Send Out The Clowns (Frank River Series) (18 page)

Gerry finished her second performance and made her way to
her dressing room. Before she finished removing her makeup, Roger rapped on the
door and let himself in.

"Good show," he grinned.

"Thanks. I thought it went better than the first
try."

"Ready to head for our new digs?" Gerry rolled her
eyes. "It's still raining, so bring your umbrella," Roger continued.
"I'll meet you out front." He smiled and left, closing the door with
care.

Gerry completed removing her stage self and then applied her
Bea Black offstage face, grimacing at her reflection in the mirror. I wonder
how long I'll need to go around looking like this? She shrugged. Anything for
the Company. She grinned and turned off the lights surrounding the mirror.

Roger was waiting between the back-stage door and the bar
with his hands shoved into his pants pockets. The casual slouch exemplified his
masquerade. If Gerry hadn't known him, and was seeing him for the first time,
she would have taken him for an agent or a pimp. She would never have believed
he was a cop.

She walked close and suggested, "Let's have a drink
before we go. Maybe we can learn something." He nodded.

"Good show," The Grinch exclaimed. "What'll
you have?"

Gerry ordered gin and tonic, and Roger settled for a glass
of white wine. Gerry grinned at him while they waited for the bartender to
bring the drinks, knowing that he seldom drank anything but beer and was trying
to remain in character. She doubted agents or pimps drank white wine often, but
he was doing his best.

"Figured you might want champagne," The Grinch
commented when she delivered the glasses. "Your debut went well
tonight."

"Why, thank you," Gerry responded with her Bea
Black smile. "I hope I never reach a point where I want to drink
champagne." The Grinch lingered, wiping the counter with a bar towel.
Gerry took a sip of her drink. "We haven't met, but I understand you're
called The Grinch."

The Grinch made a face somewhere between a grimace and a
smile. "Yeah, Rankin laid that one on me and it stuck. My name is
Gretchen. Gretchen Sullivan. Maybe Grinch is better."

"I'll call you Gretchen. My real first name is
Beatrice, but if you call me that, we're gonna fight." She smiled and took
another sip of the gin and tonic.

Marsha Meyers came from the women's room, but when she saw
Gerry and Roger at the bar, she swiveled quickly, turned her face toward the
stage area and walked past without any glimmer of recognition. She went to the
dressing room area and disappeared behind the door.

"Don't pay her any mind," Gretchen joked.
"Sometimes I think she's not carrying a full load."

"We were talking earlier, and when I asked her where
she was from, she got offended."

"She's like that, very private about a lot of things.
She claims she was born in Houston, but she sounds like a Californian."

"Well you don't. You're an East Texas girl for
sure."

"Yeah. I come from Vidor." "Vidor! Do I need
to watch my back?" The Grinch actually smiled. "No. I left there and
entered the real world when I was a cub. Been in Houston since junior high
school and worked cafes and bars ever since. If I were still a bigot, I would
have left this kind of job a long time ago. Besides, everyone in Vidor ain't in
the Klan. That's sorta a bad rap."

Gerry decided to change the subject. "You worked for
this Rankin long?"

"Too long, some might say."

"What's he like to work for? He seemed right personable
this afternoon."

The Grinch grimaced. "My first husband was in the Navy.
We lived in Corpus Christi, Pensacola, and Norfolk during the first three years
of our life together. Those towns relied on the Navy for a big part of their
economy and hated every minute of it. You know how people tend to resent
dependency? Well, that's the way it is here. I married Reuben's brother and now
we both work for him. I've got no regrets actually; I simply resent owing my
livelihood  to a relative."

"Your name is Sullivan and you're married to Reuben
Rankin's brother?"

Gretchen chuckled. "Reuben's original name is Sullivan.
He chose Rankin as a stage name years ago. He thinks it would be too confusing
to go by his given name now. He's right."

Gerry sipped her drink as she considered this piece of
information. She dared a look at Roger, but he was chatting with a woman who
had come to the bar on his right. She's drop dead gorgeous, Gerry thought. Am I
jealous?

