Send Out The Clowns (Frank River Series) (16 page)

Frank sensed the hostility from the other detectives as he
outlined what he wanted them to do. There would be no sabotage from them, no
attempt to rebel openly. They were professionals and would give the task force
their supreme effort, but at the same time they would use every opportunity to
make him aware that they still considered him a pariah, one who turned on his
own. No matter the logic of the situation, he had severed "The Blue
Line" and needed to pay penance to regain inside respect, if that were
even possible. He resigned himself to the circumstances and laid out the work
schedule. Having done that, he told them he wanted to follow up leads in
Nguyen's neighborhood and left the office.

As he walked through the hall toward the front door, he
replayed the memory tapes of his bother and banishment at the bequest of his
contemporaries, whether from denial or defensiveness, and he had to fight back
his anger and the temptation to shoot his middle finger in the air. When he
pushed through the outside door, Chad Sherman was huddled under the eave
smoking a cigarette. Frank hadn't known the ruddy officer smoked. Maybe he
would take it up again. Pauley had talked him into quitting several years ago,
but, dammit! He still wanted one.

"Still pouring," Sherman grinned.

"They reassigned you already?" Frank asked.

"Yep. Like it or not, we're Yin and Yang for a few
days."

"Actually, I think we make a cute couple," Frank
joked. "Are you sure whatever evil patina seems to be on me won't wear off
on you?"

"I take it the other detectives are giving you some crap
because of Skip."

"You could say that."

"They'll get over it. Skip made his own mess; all you
did was show it to the world. There's no amnesty for bad cops."

Frank didn't reply as he looked up at the sky. The rain was
steady, the kind that socks in and last sometimes for days. When Sherman
finished his cigarette, Frank asked, "You ready to go?"

Sherman shrugged. "You're the boss." "Okay,
you drive."

They hurried across the parking lot to the squad car,
scrabbled in and wiped at the rain that had soaked them during the short run.
Sherman pulled a handkerchief from his hip pocket and ran it over his red crew
cut, then dabbed at his badge and the brass on his uniform.

The short hair and the "hard-body" physique made
Sherman look younger than Frank knew him to be. "I understand you're about
to complete your course work at U of H," he commented.

Sherman nodded as he put the handkerchief away. He turned
the key and started the car, adjusted the defroster to clear the windshield,
and hunkered over the wheel, listening to the engine as it warmed up.

"Gerry tells me you plan to leave the department."
Sherman nodded again. "Yeah, even though I really don't want to, I've got
three kids and need more money. It'll make life better at home in more ways
than one." "What's your wife's name?" "Janet."

"Janet doesn't like you being a street cop?"
"What woman does? She's supportive, but we fight about my job a lot.
Often, it's a silent fight, but the strain's always there."

"You don't need to justify that problem to me. I understand
it only too well."

Sherman looked at Frank and nodded. Frank had no way of
telling whether or not Chad knew anything about his relationship with Pauley,
but he knew how insidious departmental gossip could be. There were few secrets
in HPD.

The engine settled into a quiet hum. "Where we
headed?" Sherman asked.

Frank didn't have a plan when he stormed out of the office,
but now he needed one. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"We are going to be uninvited guests at Reuben Rankin's
house this afternoon. I like him for the murders, but I couldn't get a search
warrant. Maybe he'll be kind enough to let us look around without one."

"Gotcha. Which way?"

"River Oaks."

Sherman raised his eyebrows and eased out of the parking
lot. headed for Allen Parkway.

Reuben Rankin was not home. He was in his office at the Ha
Ha House waiting for his appointment to interview a new rind-up act with the
intriguing stage name of Bea Black. Reuben sat at a desk of dark wood, reading
a copy of Variety as he waited. He glanced at his watch. It wasn't time yet,
about ten more minutes. Gus lounged on a sofa behind him, flicking through a
Playboy magazine. A framed picture of the Houston skyline at night hung on the
wall over the sofa, and a framed poster of the interior of the club, showing
laughing customers and an unnamed comedian on stage dominated the wall to the
left of the door. The only other furniture in the room other than the desk and
sofa, was a bank of two filing cabinets and two straight-backed office armchairs,
the generic model available at Office Depot or Office Max with heavy, blue
tweed upholstery. A flat panel monitor looked down from a brace above the door,
showing four separate views of the club beyond; one of the front door and the
aisle to the bar, a second of the bar itself, and one close up and one distant
view, of the seating area and the stage. There was no activity in any of the
scenes because it was too early for anyone to be about preparing for the
evening crowd.

