Send Out The Clowns (Frank River Series) (11 page)

"Fine. I'll call you about five."

Frank walked to his squad car and climbed in. Gerry crossed
University Boulevard and got into her car. She plunged the key into the
ignition, but sat with her hand in suspended animation before turning the
engine on, thinking about how the case had taken a turn for her. Peyote. This
was in her area of expertise. Peyote wasn't classified as a poison, but a
narcotic. Mescaline had common use. She had dealt with a case of death by
overdose of mescaline while in Kingwood. She started the car and eased into
traffic. When she turned right on Kirby, the delay had put several cars between
her and Frank. She could barely make out the light rack on the squad car's
roof. She watched as he moved to the right lane and drove up the entry ramp,
going northeast on the Southwest Freeway.

She continued north under the freeway and turned left onto
the entry ramp. Two exits later she left the freeway and followed the service
road past Hillcroft to South Fondren. She turned south, passed under the
freeway and headed back to the east along the service road, cruising slowly in
the right lane until she found the familiar convenience store she was looking
for. She parked the cruiser on the long, narrow blacktop apron near the cyclone
fence that was grown over with mulberry trees and trumpet vine.

The man behind the counter in the store was Asian. Gerry had
always assumed he was Indian because of his sing-song gentle voice. The man was
short and slender, with a silky mustache and hair. He wore khaki pants and a
long-waisted white shirt, not tucked in. A plastic name tag on his shirt read
"Hello - My Name is Mac." She was certain his name wasn't really Mac,
but everyone had called him that since she could remember.

"Hi, Mac," Gerry smiled as she approached the
counter. "Is he home?"

"Ah Missy Gardner, welcome. Yes, he is having his noon
break. It is warming to see you again."

"You like having cops visit your establishment?"

"Ah, yes. That marked car lets the hooligans know I am
a legitimate business man."

Gerry smiled at Mac's use of the word 'hooligan.' It was a
word seldom heard of late. "What's he smoking these days?" She asked.

"Liggett, one-hundreds, full flavor," Mac said
with a smile.

Gerry gathered a handful of Hershey bars from a display on
the counter. "Let me have a carton and these." She laid the chocolate
on the counter.

Mac turned and withdrew a carton of cigarettes from a
storage bin behind him, laid it beside the candy and rang up the sale.
"Twenty-eight dollars, for you a special price." He grinned. She
scooped the merchandise and waved as she went outside. She strolled along the
fence until she came to a place where a long weathered board ran the length of
the support pipe. She banged on the board and waited. Almost immediately she
heard a familiar voice.

"Why, this is my lucky day." The fence sagged,
exposing a doorway to a room-like area hidden in the vegetation. "Gigi,
you come on in here. It's been a spell."

"Hi, Smoky," Gerry smiled as she ducked to clear
the vines and branches. "How you been."

The man she called 'Smoky' fastened the fence and pulled her
into a fatherly hug. Gerry didn't know how old Smoky might be. She'd known him
all her life and had often tried to calculate how many years he'd been roaming
southwest Houston, selling day-old newspapers. He had been her grandmother's
friend and suitor. She figured he had to be at least ninety. He wore a baggy,
olive-drab jump suit, a black quilted jacket and an Astro’s’ ball cap. He'd
been known as 'Bones' most of his life because of his tall, slender build,
which looked almost skeletal. About twenty years earlier, his skin had taken on
a dryness that made it look more gray than mahogany, hence the addition of
'Smoky.' Smoky Bones—a legend in this part of town.

"You still making your living selling day-old
newspapers to the passers by?"

He chuckled. "I'll sell any newspaper I can find as
long as they're free from food stains and roach shit. Make a good livin.' Got a
regular clientele. I always say I need fifty cents, but most of my customers
give me a dollar, or sometimes two. It's a way of beggin' that allows me to
keep my head up. I sold out already today, so I'm havin' a nooner." He
gestured toward an area where the vegetation was worn away and the dirt packed
hard. A ratty lawn chair sat beside a dirty, blue plastic cooler and a fire pit
surrounded by cobbles. The fire wasn't burning. Across from the chair was a
black plastic milk crate stood on end. "Come join me. I had a good
day."