It was about time for the club to close, yet there were
people still hanging around, reluctant to go home. Gerry had noticed the same
behavior in other bars. A club was often a place where people felt comfortable.
For whatever reason, there were those who did not like to leave; some were
traveling sales people who didn't want to go back to an empty motel room, some
were single people who would do anything to postpone going to bed and waking up
to another boring day at work, and then, there were those trapped in an unhappy
relationship who didn't look forward to the reception at home.

Gerry understood these situations, but she was so
comfortable in her own skin that she enjoyed being alone. She had diverse
interests and an insatiable curiosity, so she never felt lonely or lacked for
things to keep her amused. Like now, she keened to get back to her new
townhouse and continue settling in. She wanted to putter with arrangements of
furniture and experiment in placing knick-knacks. The kitchen needed organizing
and the bedrooms were cluttered. But when she and Roger left, it would be for a
motel room. Being under cover was a full time job.

"Well, I'd best be getting home," she remarked.
"I want to work on my routine. Every audience has a different personality,
and now that I have a better idea of the customers that come here, I can
improve my delivery. Thanks for the conversation, Gretchen. If I can pry my
agent away, I'll have time to get ready for tomorrow."

Roger turned away from the woman immediately, telling Gerry
that he hadn't missed any of her conversation with Gretchen Sullivan. "I'm
ready," he grinned.

They left by the front door and walked around to the back of
the club where their car was parked. HPD had assigned a white Ford SUV
confiscated in a drug bust in the fifth ward. The intent was that this would be
completely different from a police car and would look like a vehicle an
entertainer would drive without appearing too flashy or expensive.

Once they were under way, Roger stated, "So, Rankin's
real name is Sullivan."

"Oh, you heard that? 1 thought you were so engrossed in
that chickpea that you were shut off from the rest of the world."

Roger smiled. "Her name is Arlene. Believe it or not,
she's an attorney. Works with a law office up in the Woodlands. They do
corporate contracts and such. No criminal cases."

"Whatever."

"You're jealous. I'm flattered."

Gerry glanced at the side mirror and asked herself if she
was jealous. Maybe a little.

"I'm juggling a lot of different emotions right now,
Roger. We're on our way to hole up in a motel room at the same place Laurie
Lowe was staying when this perp gaffed her up in the shower. I just finished
two lack-luster performances on stage after more than a year off. My partner's
being shunned by everyone in HPD and is balancing his job with a crisis in his
personal life. People are being murdered. There's some white bitch calling
herself Shaman Lily pushing weird narcotics all over the city. My bowels are
gurgling and grinding because of stress. My boyfriend is having sexual
fantasies over some white woman with a law degree and there's an expensive,
dark sedan behind us that's been following every move we make since we left the
Ha Ha House."

"I noticed that. I can't make the color, but it looks
black or dark red. I think it's a Mercedes."

"Frank said Rankin owns a burgundy Mercedes, but he has
trouble driving himself. Gus usually does the driving."

"I can only make out one person in the car, but it's
dark. There could be more."

"Let's drive straight to the room. Pretend to settle
down and see what that car does."

The motel was on Allen Parkway. They exited to the right and
made a U-turn across the freeway to the access road, heading back the way they
had come. Two cars followed them off, making it difficult to see the Mercedes.
Gerry felt certain it had left Allen Parkway, because she couldn't see it when
they drove over the bridge.

A steep drive off the access road led to a parking lot in
front of the motel. Arrows directed them to a lane leading past the office to
the rooms. Gerry figured if the car followed them up the incline, it was
coincidence and it was going to the same motel, not really following them. If
it went past the motel, it could be a tail or not. Am I paranoid as well as
tense? Maybe it was a tail and only wanted to see where they were going. That
would eliminate Rankin. He already knew where they were staying. It had been on
the contract they signed. Roger drove up the ramp to the motel at a slow pace
while Gerry watched the Mercedes. The suspicious car slowed but didn't follow
them.