Outside the front door, Gerry and Roger assessed each
other's costumes. Roger's six-foot five frame looked imposing in his black,
eight button, double-breasted, silk suit, a la Dion Sanders, pearl gray shirt,
zebra striped black and white tie and a gray, snap-brimmed fedora that matched
his shirt. Gerry wore an ample pants suit of black lyocell/cotton with back
elastic waist, black long-sleeved ribbed sweater, leather shoes,
"Sanya"-style, Louis Hill chandelier earrings, and black crocodile
shoulder bag. What set her appearance off was the stunning black wig designed
so that spiral curls fell below her shoulders and the padded body suit that on
her tall lithe, frame caused her to look 40 pounds heavier. Her makeup was
subtle, attracting attention to her high cheekbones and alert dark eyes.

"What do you think?" she asked Roger.

"Probably your best look ever. How about me?"

"I like it. Not quite sleazy enough to look like a
pimp, but no one would think you were a stockbroker either." She smiled.
"We're probably stereotypical enough to fool most people."

"Showtime," Roger announced as he reached for the
door.

Reuben looked up when the bell told him someone had opened
the front door. He watched as the couple scanned the club for some sign of
life. He studied the comedienne and her agent, and decided they were
professional theater types. The woman carried a portfolio under her left arm,
which no doubt contained her promotion bio. He reached for a switch on the
intercom. "Miss Black, please follow the aisle around the bar to the door
marked Private. I have trouble getting around, or I would come meet you."

He watched the couple walk as he had instructed, neither
saying anything to the other. Now that they knew they were being watched, they
looked nervous; a common reaction Reuben had noticed with most people. He
nodded at Gus. The surly companion hauled himself to his feet and walked to the
door. He opened it and stood back so the visitors would have a clear view of
Reuben, and vise-versa. Both the man and the woman flashed broad smiles and hastened
their pace.

Roger stepped around Gerry and extended his hand to Reuben.
"Mr. Rankin, it's kind of you to see us on such short notice."

Reuben took the hand. A firm grip. "Excuse me for not
getting up." He indicated the wheelchair. "And your timing is
perfect. We have an immediate need for an act. I hope you can fill the
bill." Before either Gerry or Roger could respond, Rankin nodded at the
portfolio under Gerry's arm. "Is that your clip?"

"Yes," Gerry responded, and handed the file to
Rankin. "I've been away from the business for a while. Now, I want back
in. It hasn't been long enough for me to go stale, and I miss it."

Rankin opened the folder and looked at the information,
turning each page carefully and studying it without comment or change of expression.
"Why the hiatus?" he asked without interrupting his scan.

Gerry looked at Roger and patted him on the arm. "Roger
is more than an agent," she indicated with a smile. "We had a falling
out, but that's resolved now."

Rankin looked at Roger. "What's your last name,
Roger?"

"Wellington," Roger lied. "Roger Wellington.
I used to have a full compliment of professionals, but Bea is my only client at
the present."

"What was the spat about?"

Rankin knew it was a personal question, one he would not
normally ask of a complete stranger, but he expected an answer. Discontent
between an agent and an employee often generated disharmony in the work place.
He had no time for unnecessary problems, and he wanted that known at the start.
He knew the couple standing in front of him was prepared to disclose what he
wanted to know, or they wouldn't have brought it up without his probing.

"Me," Roger answered. "If I'd done better by
Bea, she'd probably be in high clover by now. I muffed an Atlantic City gig,
and we fought about it."

"Hey, my man, don't take it all on yourself."
Gerry added. "As I remember it, we both dropped the ball."

Rankin hesitated on a page. "You worked The Casablanca
Club?"

"Yes, I did," Gerry responded. "Nice room. I
liked it there. Richard Appleway was handling the stand-ups then. He was first
rate. I understand he's not there any more."

"That's right," Rankin agreed. "I know
Richard. Known him a long time. I'll give him a call, and if he vouches for
you, I'll give you a shot."