Gerry sat on the milk crate and pretended to warm her hands
over the dead fire.

Smoky reached into the cooler and withdrew two frosty cans
of Coors Light. He popped the tops and handed one to her. "Really had a
good day. Usually I drink Keystone, but I decided to treat myself." He
held out the can and Gerry touched her can to his as a toast. Smoky took a
drink, then nodded to the cigarettes and candy bars in the plastic sack by Gerry's
feet.

That for me?"

"Only if you got information for me. Like always."
She handed the sack across to him and he settled into the lawn chair.

"How's your sweet dear grandmamma?" he asked, as
he unwrapped a Hershey and took half of it in his mouth.

Gerry had told him several times her grandmother had died,
but he refused to accept the fact. As a young man he had seriously courted the
woman. In those days he cut quite a figure, usually with money in his pocket
from working as a framer for a construction company that built half the
structures in the Sharpstown area. Now he was content to live in his urban
wilderness cave and hustle second-hand newspapers for whatever he could get. He
never complained, claiming he had a life style that many of his friends envied.
Gerry waited for him to bring the conversation around to what they both knew
was the reason for her visit.

"You still doggin' them junkies up to Kingwood?"
he asked. Gerry knew Smoky would drink more than a six-pack of beer a day and
chain smoke whenever he could afford cigarettes, but he thought of narcotics as
the worst thing a person could do, and would help her run pushers to earth
whenever he could. "Them bloodsuckers ruin many a good man, yesiree."

"I'm not in Kingwood anymore, Smoky. I got transferred
downtown. I'm working homicide now."

He chuckled and shook his head. "I always knowed you'd
make the big time. Homicide detective, eh. Do you like the work?"

"So far. I'm on my first case."

"Well, we got to make it your best case." He
leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees, looking into her eyes with a
soft, fatherly expression. "What can I help you with?"

"Have you heard of some strange dope on the street
lately?"

"What you mean, strange?"

"Unusual stuff, not snow or crystal, mescaline
maybe."

He sat back and slapped his thigh. "Coyote peyote. Yes
sir. I hear it's about. Other stuff too, all funny soundin' stuff from tropical
countries, but it ain't part of the main flow. Them regular dealers is hot
about it too. They want in on it or it's gotta go." His face turned grim.
"Dangerous situation, Gigi. Surely is."

"You know who's dealing it?"

Smoky looked thoughtful. He stood and shoved his empty beer
can into a black trash bag. He pulled a fresh one from the cooler and looked
over at her, tacitly asking whether she wanted another. She shook her can, and
then shook her head. He popped the top and settled back in his chair.
"Don't rightly know. Folks around say it's a white woman up town. They
call her the Shuman Lily, something like that."

"Shaman?"

"That's the word. What's it mean?"

"Sorta like an Indian medicine man."

"That right? Umm? Well she got a network and it's QT.
Not even the pushers know who she be. But I figure somebody's gotta know. How
else she gonna get the stuff on the street?"

They talked their way through the rest of the six pack; one
more for Gerry, the rest Smoky took care of. She kissed him on the cheek, and
waved to Mac as she climbed into the patrol car.

She entered the Southwest Freeway at the next possible ramp
and drove to the 610 loop, turned north and moved with traffic toward
headquarters.

When she arrived at the department, she hurried inside to
her computer workstation. She reopened a search for similar crimes, but instead
of searching for 'Death by Poison' she keyed in the words, 'Overdose,
Mescaline.' She got more than twenty thousand hits. She refined the search to
exclude Native Americans and New Age connections, reducing the list to a
manageable number. She printed the list and read the details of each case, marking
through those that didn't seem remotely related to Laurie Lowe with a broad
tipped, black felt pen, and highlighting those of interest in yellow.

