought-iron table with two chairs.

It was warm in the sun, a beautiful early November day in
Houston. They both scanned the patio. Only one other table was occupied. A man
and a young girl sat drinking tea and talking in low tones. Gerry decided they
couldn't overhear what she and Frank were discussing unless they tried hard,
and they showed no indication of wanting to.

"This dead girl is getting to me, Frank. I keep having
a fantasy that I cap the killer and watch him die a slow death on the
street."

Before Frank could answer, a grackle lit on the table. A female.
Brown, flashing iridescent in the sun. The bird cocked its head and gave Frank
thorough scrutiny with a bold, yellow eye. A quick glance around the table
convinced the scavenger there was no profit in remaining, so it hopped to the
floor and wobbled around, pecking at invisible crumbs.

Frank brought his gaze to Gerry, and held her eyes with a
serious look. "I know how you feel. In almost every case, I reach a point
where I hope the killer and I will meet in a dark alley. The way I overcome my
rage is to think about how their life will be up in Huntsville."

Gerry didn't answer, merely held Frank's look.

Frank glanced away, then lifted his head and watched the
traffic along Kirby.

"Prison is not a nice place," he explained, more
to the traffic than to Gerry. "Regardless what the general public thinks
about the inmates being pandered to by the current system. I don't think I'm
even in favor of the death sentence anymore, other than the fact that living
conditions may be worse on death row than in the general population. It may
take ten or twelve years before the death sentence clears the appeal hurdles
and is carried out and someone shoves a needle in a killer's arm, but think
about those years, twenty-three hours a day in a solitary cell, an hour for exercise,
guards monitoring your every move. Nothing to do but think, and smell yourself
decaying in your cell. If you die, you're through with it, but living every day
with your own twisted mind or wandering around the steel halls wondering if and
when somebody's going to push a shank through your ribs, or worse, is the real
cruel and unusual." He looked back at Gerry. "So if I blow the scum
away, he gets off light." He smiled. "Keep that in mind. It may
help."

"You're a good man, Detective Rivers."

Frank blushed and squirmed in his seat. "Don't make me
out to be a hero, Gerry. There are lots of things in my past I'm not proud
of."

"Like what, Frank? You rat out a friend in high school
or something?"

He looked her square in the eye. "For one instance,
when I was old enough to know better, I stood by and watched a gang of my
friends rough up another boy just because he was black. Seemed like the right
thing to do at the time."

Gerry laid her hand on Frank's arm and leaned over the table
so she would be as close to him as she could. "You're no racist, Frank.
Believe me. I know about those things." She sat back and grinned.
"Besides, when I was growing up, I helped the boys in the 'hood show more
than one 'Taco Tom' who was runnin' the show."

Gerry's cell phone rang. She answered it as Frank cleaned
their trash from the table. When she finished the conversation, she looked at
Frank. "That was Al Shuman. Laurie Lowe died from an overdose of
mescaline. He thinks it came from peyote. He also said that Lowe had evidence
of long time use of drugs. It isn't likely that she did herself, but then, we
knew that."

They left the restaurant together. Frank's car was parked to
the left, north of University Boulevard. They stopped to discuss their next
move.

"I think I'll take a quick trip to Huntsville. I've
been putting off going to see Skip. Maybe it's time. He was an undercover narc
before he transferred to homicide, and I remember him talking about how much
time he spent working in the Westheimer area. Maybe he knows some information
on Rankin," Frank commented. "How about you? Probably ought to see
what you can find out about peyote."