Their room was on the first floor in the back. Roger parked
and they forced conversation, trying to act natural in case anyone was watching
or listening. Once inside the room, they looked at each other and began
changing clothes. Roger stripped off his suit coat and tie and strapped on his
service revolver. Gerry pulled her dress over her head and pulled on nylon ski
pants and a sweatshirt. She checked the works of a 380 automatic and stuck it
her waistband.

"I'll go first," Roger volunteered. Gerry nodded.

He turned off the lights and slipped out the door. Gerry
forced herself to wait a full two minutes before following. She saw Roger's
shadowy figure near the comer to her right in the direction they had driven
into the motel. His bulk was unmistakable in the dim light. She eased along the
wall to the left, moving as quickly as she dared while tuning her senses to her
surroundings. The motel appeared to be more than half full of boarders, all
asleep behind dark windows, curtains drawn. Trees and shrubs cast long shadows
on the wet pavement. The only light came from occasional tall poles in the back
parking lot. Rain fell in a light steady rhythm. Gerry could hear herself
breathing.

She came to the corner and stopped, her back to the wall.

She glanced to the other end of the wall. She could no
longer see Roger. She assumed he had rounded his side and was still looking for
anything suspicious. She took a deep breath and slipped around the corner. The
sound of traffic on Allen Parkway and the lights of the cars filtered through
the growth of pine trees and ligustrum bushes. One spotlight attached high on
the motel wall flooded the ground and cast dancing shadows in corners and under
the shrubbery.

She waited. It was still. Air conditioning units hummed
away, making listening difficult. Then she heard it - the sound of a car
idling. A steady, gentle purr. A diesel. She drew the automatic from under her
sweatshirt, and crept toward the sound, staying concealed in the shadows the
best she could.

As she approached the corner leading to the front of the
motel, the engine stopped. She stopped too. Listened. Heard nothing. A trash
can sat at the corner. She crept forward and flattened herself against the
wall. She peeked around, bending over the trash can. She saw it - a big
burgundy Mercedes, its sleek wet chassis reflecting the motel sign and the lights
of the parking lot like a metal mirror. It was parked at an angle that allowed
Gerry to read the license plate with ease. She committed it to memory. RRCLO.
How could anyone forget that?

A noise to her right startled her. She could make out the
sound of someone running through the bushes. She dropped into a crouch and
hurried, crossing the parking lot toward the sound, holding the automatic in
both hands stretched out in front of her. When she reached the bushes where she
had heard someone moving, it was quiet. She remained crouched and let all her
senses survey the area. At first nothing, then someone knocked over the trash
can behind her.

She spun, still in a crouch, and brought the automatic to
bear on the corner. Nothing. She heard the roar of the engine and ran back
across the lot. She got to the corner just in time to see the taillights of the
sedan brighten as the driver touched the brakes at the bottom of the incline to
turn right onto the access road. The car was out of sight in seconds. The sound
of someone else running came from her left. She swung the gun in that direction
and immediately recognized Roger coming around the motel from the opposite
direction. He too had his revolver drawn and ready. They looked at each other
briefly, then turned and went back to their room.

"What do you make of that?" Roger asked.

"No way it was Rankin. The car was empty when I first
saw it, and then someone ran from the bushes, jumped in and sped away."

"How many burgundy Mercedes do you see every day?"

"Oh, it was Rankin's car all right. I saw the plate.
RRCLO. I reckon that stands for Reuben Rankin Clown."

"Gus?"

"Or Gretchen."

Frank climbed from the squad car and stood in the rain,
wondering how the scene with Pauley would play out. He opted to leave the beer
in the car and walked to the stairs, ascending slowly, oblivious to the soaking
rain. He stood in front of the door, his hand on the knob and took a deep sigh.
"Here we go," he said to himself, and opened the door.

Paulette stood by the kitchen window, a half eaten carrot in
her right hand. She had been watching out the window. She turned toward the
door as it opened. What struck Frank first was that she was dressed in her
working clothes. No doubt she did not intend to spend the night.

"Hi, Cisco," She uttered with a fleeting smile.
"Wet out there?"

Frank closed the door and walked to the table where he
placed his briefcase. "Is it?" he said, the answer sounding more
terse than he intended. "I didn't notice."