When she was
satisfied with her product, she reprinted the six highlighted case numbers and
read the details through several times. There really seemed to be a pattern.
Time to talk to Frank. She tried the cell phone. Out of the area. She didn't
think she wanted to put any information out on the radio, and decided to wait
to fill Frank in when he returned from Huntsville that evening. Right now, she
needed to talk to Sumbitch.

Chapter
13

Frank cruised along in the right lane waiting for Gerry to
catch up. When she didn't show, he shrugged and accelerated. He considered
swinging east then heading north on the Hardy Toll Road, but traffic was light
and he opted for Interstate 45 the more direct route. He stayed in the left
lane with the fastest traffic after passing the exit to MO and the route to San
Antonio It had been a while since he'd driven north out of town. The familiar
landscape brought back memories of his early days on the force, particularly
the bombing of that professor's house in Wildewood and the tragedy that had
resulted, sending his partner to prison. The outlet mall on his left reminded
him of when the area had been a drive-in movie, and then a field where the
Goodyear blimp had been housed for several years. The city was ever changing.
Many of the buildings evacuated and left abandoned, for years sometimes, had
been revived like fresh flowers in the spring, but not always. There were still
neglected ruins from derelict developments that presented people entering
Houston from the north a false impression of the town. The development of the
Woodlands Mall had rejuvenated that entire area; the interstate was wider and
businesses boomed for several miles on either side of the freeway.

The drive became a nostalgia trip. He smiled as he passed
another outlet mall, remembering how a scientist from Texas A&M had
developed a variety of pink lupines and introduced them along the highway here.
People called them pink bluebonnets, an oxymoron if there ever was one. At
Willis he left the freeway and stopped at a Jack in the Box restaurant The
several cups of coffee during lunch had hit bottom, and previous trips to
Huntsville told him this was the last chance for a rest stop. Before he left to
reenter the interstate, he purchased a large coffee for the road - more fuel
for the fire.

Nostalgia became full blown, cascading over him, rousing
memories both pleasant and distasteful. Nothing ahead now but Huntsville, home
of Sam Houston State University, his alma mater, and Texas Department of
Criminal Justice. He knew the names of more people, both officers and inmates,
in the several units in and around Huntsville, than from the college.
Huntsville might not be the only town in Texas with warehouse-like buildings
encased by towers and razor wire, but it had been the first, and most people
automatically connected the town with the prison.

Frank grinned as he passed the gigantic statue of Sam
Houston, a landmark visible for miles. Tourists were posing for pictures in
front of the monument. He had watched it being constructed, and couldn't shake
his first opinion, formed by watching the workers plastering the web-work that
turned into a replica of the historical hero, that Texas always seemed to
adhere to the idea that bigger was better.

He passed up the first exit for Huntsville, choosing to
follow signs for Highway 30, which he knew as 11th Street. He turned right past
MacDonald's and cruised eastward, crossing University Boulevard and passing the
courthouse, llth Street took him over a crest and sloped down to where the
cross streets were called 'Avenues' and were named after letters of the
alphabet, starting with "I." He turned right on "H," one
block south to 12th Street, then angled into a parking slot reserved for police
cars.

Frank shut the engine down and sat for a moment thinking
about Skip. He took a deep breath and pulled his hand down from his nose over
his mouth. How would it play out? They had been partners for most of the time
since Frank had been assigned to homicide. Skip had shown him the ropes,
chiding him for his rookie mistakes, rebuking him constantly for wanting to
take the investigation in a different direction if he didn't agree with Skip's
conclusions. That was Skip's way, always censure, never praise. Now he was
doing hard time because Frank had disclosed his involvement in a conspiracy to
conceal buried radioactive substances by constructing a medical building over
the disposal site. Three people had died as a result of that caper, and Skip
had threatened to kill both Frank and Pauley. Frank had beat him to the punch
and left a 9-mm slug in his partner's chest. Skip copped a plea that ended with
a twenty year sentence.

This would be their first reunion.