Gerry felt her stomach turn. Name-dropping was a mistake.
She didn't know if Richard might recommend her. She had done a good job while
working the stage, but the sting had brought a lot of embarrassment to the club
and Richard had lost his job as a result. "I don't know where he is at
present," she responded.

Rankin smiled. "I do." He reached for the phone as
he gave his Rolodex a spin. He punched in a number and smiled again as he
waited for the call to go through.

"Richard. Hey, this is a voice from your questionable
past.

Reuben... Yeah, that's right... Fine, Richard. Things are
just fine here... How's Molly... Good... The reason I'm calling is, there's an
attractive young comedienne standing here asking for a job... Bea Black...
That's right..."

There was a long silence. Rankin stared at Gerry as he
listened; Richard was evidently giving Rankin his opinion of Gerry. She did her
best to not look apprehensive. It was taking too long.

"I see," Rankin said and moved the phone to his
other ear. He broke eye contact with Gerry and patted his shirt pocket for a
pen. Not finding one, he picked up a yellow, wooden pencil from the top of his
desk and doodled on a pad. Gerry noticed he was drawing a series of capital O's
as if he were in penmanship class. "Uh huh... Okay, Richard thanks. The
next time you're in Houston give me a ring. ...Same to you, buddy."

He hung up, closed the portfolio and pushed it across his
desk at Gerry. Gerry didn't pick it up. Her mind raced, searching for an
explanation that might ease Rankin's suspicions and reverse his expected
refusal. What a mess. It had never occurred to her that she wouldn't get the
job.

Rankin looked at her. Was he nursing the moment? If Frank
was right, and this guy was the murderer, what Richard Appleway had probably
just told him was like drawing a target on her forehead. She started to say
something when Rankin flashed a broad smile.

"I've known Richard since we were boys. He's a man who
seldom gushes about anything, but he went to the wall for you. You must be
good."

"Does that mean I get the job?"

Rankin frowned. "What it means is that I have a
dilemma. The reason I'm in this business is, I want to develop young talent. If
what Richard told me is true, you probably won't need any advice from me."

"Anyone can benefit from professional advice, Mr.
Rankin," Gerry replied. "Your reputation is legendary. I'm certain I
can pick up a few pointers from you."

Rankin looked down at his desk and grinned. "That's
very kind, but my ego is only one horn of the dilemma. If you're talented, you
probably won't stay with me long. I need long-term acts"

Roger jumped in, "We'll have a contract. Bea's willing
to commit to any reasonable terms. Aren't you, Bea?"

"Of course."

Rankin showed his beaming smile. "If you can start
tonight, we'll work out details after the show."

It was Gerry's turn to look pensive. "What you mean is,
you want to see for yourself that what Richard Appleway said is true?"

"The old saw is true, Ms. Black. You can't kid a
kidder."

Gerry held out her hand. Rankin took it. They shook. "What
time tonight?" Gerry asked.

"Second act. Eight o'clock."

Gerry winked. Rankin covered the handshake with his left
hand. "Good." He extended his hand to Roger. Roger didn't take it. He
grinned.

"We'll shake hands tonight... after the audition... and
after we work out the details."

Frank turned away from Rankin's door after knocking for the
fourth time.

"Guess there's no one home," he commented.

Chad Sherman glanced around. "Think we should invite
ourselves in? No one can see us."

Frank hesitated, seeming to consider this lighthearted
suggestion about breaking and entering. The look of surprise on Chad's face
told him if he didn't say something, the rookie detective would haul out his
lock picks. Frank smiled and said, "If I didn't like Rankin so much for
this happening, I'd be tempted, but it would be just my luck to find evidence
and not be able to use it to put this guy away."

He stepped off the porch and glanced around at the
neighborhood before following the walk past bay windows landscaped by azaleas
and red-tipped photina to the four-car garage at the side of the house. Sherman
followed. Frank went to the second door and, using his left hand to shade the
glare, peered through a narrow pane into the garage. The first two bays were
empty. A burgundy Mercedes E-320 sedan gleamed from the third berth, looking,
Frank imagined, much as it did on the showroom floor. The final part of the
garage served as storage for tools, yard care equipment, assorted cardboard
cartons with unknown contents, and a golf cart. Frank wondered why Rankin would
need a golf cart. When he felt Sherman beside him, imitating his spying, he
mentioned his question.