"You angry with me for not coming home last
night?"

Home... that's an encouraging word. "I'm not angry with
you about that, but I'm pissed that you didn't call and let me know. I was
worried."

"Ah." She dropped the carrot in the sink, leaned
against the counter with her arms crossed over her chest, and looked down.
"You're right. I should have called. I tried, but my cell was out of
service."

"Really? Where were you?"

"We went to Corpus in the afternoon then drove to San
Antonio. I tried at both places. I need a new server, I guess."

"We? You and Simeon?" She nodded. "Are you
planning to open stores in Corpus and San Antonio?" She nodded again.
"I see."

Actually Frank didn't see. He never understood why
successful business people needed to expand, take on more responsibility, more
stress. There was enough work with one outlet, and certainly enough income, but
all entrepreneurs wanted to open more and more stores until the whole
enterprise often collapsed under its own weight. Obviously, Pauley was no
different.

"Where do we fit in this new corporation?" Frank
asked.

Paulette eased across the room toward him. She reached up
and placed her hand along his cheek. Frank forced himself not to grab her,
trying his best not to shudder from the pleasure of her touch. He sensed how
this confrontation was going to play out and vowed not to make it any more
emotional than necessary.

"Ah, Cisco. I love you. I've loved you from that first
time so many years ago."

"But? There's a but at the end of that comment."

Paulette dropped her hand and turned to the sink.
"Right now I'm so involved with this expansion, my mind can't stay on
anything but my business." She turned back. "I think it's best we not
try to fix our problems until I get this mess organized. I wouldn't be good
company for you. It would be difficult for you and your work."

"The old 'this is for your own good' routine. I've
heard that before. "What are you suggesting?" he asked.

"I've got my bag packed in the bedroom. I'm going back
to my old apartment. I never stopped paying rent there."

Frank was shocked. "I didn't know that. Why did you
keep that lease?"

"I'm not sure, but I guess in the back of my mind, I
always doubted what we had would last. We've both been growing. I knew the
situation might change. I don't know, Cisco. I hate me for doing that and this,
but I think it's best if we aren't a couple for a while."

Frank nodded.

"After things settle down, we'll know better what's in
store for us."

"Sure."

"I still love you."

"Yeah, but I'm a burden right now."

She sighed and walked back to the window. "No, Cisco.
You're not the burden, I am."

He didn't respond.

"This is a huge moment in my life. I've got to see it
through. If I don't, I'll never forgive myself for not trying."

He looked down at his wet shoes amid the puddles on the
floor. There it was. Everything had been said that needed saying. The only
problem left was the departure without an emotional scene. His stomach felt
filled with lead. He wanted the beer from the car. "Okay, Pauley. I
understand how you want to make a go of this opportunity. I hope it works for
you. Come on, I'll help you out with your bags."

She turned. He smiled. "Let's do it now before we both
lose it."

There were two suitcases. Both were heavy. The effort of
carrying them down the stairs to the car helped him forget the knot in his
throat and the lead in his stomach. She held her purse over her head and
scrambled into the car while he put the bags in the trunk. She had rolled down
the window by the time he came to the car door.

"I'm not going to kiss you goodbye, Pauley. I don't
trust myself to do that and remain civil."

"Goodbye, Frank. It'll work out. You'll see."

He nodded. "Goodbye, Pauley. Good luck."

There were tears welling in her eyes. She started to say
something and then thought better of it. She smiled a wan smile and put the car
in gear, easing back from the parking spot, her eyes still fixed on his. Frank
shoved his hands in the pockets of his pants and watched until she turned and
drove out of the parking lot, out of sight and out of his life. He stood staring
down at the pavement, the rain washing over him, drenching him to the skin.
Finally, he walked to his own car, retrieved the beer he had bought earlier and
trudged back up the stairs, water squishing in his shoes.

It was later than Frank planned when he arrived at Chad
Sherman's house the next morning. Chad took one look at him and settled in the
rider's seat without comment. Neither man spoke until they were pulling into
the parking spot at HPD. Frank grabbed his briefcase and headed for the front
door. Chad hurried after. It was still raining.