Frank opened the car door and stepped out. He looked up at
the front of the building. The Huntsville Unit, known to most as "The
Walls," sat on the original site of the first prison in Texas. It retained
the historical structural design and was the only prison in the system
surrounded by high walls around a courtyard, a construction made familiar to
free society by old movies. All the other units in Texas were called
"farms," covering vast acreage with sprawling buildings surrounded by
hurricane fences and rolls of razor wire, and watchtowers located at strategic
locations. At the 'Walls' an officer walked along the top of the near wall and
carried a weapon, telling Frank the warden was inside. When the boss was away,
the guards would remain in the post house at the corners and keep watch on the
inside. He had worked as an officer at this unit when he was a student at the
university.

Frank turned and glanced at an official looking building on
the other side of the street. It was an unassuming structure surrounded by
broad, well kept lawns under stately trees. Picnic tables and benches provided
comfort in the shade for family and friends who waited for a relative to walk
out the front door of the unit and down the twelve steps on the downhill side,
a free man. There was a saying at The Walls that if you stepped on the
thirteenth step as you left the unit you'd be coming back. That thirteenth step
was ground level, making the old saw ironic. Not everyone knew that every
prisoner in the Huntsville region released by TDCJ spent their last night
inside The Walls or that all prisoners condemned to die spent their last night
in the unassuming building across the street.

A steep switchback wheelchair ramp on the uphill side of the
steps reminded Frank that The Walls had been, until the late 90's, the hospital
unit. He opted for the stairs, only ten on this side, and eased past an elderly
inmate sweeping invisible dirt from the landing. The man stepped back and bowed,
excusing himself for being in the way with a smile and a soft pretentious tone.
Frank didn't respond. The man pulled the door open and stood back so Frank
could enter.

Immediately on the left, a slender, female Afro-American
officer waited in a small, unlit room behind a long window encased by steel
bars. Red lights from electronic equipment gave a glow in the otherwise dark
room. It was hard to see faces clearly, but Frank knew the lady to be one of
the most attractive officers in the entire system.

"Hello, Victoria," Frank smiled.

"Detective Rivers. It's good to see you."

Frank could never talk her into calling him by his first
name. He'd given up trying. Instead of launching a familiar argument with a
predetermined conclusion, he smiled and began unloading his pockets. Victoria
pushed a wooden box under the bars and Frank laid his service revolver,
handcuffs, wallet, pocket knife, and money in the box. He patted his pockets
and smiled before attaching his shield to his belt and signing in on the roll
sheet. Victoria pulled the tray out of sight, cuing Frank to enter the unit.

He walked toward heavy bar doors, "The Slammer,"
glancing toward the warden's door on the right and the hall on the left he knew
led to the execution chamber. The Slammer slid open with timing that allowed
him to pass through without breaking stride. He turned and glanced up at a
glass panel over his head and smiled.

"Hi, Frank," a voice shouted from a darkened area.
The control room was" located in a cage high above the floor where the
operator had a view of the outside entrance, and to the courtyard within. Two
more barred doors remained between Frank and the courtyard.

"Hi Sarah, Thank you."

"My pleasure, Detective."

Frank turned back and smiled at an officer who sat behind a gray
steel desk. She smiled back and pushed a clipboard to the front of the desk.
Frank didn't know this woman, so he signed the log without comment and stepped
toward the next door.

A line of brass bars, ceiling to floor, spanned wall-to-wall
in front of him. In the middle, a sliding door, controlled by the unseeable
Sarah, opened to an aisle flanked by more brass bars and separating a room on
either side of the aisle. Inside each room were long narrow tables of red and
gray ceramic terrazzo secured to the floor by steel posts. Similar benches
flanked each table. The arrangement suggested that this was a visiting area,
but Frank had never seen it in use. As always, there were elderly inmates
wiping at all the brass with little enthusiasm. He'd been told that this was an
assigned "job" for old men who couldn't put in full day of hard
labor, and an extra duty after hours punishment for others.

The first door slid open and Frank stepped through. He heard
the door behind him closing and saw the one in front of him opening. A guard
stood at a desk with a telephone to his ear, his attention focused on a
switchboard with flashing lights to his right. Frank caught the officer's eye
and pointed at his badge. The officer nodded, and Frank stepped through a
wooden door into the courtyard.

Frank passed the chapel, sheathed by ligustrum bushes and a
towering crepe myrtle tree on his left. On the right, a street led past the
officer's duty station to the craft shop. In front and sprawling to the left
was a vast courtyard of concrete with basketball courts, handball courts and
benches for relaxing or watching activity. Few inmates were in view. Three
officers stood in a group near a ramp that switched back past the mess hall to
a third floor. Frank didn't recognize any of the officers and assumed they were
temporary workers, probably students from Sam Houston State. No one spoke, and
Frank nodded to the man facing him before he began the ascent of the ramp. He'd
used this route before, and always wondered how inmates in wheelchairs ever
made it up such an incline; it was a labor to climb with healthy legs.

At the top of the ramp, he opened a door and stepped into an
air-conditioned area, an office separating two large rooms; several classrooms
divided by bookcases to the left and a library on the right. An officer sat
behind a desk in the office, holding a telephone to his ear and studying a
crossword puzzle as he listened. Frank signed another time sheet and waited.
The officer glanced at the sign-in sheet, covered the mouthpiece with his left
hand and indicated with his expression that Frank should continue ahead.

He spotted Skip sitting at a wooden table near the back wall
in the far right hand side of the library room. Books lined shelves, ceiling to
floor, behind him and to his right. Frank's first emotion was shock at how much
weight his old partner had lost - he looked gaunt in the white, baggy prison
clothes. Skip was reading a newspaper, his face and hands tanned and gnarly,
his head shaved, with shadowy growth showing where his hair had been and would
be again. Frank always believed that people who were aware of their
surroundings could feel someone staring at them, and as if to confirm his
thought, Skip glanced away from the newspaper and met Frank's eyes.

The look sliced through Frank's chest like a knife, probing
each vital organ with its needle-sharp point. Frank remembered discussions with
Skip about how you could tell a person who had done time by a guarded
expression in their eyes; a far away, untrusting, noncommittal, "screw
you" look. A look conditioned from facing a joyless future and expecting
to be attacked at any moment. Skip had that look.

Frank was glad to turn away so he could negotiate the two
steps down to the library floor. He made his way around a horseshoe-shaped desk
that enclosed computer terminals, wooden cases of index cards, newspapers on
rods, and a collection of periodicals. An Oxford Edition of the dictionary
rested in front of the desk on a pedestal. One inmate stood behind the counter
and one in front, both leaning on their forearms, watching Frank with
unabashed, emotionless eyes. Frank ignored them and made his way through the
reading tables to the far corner. Skip had folded the newspaper and laid it on
the table on his right. His hands rested calmly in front of him, clasped
together as if in prayer. The convict expression had been replaced by what
Frank recognized as Skip's "show me" mask.

Frank pulled out a chair and sat, mimicking Skip's posture
of clasped hands on the table. "Hi, Skip. How's it going?"

Skip leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his
chest. "The night life around here sucks, but I'm makin' it."

Frank nodded toward Skip's left hand. "How's the
shoulder?"

Skip glanced down. "No problem. Healed well enough.
Gets stiff on occasion." He looked at Frank. "How about you? Last
time I saw you, you were wearin' a cast."

"Like you, I guess. Healed, but not forgotten. I was
glad to learn you'd been transferred to the Walls."

"Yeah. They kept me at Diagnostic for a long time, trying
to figure where to put me where I wouldn't get stabbed in the back. Cops catch
a lot of crap in stir."

"Had trouble?"

Skip shrugged. "Some, but I knocked a few heads right
off and let them know I wasn't an easy mark. Now that I'm over here, it's working
out. My celly is a lifer named Garcia. Enrico Garcia. Name mean anything to
you?" Frank shook his head. "It was before your time, I guess. Bunch
of gangbangers raped and killed his daughter. Four of them. Garcia hunted them
down one by one, killed them, and then turned himself in. He pleaded guilty.
Got four life sentences without parole. He's sort of a hero around here. With
him backin' me, I feel safe most of the time."