The task force room was busy. The four detectives were
drinking coffee, shuffling through their notebooks and studying two white
boards pushed against the wall under pictures of the victims. A portrait of
Nguyen hung on the left above one board, along with a photo from the crime
scene and another from the autopsy, Laurie Lowe's side displayed only pictures
of her after her death. Columns on the white boards detailed evidence that was
known—similarities in blue, differences in red.

Nguyen

Found downtown near Minute Maid Park.

Clown suit.

COD—Poison.

Killed & cleansed in apartment.

Gaffed over tub after death.

Rising star on way up.

No trace evidence recovered.

Local resident, no known enemies.

Lowe

Found downtown in parking garage on Congress at Fannin.

Clown suit.

COD—OD. Peyote

Killed & cleansed in Motel.

Gaffed over tub after death.

Down and out entertainer.

No trace evidence recovered.

Last known residence unknown.

Frank picked up the blue felt marker and uncapped it,
holding it poised as he read the items. He added "Transmission fluid
puddle" to both lists. He turned and looked at the other detectives.

"I didn't mention this before because with all the
stains at the scenes, what with both of them being parking garages that are
littered with drippings, but I've been thinking about it and decided that a car
with a leaking transmission wouldn't leave a puddle unless it was parked in one
place for a while."

George Foster nodded approvingly. Olivia Stanton, Arnold
Grisham and Aaron Fox continued staring.

"Never know," Foster said. "Could help."

"Do we have anything new?" Frank asked.

Foster picked up his notebook. "We were just discussing
whether the information Olivia and I got on the string of deaths due to peyote
should be put on the list, or if it would only confuse the investigation."
He glanced at the others. "Seems at least five of these OD's are probably
murder and are related. All those victims we're considering were found stripped
of their clothes and left in places after they were dead. No useful trace
evidence on any of them except one. Probably the first, the perp hadn't
perfected his cleansing technique yet." "What was that?"

"Blood on the body, not belonging to the victim."
Frank smiled. Foster returned his smile. "Yeah, we got DNA, but so far
there's nothing to compare it with." "Better than transmission
fluid," Frank remarked. "You know, Frank," Olivia Stanton
commented, "there are two other interesting items here. All of the victims
had some connection to entertainment. They weren't comedians, but one was a
waiter in a club, another a blackjack dealer, and the other three worked clubs
as singers and piano players. The second noteworthy item is, the trail of the
bodies are like an arrow from Las Vegas to Houston."

"Sounds like they're related."

"I don't think there's any doubt about that," she
responded. Frank nodded and turned to Arnold Grisham. "You guys learn
anything?"

Aaron Fox answered. "The best information we got came
from our undercover source. Turns out Rankin's real name is Sullivan and his
brother, Sammy is married to the bartender, Gretchen Sullivan."

Frank raised an eyebrow. "At least we know Rankin isn't
opposed to nepotism. His body guard slash caretaker, Gus, is also his brother."

"Everything else was a dead end," Grisham added.
"We had trouble because nobody goes by their real name, but we were able
to run down all the employees except Marsha Meyers." "What's the
problem with Mars?"

"There must be thirty or more people named Marsha
Meyers m the Houston area, and the one we're looking into doesn't have any
concrete information prior to last May."

Frank considered a moment and looked at his watch "Okay
.had and I have an invitation to shake down Rankin's house' Maybe we can find a
reason to get an official warrant. George' you and Olivia follow up on the
peyote killings. Dig deep See if you can find any tie-in with our current cast
of characters. Arnold, you and Aaron keep working on Marsha Meyers. I'll be
back after lunch and we'll compare notes again."

He waited to see if there were any questions, then started
for the door, Chad in tow.

"Oh, hey, Frank," Aaron Fox yelled. "I almost
forgot. Gerry and Roger were followed from the club to their motel last night.
They were able to identify the car as Rankin's, but they're certain he wasn't
driving."

"He can't drive," Frank answered.

"Yeah, but they said he wasn't even in the car."